Check, Please (Book #2)

Eleven.

A heavy marine layer hung in the air and the cool morning wind pierced my lungs as I stood on the porch, breathing in the stillness that surrounded me. L.A.U.'s Greek Row was infamous for its wild parties and general debauchery but most people didn't know that everyday, right before dawn fully broke, the street transformed into a place of absolute serenity. No matter what day of the week it was, red cups littered the sidewalks, and occasionally you might see someone tiptoeing from wherever they'd slept the night before, but for the most part, the street was always silent before seven A.M.

Silent and empty.

It was my favorite time of day, and a time of day that I typically only saw after nights when I hadn't been able to fall asleep.

On those nights, I would stare up at my darkened ceiling and listen to my breathing--or Gemma's, if she had stayed over. I'd try to guess who was coming home or going out depending on how the house's floorboards creaked, but eventually, everything around me would fall totally still. I might hear the occasional ambulance racing down the street outside or a group of late night partygoers making their way home but, other than that, the world became a black hole and I was at its center. As my surroundings grew quieter, the chattering in my mind always seemed to grow louder... Louder and louder until my racing thoughts felt deafening. Things I hadn't thought about in years would suddenly come bubbling to the forefront of my mind and, as I lay tangled in my sheets, I'd be transported back to high school, or summer, or whenever the event had taken place.

My heart would pound while I replayed conversations in my head, the emotions that I'd felt at the time flooding back with a pulsing intensity. I would think about all the things I'd said, and what I should have said instead--like a coach going over game reels with his team. I'd worry, and worry, and worry some more, until the inevitable moment when I felt like I was spinning out of control. Thinking too much always made my body feel restless and the only way I knew how to dull my thoughts to a manageable whine was by sweating them out. Armed with heavily worn running shoes and basketball shorts, I'd been escaping into the early morning fog for years, even before I graduated from high school. For a while, my parents had been convinced that I was sneaking in from parties rather than going out but a few phone calls to Parker's mom and dad ended their suspicion. Of all my teenage hobbies, running seemed to be one of the few that made it onto Dad's approved list, which explained why he'd been so proud when I joined the track team my junior year.

Stretching my left leg, I remembered how much fun running track had been until my parents started asking why I wasn't getting any scholarship offers. Each time they asked, I would skip practice--almost like I was punishing myself because I was irritated with them and their never ending string of questions. Sometimes I regretted doing that, not because I was delusional enough to think that any college in America would've paid to see me run but because I'd genuinely enjoyed being on the team. Still, it eventually became impossible to run with Dad's voice in my ear and I started choking at meets and completely screwing up time trials. When I went from placing during races to coming in last, my parents stopped leaving work early to watch me run. Some kids probably would've been hurt by that but I honestly couldn't have been happier. Life always seemed simpler when my parents just ignored me, and I doubted that would ever stop being true.

Switching to my right leg, I mentally plotted the course I would take this morning before starting down the street. Typically, I ran one of the same six routes each day and those half dozen paths were ingrained into my muscle memory. If it weren't for the cars that zipped around Los Angeles, I could've easily run from start to finish with my eyes closed.

Today, however, I felt an urge to mix things up a bit, which was strange for me. I liked routine, I really did. I liked knowing where I was going and how long it would take me to get back home. I stuck with what I knew and I found comfort in repetition, maybe because it allowed me to move without thinking. Nevertheless, despite a moment of hesitation, I gave into impulse and turned left instead of right at the stop sign at the end of the street. Part of me wanted to turn around and do things the way that I always did them, but I continued onwards, considering the possibility that I might have found my seventh route.