Purpose (5 page)

I sat at the kitchen table, tying the shoes,
when Owen walked in.

“Where you going?” he asked.

“For a run.”

“Cool. Mind if I tag along?”

I looked at him with an eyebrow raised.

He shrugged. “I was going anyway.”

“I’m sure you actually run,” I said. “This
will probably be more like a jog…or for you, a walk.”

“If I get bored, I’ll leave you alone to your
trot.” He grinned, his sapphire-blue eyes shining.

“Whatever.”

We started with a jog down my long driveway.
As my muscles loosened, jogging wasn’t enough. My body wanted more,
so I picked up the pace to a slow run. Then a faster run.

“When’d you start running?” Owen asked as we
picked up speed for the third time, neither of us breathing
heavily.

“Now.”

He looked down at me, his blond hair falling
across his face. He wore it long now, past his ears but not quite
to his shoulders. He gave me a strange look. “Really?”

“Really. I’m wearing Mom’s shoes because I
don’t even own any.”

“Huh.” He didn’t seem to know what else to
say and let the subject drop.

Once off my property, we’d taken a right and
ran down the middle of the quiet, residential street for several
blocks. All the homes on the street sat on a minimum of two acres,
most with gates at the driveways and hedges at least six-feet-high
lining the street. The neighborhood featured privacy and the people
who lived here could afford to pay for it. We moved here nearly
three years ago, when my books really started taking off and the
media started paying attention.

We’d stayed in the safe house in Northern
Virginia until a few months after Dorian’s birth, when Mom deemed
us healthy enough to move. The safe house was supposed to serve as
a place of refuge for Amadis people needing to escape or who were
newly converted. With me there, Rina refused to let anyone else
come. So my presence created a few issues and we couldn’t stay
permanently. We moved to a house near Virginia Beach. I liked life
there more than Atlanta, but we’d lived in a small town. Small
towns weren’t always conducive for the famous—or semi-famous,
anyway. Especially when they’re loony. Atlanta and this
neighborhood provided a better environment for me and my
insanity.

There were really just a couple of incidents
that indicated to the world I wasn’t quite right in the head. But
they were enough. The first time occurred several years ago at a
book signing in New York City. I sat by the bookstore’s window and
out of the corner of my eye, I saw a tall man with sandy-brown hair
walk by the store. I ran outside and took off after him, leaving a
line of fans awaiting my signature. When he turned the corner and I
saw the unfamiliar profile, I collapsed to the sidewalk
bawling.

The second time, Mom and I were eating lunch
with my publishing team when someone made a remark about the
absence of my son’s father and suggested I start dating. I flew off
the handle. Finally, during a televised interview, my mouth open in
mid-sentence, I caught a glimpse of someone standing in the shadows
off-set. For a moment, I thought I’d seen Tristan, that he’d made
his homecoming a surprise. Then I realized someone had set down a
life-sized, cardboard cut-out of a young Brad Pitt. I remembered
the conversation of the actor’s character in
Legends of the
Fall
the night of my first-ever kiss and burst into hysterical
laughter. I couldn’t stop chortling, though the tears streaming
down my face were those of grief. Someone finally dragged me off
the set.

The first incident happened before I became
too
famous and the luncheon was private, so they were easily
covered up. But the last one took place on live television, aired
nationally. The country woke up that morning to quite a show. That
was two books ago. The publisher took me off the circuit and I
didn’t have to make any public appearances for the most recent
book. Fine by me. I hated them anyway. I preferred this private
life.

We would have to move again soon. People
would notice Mom wasn’t aging. But, then again, maybe we could just
switch places. She looked like how I should at my age—twenty-seven,
rather than her true one-hundred-twenty-three years. And I didn’t
look exactly a hundred years older, but I did look old enough to be
her mother. As I ran, I thought about mentioning this idea to her.
It would at least make her chuckle. I owed her that.

Owen indicated a left turn at the
intersection we approached and I followed his command.
What the
hell? I don’t really care where I go. I just want to
run
!
Though the sudden urge made no sense, the actual
activity seemed like a positive action. It was probably Swirly
messing with my mind, but I really felt like running was a
rightness among all my wrongness.

But then Owen had to blow it and almost make
me regret the whole thing.

“Rough night last night?” he asked once we
turned the corner.

“You heard?”

“Yeah. Sorry.”

I sighed. “Not your fault I’m messed up in
the head.”

“It’s just hard to see you like this. I
remember when you…”

Damn it, Owen.
I interrupted him.
“Let’s not go there. Please?”

“Yeah, sure.”

We ran in silence again for about half a
block. Then Owen had an idea.

“See if you can keep up with me.” He
lengthened his stride and I kept pace with him. Then he increased
his speed again. I could start to feel the push this time, but I
could do it. He went even faster and got away from me.

“You’re pretty fast,” he said after jogging
back to me. “You’re sure you didn’t run before today?”

“Don’t you think I’d know that?”
Okay,
maybe not. I do have a few screws loose
. “Just look at me,
Owen. Do I look like a runner?”

He chuckled and, obviously a smart man,
avoided answering.

“If you want to go, go,” I said. “Don’t hang
back here on my account.”

“I’m fine.”

We ran through and around a park about a
half-mile from my house. Georgia pines, surrounded by brush, lined
parts of the paths, giving the feeling we ran in the wilderness,
and other parts took us past soccer and baseball fields. As we
approached the playground, I decided I should probably turn back
for home. I didn’t feel out of breath—even though I’d been smoking
for who knew how long (I seriously
didn’t
know; I had a
vague memory of someone handing me a cigarette when I felt
especially stressed during a book signing)—and my muscles weren’t
sore. But I knew I would pay for this asinine impulse later and I
saw no need to make it worse by continuing. Owen was about to head
on for a longer run when I suddenly stopped as if I’d run into a
wall.

There he is!
He stood across the
playground, about sixty or seventy yards away, and I immediately
knew he was the same person who stood in my backyard yesterday. I
could feel his eyes on me again. He stood a little closer now, but
I still couldn’t see his face. His brown hair hung way past the
shoulders and it whipped around in the March breeze. The shade of
the large oak he stood under also concealed his face. Something,
maybe the long hair, told me he was young.
Just a boy.
But
his body looked more developed than a boy’s. Much more.
No, a
man. Too young for me, but definitely a man.
Just like the day
before, he felt…familiar. I started toward him again.

“Alexis? You okay?” Owen asked, after I took
only a few steps. I turned and looked at him.

“Huh?” I asked distractedly.

“Are you okay? You look…odd.”

I looked back at the stranger. He had
disappeared again.
Damn it!

“I’m, uh, fine. Go on. I’ll see you at home.”
I started jogging again, which seemed to be enough for Owen. He
took off in the other direction.

I wanted to search for the stranger. I had to
know he was at least
real
. But I had no clue in which
direction he’d gone. Or if he really was just a figment of my
imagination.
Or wishful thinking
. I walked home, mentally
and emotionally feeling like crap again.

Physically, however, I felt great. Owen ran
up behind me just as I walked up to the beige-and-brick,
ranch-style house. He said he’d run another three miles to add to
the nearly two miles we did together.
Two miles? Oh, this is
going to hurt
. I wanted to do it again, though, and went to the
store to buy my own running wear. Of course, I would probably be
over this idiotic impulse by tomorrow and would never run again,
but right now, it made perfect sense that I needed my own running
shoes. Which was how Swirly operated—making the most irrational
thoughts seem logical.

“You’re sure you want
running
shoes?”
the pock-faced kid at the sporting goods store asked, his nose
slightly crinkling. “I mean, we have walking shoes. Or my mom
really likes these cross-trainers.”

He pointed to a pair of plain white shoes
that looked like they belonged on a grandma whose idea of exercise
was walking around the Wal-Mart.

“Are they good for running?” I asked, my
annoyance clear. “I
run
.”

He gave me a doubtful look, but led me over
to the running shoes. I couldn’t blame him…except for the part of
making me feel as old as his mother.
Stupid kid. What does he
know?
He couldn’t have been more than five or six years younger
than me.

“There you go,” he said a while later,
handing me a bag full of shoes, socks, shorts and sports bras.
“Good luck with your, uh, running.”

Maybe he was being polite. Maybe a genuine
smile stretched across his face. I didn’t know. With my deranged
frame of mind at the moment, the grin looked like a smug smirk to
me and his tone dripped with sarcasm. The switch flipped again.

I leaned over the counter, my face only
inches from his. “Who the
fuck
do you think you are,
treating
me
like a worthless bag of shit? You don’t even
know who
I
am!”

He stared at me, his eyes bugged and his
mouth wide open. I stared back.
Did I really just do that?
A
couple of customers who’d walked in the door just in time to hear
me stopped and gawked.
Yeah. I did
. I opened my mouth again
and then shut it. Thankfully, I wasn’t so far gone to make sure
they knew
exactly
who I was as I went completely whacko on
the kid. I grabbed my bag and stomped out of the store before I
could make a bigger fool of myself.

I stood on the gas, taking my anger out on my
car, which felt bulky and sluggish. I forced myself to back off the
accelerator because I already soared way above the speed limit. I
aimlessly roamed the surface streets, first on the main roads, and
then through a park-like residential neighborhood, but the urge to
go faster overwhelmed me.

As I sat at the red light blocking my turn to
the highway, my phone beeped with a text message from Mom. She
worried about my uncharacteristic absence.

“Where are you? Where did
you go?
”

I laughed out loud, a high-pitched sound that
was just a little frightening, as I typed into my phone,
“
Crazy. Where else?
”

I tossed the phone on the passenger seat,
ignoring Mom’s replies. Once on the highway, I moved over to the
far-left lane and floored the pedal.
Speed. The faster, the
better.
That’s what I wanted. That’s what I
needed
. The
speedometer held at ninety. It felt like a crawl. The loss of
control at such high speeds usually scared the hell out of me, but
I couldn’t go fast enough now. My Volvo sedan was designed and
built for safety, not speed, which is why I had bought it. It was
practical. Now I hated it. The car couldn’t give me the release I
needed, so I headed home.

By then, a level of rationality had returned
and I appreciated Rina for insisting I use a pen name. Although the
Amadis council originally wanted me to publish under Alexis Ames,
they finally decided to use the pseudonym A.K. Emerson. I didn’t
know why that particular name and, honestly, didn’t care much. No
one but a small handful of people knew my real name, protecting my
privacy, especially against incidents like today’s. The clerk might
recognize the name A.K. Emerson or Kat Emerson, which I’d used back
when I’d made public appearances, but he wouldn’t be able to match
it to the name on the credit card. Otherwise, I’d be in deep
trouble with my publicist and I really didn’t have the mind to deal
with her at the moment.

Dorian, home from school by the time I pulled
into the driveway, distracted me from my anxiety. I spent the rest
of the afternoon and evening with him, Mom and Owen. We went to the
park for a while and we all played with him on the equipment, like
kids again. My eyes regularly scanned the area for the young
stranger I’d seen earlier. I thought I saw him once, but he was
gone too fast to know for sure.

“Tell me a story,” Dorian said later as he
jumped onto his bed while I closed his window blinds.

“Hmm…about what?” I teased, already
knowing.

“Dad, of course! How ’bout the boat
trip?”

“Ah. Your favorite.” I sat on his bed, took a
deep breath to settle my insides, and started the story with his
dad’s thrill of fighting sharks.

At one time, telling these stories had been
the hardest job of being Dorian’s mom, but it had become a little
easier after a few years. They still tore at the pieces of my
heart, but not as much as stirring up memories when I was alone.
The stories provided a way to remember Tristan and the precious
time we had together without completely breaking down. Perhaps this
was my answer—hanging onto him by sharing memories with Dorian,
while letting go in other ways.