Since You've Been Gone (22 page)

When I woke up the morning after our talk on the beach, I’d surprised myself by reaching for my phone and texting him, asking him if he wanted to run. And we’d been running every day since—usually mornings, but occasionally in the afternoons
if neither of us had to work. It was the last thing I would have expected, becoming friends with Frank Porter, but it seemed like that was exactly what was happening. The downside to this, apparently, was that he did things like schedule horseback rides for me.

I parked in front—it looked like there was a small office and, across the parking lot, a barn and an outdoor riding ring where horses and riders were going through a jumps course, much nearer to me than I would have preferred. I got out of my car slowly, wanting to stay close to it in case one of the horses went rogue and charged at me or something. I could hear horses in the barn, and I tried not to think about how close they were, and how Frank expected me to ride one of them—horses that could kick you or step on you or fling you off their backs, if they so chose.

“Hey,” Frank said, coming out of the office, looking relieved. “You came. I was worried you might have seen the sign and bolted.”

“Ha ha,” I said hollowly, suddenly wishing that Frank hadn’t done this. It was one thing to share embarrassing stories with him; it was quite another to let him see me at my most pathetic and afraid.

“You doing okay?” Frank asked, taking a step closer to me. “You look kind of pale.”

“I’m just . . . ,” I started, looking toward the barn again. My heart was hammering violently, and I could feel that I was starting to sweat, and I wiped my palms on my jeans. “I’m not . . .”

“You here for the eleven o’clock?” I turned and saw a
woman in jeans and a Saddleback Ranch T-shirt leading out a horse that was so enormous, I almost had to tilt my head back to see the top of it. “Oh,” she said, looking from me to Frank. “Were you here for the couples’ ride?”

“No!” Frank and I said immediately, in unison.

“Just Emily,” Frank said, nodding toward me.

“Okay then,” the woman said, patting the horse hard on his flank, which made me wince.

What if he didn’t like that, and took it out on me? Were horses one of those animals that could smell fear? It seemed likely, after all, their faces were practically all nose. Maybe sensing—or smelling—this, the gigantic horse snorted and stamped his feet, making me take a giant step back and bump into my car.

“Well, I’ve got Bucky all saddled up for you,” she said.

“Why is he called that?” I asked, trying to take a step even farther back, not remembering that I was already pressed against my car. I could hear how high-pitched my voice sounded, but I also didn’t think I was going to be able to do anything about it. “Is it because he throws people off?”

The woman frowned at me. “You okay, hon?”

“Do you maybe have a smaller horse?” I asked, trying to think of some way that this could maybe still be salvaged. “Like, something not so high?”

“Em, you okay?” Frank asked, taking a step toward me, his voice low.

“Like a pony?” the woman asked, looking confused.

“Maybe,” I said, happy to have an option that would still be horseback riding, but just not quite so far off the ground. “Do you have any of those?” Before she could answer, my phone rang, and I grabbed for it, happy to delay the moment when someone would expect me to get on one of these horses and take my life into my hands. “Hello?”

“Hey,” the voice on the other end said, and after a moment I recognized it was Dawn. “Are you at work?”

The day after my pizza ride-along, I’d stopped by Captain Pizza to say hi, making sure to glower at Bryan as I did so. I figured he deserved it—not only for what he’d done to Dawn, but also because he’d been wearing mirrored sunglasses indoors. We’d exchanged numbers, and Dawn would sometimes call me before she went into work, asking me to go into Captain Pizza and see what was happening with Bryan and Mandy.

“No,” I said, then suddenly realized I might be able to turn this to my advantage. I would still be chickening out, but at least Frank wouldn’t have to necessarily know I was chickening out. “Why, do you need me to come in to work?”
Work
, I mouthed to Frank, trying to ignore the woman holding the still-stamping Bucky by the reins.

“What?” Dawn asked, sounding confused. “No, I was just wondering if you could scout the Mandy and Bryan situation for me. I was trying to figure out how much time to put into my hair.”

“Oh, I understand,” I said, hoping that Dawn wouldn’t think that I’d lost my mind—I figured I’d just explain things to her the next time I saw her. “Totally. I’ll come in as soon as possible.”

“Emily, what are you—” Dawn said, sounding more confused than ever. I hung up, then quickly switched the phone to silent in case she called back.

“I’m so sorry,” I said to the woman, trying to make my voice match my words, but I could hear the relief creeping in. “I’ll, um, have to reschedule.”

“Trouble at Paradise?” Frank asked. His voice was light, but he was looking right at me, and I somehow had the feeling that he knew I was lying.

“Yeah,” I said, tucking my phone into my pocket, looking down at the ground. “Really unexpected.”

“I’m going to have to charge you for this since it’s outside the cancel window,” the woman said, leading the gigantic horse back to the barn. “But I’ll give you half off your next ride, how about that?”

“Sure,” Frank said. “We’ll try again another time.”

“I’m so sorry about the money,” I said. “I can pay you back.” But it was more than the money that was suddenly making me feel awful, now that the giddiness of getting out of this situation had subsided. I had the opportunity to cross something else off the list just handed to me, and I’d taken the first excuse to run away from it. And I’d wasted Frank’s time, all because I wasn’t brave enough to even try to get on a horse.

I gave Frank a half smile and got into my car, pulling out faster than was probably advisable when surrounded by giant horses, but I just wanted to get out of there. And as I turned down the street that would take me back home, I suddenly wondered if trying to ride a horse would have actually made me feel any worse than I did right now.

“I’m really sorry about that,” Frank said as he looked over at me. It was two days later, and we were running. I’d shown up at his house that afternoon, ready to apologize, but Frank had just shaken off my apologies and then, to my surprise, had offered his own once we had gone about a mile into the five-mile loop I’d planned for us. “I never should have just sprung that on you. I keep thinking how I would have reacted if someone had just told me to go to the top of a skyscraper, with no warning. It wouldn’t have been pretty.”

“I am going to need to do it at some point, though,” I pointed out.

“You will,” Frank said, with such confidence, that I almost believed him. We ran for another mile before he looked over at me. “Music?” he asked.

I nodded and handed him my iPod. We’d been running
together three more times now and had worked out our routine. We talked for the first mile or so, while we were warming up. When breathing became more important than talking, we switched to music, which we would listen to for the rest of the run, and then we’d turn the iPods off as we’d cool down and walk to one of our houses—we alternated. But the run before, Frank had proposed that we switch iPods so that he could see if my “music, not observational comedy” theory was effective in terms of helping him run faster, and I could apparently learn all about some group called Freelance Whales which was, apparently, an actual band. I’d made him a mix of my favorite songs that hopefully weren’t too alienating for someone who claimed he never listened to country and had no idea who the Cure was.

We fell into our running rhythm, and I noticed that our shadows were lengthening out in front of us in the late-afternoon sunlight, occasionally overlapping each other on the pavement. Even though it had been a hot day and was very humid out, I pushed us, keeping the pace up, and we both struggled to maintain it for the last three miles. As ever, we sprinted toward the finish. Frank was right next to me until the very last second, when I managed to spring forward, hitting our mailbox with an open palm, then bending double trying to catch my breath. I turned my head to the side and saw Frank doing the same.

“Would you think any less of me,” he managed, “if I collapsed in that hedge?”

“Not at all,” I said. “I might just join you.” I straightened up
and started shaking out my legs and hands, getting a fun preview of just how sore I’d be in the morning.  We started walking in the other direction, cooling down, like my track coach was always yelling at us to do.

“I liked the mix,” I said, handing him back his iPod. “But what was with all the handclapping songs?”

“That was Mumford,” Frank pointed out, looking scandalized. “Do you know how many awards they’ve won?”

“Then you would think they’d be able to hire an actual drummer,” I said, as Frank shook his head.

“Do you have any idea how many songs about trucks I just listened to?” he asked, as he handed me my iPod. “Five. Seriously. Not even just the country songs. What’s that about?”

“You’re the one with the actual truck,” I pointed out. “So you’d think you’d be more in favor of them.”

“If that logic made any sense—which it doesn’t, by the way—you, with your Volvo, would have been way more into Swedish House Mafia.”

“Which one was that?”

“Track one,” Frank said, and I made a face. “Told you.”

“Well,” I said, trying to think back to what I’d just heard, “I’m sure the Beatles sang songs about trucks occasionally.”

“Not that I can think of,” Frank said immediately. “Unless you mean the fire truck in ‘Penny Lane.’ ”

I shook my head and he lifted up his shirt to wipe his face, and I took a long look, then glanced away quickly, before he
could catch me staring. “So what’s with the Beatles?” Seeing the look of incredulity on Frank’s face, I added quickly, “I mean, you told me why you started listening to them, because of the codes. But there were a
lot
of Beatles songs on that playlist.”

“Do you not like the Beatles?” Frank asked, sounding shocked, as we finished our cool-down and started walking back toward my house. “Do you also not like sunshine and laughter and puppies?” I just stared at him, waiting for Frank Porter to reappear and realize he was being a little crazy, but apparently Frank was just getting started. “I don’t think the Beatles get
enough
recognition,” he said, speaking fast. “I mean, when you look at their body of work and how they changed music forever. I think there should be federal holidays and parades.”

“Well, you can work on that,” I said, as we arrived back in front of my house. “In case you need another summer project.”

Frank laughed and looked toward the house, wiping his sleeve across his face. “Think you could spare a water?”

“Sure,” I said automatically, not thinking about anything except how thirsty I was as we headed up the driveway together. I opened the front door and we stepped into the dark and cool of the mudroom, and it wasn’t until the door was shut behind us that I suddenly realized what I had done—invited Frank Porter into my house.