Goldfish Don't Run

I've been running every morning since Marcus dumped me three weeks ago. My dad says it's healthy, whatever that means. Mostly my lungs burn and my brain replays every cringey thing I said in our final conversation.

This morning I'm pushing through mile three when I spot it: a cat the color of storm clouds perched on Mrs. Henderson's porch rail. It watches me with that judgmental look cats have, like it knows I'm running away from nothing.

"Nice form," a voice calls.

I nearly wipe out. Caleb. The guy who's been crushing on me since freshman year, wearing that oversized bear hoodie he never takes off. He's leaning against the oak tree like he's been waiting.

"What are you doing out here?" I gasp, trying to sound casual while my chest heaves like I just sprinted a marathon.

He shrugs. "Running into you. Literally."

I roll my eyes but I'm smiling. Can't help it. Marcus never made jokes; he made pronouncements.

Caleb falls into step beside me. We run in comfortable silence until he blurts, "Marcus was an idiot."

I stop so fast he overshoots me by three steps. "What?"

"A goldfish has a longer attention span than he did." Caleb's face turns pink. "Sorry. That was—"

"Perfect," I finish. "Actually perfect."

We're standing there on the sidewalk, sun filtering through the leaves, and I realize I haven't thought about Marcus once in the last ten minutes. The cat watches us from Mrs. Henderson's porch, like it planned this whole thing.

"Want to get breakfast?" Caleb asks. "There's this new place—"

"Only if you lose the hoodie," I say, pointing at his bear. "It's June, Caleb."

He laughs and pulls it off. Underneath, he's wearing this dorky vintage t-shirt with a goldfish that says 'Keep Swimming.' I've never seen anything more perfect.

"Deal," he says.

We walk toward town instead of running, and for the first time in three weeks, I don't feel like I'm escaping anything. I feel like I'm finally arriving.