The Sea of Tranquility by Katja Millay Page B

stays at fabulously glamorous hotels with fabulously fluffy towels and fluffier bathrobes. There would also be the unbelievably hot, musically gifted, swoon-worthy princes who would tour with me and inevitably fall obsessively in love with me. Because that happens. I would be revered for the talent that came from my father’s side of the family and the beauty that came from my mother’s. I’d wear elegant gowns in colors that haven’t even been imagined yet and everyone would know my name.
    Now I spend my time thinking about what I’ll be doing over the next twenty or so hours and hoping it involves something resembling sleep.
    ***
    I’ve been able to run every night for a week now. The weather has cooperated. My legs are coming back. I push myself harder than I should but I haven’t thrown up again since the second night. My body is remembering. The best part is that I can exhaust myself, drain everything the day dredges up, so I can sleep. I still can’t do without the notebooks, but the running helps. It gives me something, or maybe more accurately, it takes something away. I don’t care. I know I depend on it too much but it’s the one of the only things I can depend on. Exercise, notebooks, hate. The things that do not let me down.
    I know my way around the streets now. I can pay attention without paying attention. I’ve memorized the ambient sound. I know what belongs and what doesn’t. I know where the sidewalks are uneven, where the pavement has been pushed up by the roots of an angry tree. My mind has learned what to expect from the night I run in. I leave around the same time every evening but I don’t run the same route twice. I can get myself home a dozen different ways from any direction if I need to. I am not comfortable. I’ll never be comfortable leaving the house again, but I feel prepared, and that’s better than I was the last time and the most I can expect to be.
    For the past six nights, I have purposely avoided the pale yellow stucco house on Corinthian Way. The one with the perpetually open garage. I run past the street every night, but I can’t ignore the pull I feel to at least glance down the road from the turn off. I can tell by the pattern of the lights whether or not the garage door is up and it hasn’t disappointed yet. It hasn’t been closed once, no matter what time it is. I always wonder what he might say if I were to show up there again. I know it won’t be much but I wonder what the words would be anyway. Would he say anything? Would he ignore me and keep working as if I wasn’t there? Would he tell me to leave? Ask me to stay? No, I know he wouldn’t do that. Josh Bennett doesn’t ask anybody to stay. I could come up with a hundred possibilities, but I really can’t figure out which of them would be the closest to possible. Then, for a just a moment, I lose focus. I stop thinking about what he would say to me and start pondering what I would say to him. That’s the moment I push my feet hard and fast in the opposite direction. And I run far away from Corinthian Way and my absurd, self-destructive thoughts.
    I get back to Margot’s house at 9:25 and head straight for the shower. I talk more to myself in that shower than I have in months. Within the safety of an empty house, under the muting of the running water, I remind myself of all the complications that will come from opening my mouth. I try to get all of the words out of my system. I tell Ethan Hall that he’s a douche while I visualize administering a perfectly executed palm heel strike to his face. Or a fork to his eye, which is equally appealing. I tell Ms. Jennings that, contrary to popular belief, Bach was not more prolific than Telemann; he’s just better remembered. I tell Drew which of his pick-up lines works the best and who I think he should really use them on instead of wasting them on me. I tell my Dad that he can still call me Milly because, even though it’s a sucky nickname, it makes him happy