Love on the Brain by Ali Hazelwood

            “Yep.”

            Humph. Pearl Jam’s not my favorite, but it’s good, and I hate that Levi likes good music. I need him to love Dave Matthews Band. To stan the Insane Clown Posse. To have a Nickelback tramp stamp. It’s what I deserve.

            “What were you doing in a cemetery?” he asks.

            “Just . . . running.”

            “You run?” He sounds surprised. Offensively so.

            “Hey, I know I look like a wimp, but—”

            “You don’t,” he interjects. “Look like a wimp, I mean. Just, in grad school you . . .”

            I turn to him. The corner of his mouth is curving upward. “I what?”

            “Once you said that time spent working out is time one never gets back.”

            I have no memories of saying that. Especially to Levi, since we exchanged approximately twelve words at Pitt. Though it does sound like something I’d say. “As it turns out, the higher your aerobic fitness, the healthier your hippocampus. Not to mention the overall connectivity of your Default Mode Network and multiple axon bundles, so . . .” I shrug. “I find myself resentfully acknowledging that according to science, exercise is a good thing.” He chuckles. Crow’s-feet crinkle the corners of his eyes, and it makes me want to continue. Not that I care about making him laugh. Why would I? “I’m doing this Couch-to-5K program, but . . . ew.”

            “Ew?”

            “Ew.”

            His smile widens a millimeter. “How long’s the program?”

            “Four weeks.”

            “How long have you been on it?”

            “Couple weeks.”

            “What distance are you up to?”

            “. . . Point two miles. I hit the wall. On, um, minute three.” He gives me a skeptical glance. “To be fair, this is only my second time running since I was in middle school.”

            “The heat here is terrible. You might want to run in the morning. But you’re not a morning person, right?” He bites his lip pensively. I wonder how he could possibly know that, and realize that sadly, one needs only to take a look at me before eleven a.m. “There’s a gym in the Space Center you should have access to.”

            “I checked. It’s not free for contractors, and I’m not sure the health of my nervous system is worth seventy bucks a month.” Ari Shapiro is asking a correspondent about some Facebook lawsuit. “You run 5Ks?” I ask.

            “No.”

            My eyes narrow. “Is it because you only run marathons and above?”

            “I . . .” He hesitates, looking sheepish. “I run half marathons, sometimes.”

            “Well, then,” I say conversationally as he pulls into the parking lot, “thank you very much for the rescue and the ride, but I need to be alone so I can hate you in peace now.”

            He laughs again. Why does it sound so nice? “Hey, I struggle with running, too.”

            I’m sure he does. Around mile thirty-four or so. “Well, thanks. It’s the second time you saved me.” Despite the fact that we’re nemeses. Outstanding, huh?

            “The second?”

            “Yeah.” I release the seat belt. “The other time was at work. When I was almost . . . pancaked?”

            “Ah.” Something jumps in his jaw at the mention. “Yeah.”

            “Well, have a great night.” I pat my pockets. “Apologies for—” I pat some more. Then I twist around in the seat, inspect it for something that might have slipped out, and find nothing. It’s as pristine as when I got in. “Uh . . .”

            “What’s going on?”

            “I—” I close my eyes, trying to remember my day. I put on shorts. Put my keys into the pocket. Felt them bounce against my leg while I was running, up until . . . Shit. I think they fell out when I collapsed on the grave. “Damn you, Noah Moore,” I mutter.