Page 1 of Running Into You
Prologue
Ten Years Earlier
Betty
For the love of God, Betty, get your shit together.
I’ve changed my outfit four times in the span of thirty minutes. Four times. Finally settling on a pair of bootleg jeans and my navy crewneck over my white camisole tank with the lace on the bottom, I finish stuffing my already overstuffed backpack and stomp downstairs. The stairs underneath my feet creak in protest with every step I take.
“Why do you keep changing your clothes?” my father asks, not looking up from his newspaper as I enter the kitchen. His horn-rimmed glasses rest lightly on the bridge of his nose as he stares down at the black-and-white print. The pencil in his hand suggests he is working on today’s crossword puzzle. The flecks of gray he’s begun to sprout stand out amongst the rest of his dark brown hair.
“Huh?”
“Say ‘Pardon,’ Elizabeth. Why do you keep changing your clothes?”
“I… I haven’t been,” I stammer.
“In the last half hour, you’ve reappeared no less than four times wearing completely different outfits, looking perfectly lovely each time I might add.”
Why was this man so obnoxiously observant? I never would have received this much interest from my mother, had she ever been at home. He peers at me now with a mixture of curiosity and amusement.
“I couldn’t decide how to dress for the weather. It’s unseasonably warm for October.” I heard my drama teacher Mrs. Long say this to another teacher yesterday and thought it sounded smart.
“Actually, these temperatures are quite typical for Maine when you look at recent annual averages…”
“Okay, dad!” I groan, cutting him off mid-sentence. “I’m heading to Rilla’s for the night. I will be back before noon tomorrow. Please don’t forget to feed Roz!”
My father returns his full attention to today’s edition of The Herald. “If, in the unlikely event, I were to forget, I am certain Rosaline would remind me.” As if on cue, my 17 lb short-haired Tabby, Roz, takes this opportunity to saunter lazily into the kitchen. I go to her and affectionately scratch behind her ears, and she responds by pushing her head appreciatively against my hand with impressive force.
I pull the heavy backpack on and head outside into the brisk October air. Unseasonably warm my ass, Mrs. Long. My breath is visible and forms clouds around my face as it leaves my mouth. I should have brought a jacket or at least gloves. Thankfully, Rilla only lives two streets over. I jaywalk across my quiet street and take a well-worn shortcut between a pair of three-story Brownstones. I use the time to assess my appearance.
Hair: Washed this morning, will still look fine tomorrow.
Clothes: Cute and casual. I mean casual at least. Cute might be a stretch.
Face: Same as it always looks. Eyes too big, mouth too small, nose perfectly average aside from a scattering of freckles.
By the time I make it to the Pines’ front door, I’ve convinced myself I should have stuck with the skirt and turtleneck combo. I raise my hand to knock but before I get the chance, the door swings open to reveal Josh, Rilla’s older brother.
“Oh. Hey Betty.” Josh smiles that lopsided smile I adore. It’s almost like he means to smile with his whole mouth, but he just never gets around to it. It’s probably for the best. If half his smile makes me forget what I’m doing, his entire smile would likely leave me completely incapacitated. Wait, what am I doing? I’m staring up at him, my hand still raised in the air, ready to knock. “Betts?” he prompts.
“Hey! Hey there, Josh!” I grin at him and turn my raised fist into a frantic wave.
Smooth, Betty.
Josh opens the door wider, and I slip inside. My overstuffed backpack almost doesn’t clear the opening. He raises an eyebrow, the crooked smile still in place.
“Are you staying for the night or the foreseeable future?”
I want to stay here forever. “That depends on the Pop-Tarts supply,” I say with the gravity of a much more serious conversation. Immediately, Josh matches my energy.
“There is a full box of raspberry, half a box of blueberry, and a single, lonely strawberry.”
“I’m sorry, did you say raspberry?”
“I know,” he sighs in disgust. “Dad grabbed them at the store last week. He saw the red box and made a terrible assumption.” He leans back against the staircase banister, his long arms folded across his chest.
“But raspberry is the worst berry.”
