Bittersweet

Chapter Seven

September 11th, Sometime 8:00 a.m

It was a rainy morning. There was thick fog and a cold breeze, but that didn't stop him from going on his run. It never did. It only changed where he went.

His feet alternated between hitting the ground and flying up behind him as he rounded the street corner.

Past the library, past the fast food joint that had gotten him sick two years prior, past the bank job he'd ended his night in just hours ago.

He didn't like it there, but he didn't hate it. It was only temporary since it was the only place that he'd heard back from last December.

Music blared through his earbuds, blocking out the sounds of traffic and the sound of his breathing.

Punk rock wasn't his normal choice, but his sisters had insisted it would change his life. He wasn't so sure about that so far.

Twenty minutes later, his run had died down to a jog and he found himself in a busy L-shaped plaza downtown. A coffee shop, a developing restaurant, a bookstore, a dogwalker registration office, an art studio, and a nail salon.

Perfect, he thought to himself.

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, he walked into the coffee shop and ordered an iced coffee. Extra vanilla with skim milk would do him well before heading home.

Once he received his drink, he walked outside and sat on a bench in front of the window to the bookstore and started scrolling through his new messages from Richie.

According to him, Fiona missed having dinner with everyone at home. Caleb didn't see why. The last "family dinner" they'd had ended early when Reed started on about how good work was which struck a cord in Caleb.

In reality, what he'd meant was making everyone around him and his sons suffer made him feel powerful, and that made him feel like a living success story.

I don't think I'll be going but I'll think about it

He typed out, but before he could hit send the footsteps he'd heard coming toward him stopped. Looking up, he saw a woman to his right.

Her mouth was open as if she'd been shocked to see him, and he quickly realized he'd been doing the same.

Though she looked like she didn't want to, she was the first to say something.

"Hi. Or, good morning." she greeted, looking back and forth between him and the ground.

"Morning." he replied. He didn't know what to say. Part of him wondered if it would be best to just look back at his phone and end the interaction there, but he didn't want to.

Looking closer at her, he saw a clear container of what seemed like paint samples in her arms and a small, woven hoboken bag over her shoulder.

"I've never seen you here before." she added.

Please don't be embarrassed. I'm not judging you. He thought to himself, wondering if it may be offensive or rude to say out loud.

Looking down at his shorts, he smiled. "Yeah, just out for a run. I don't normally come this way."

"Oh, right. Of course." he heard her whisper.

She was wearing a sweatshirt and leggings with flares at the legs where they met her yellow sneakers. They were the same kind she'd worn when he met her four days ago.

"Do you come here often?" he asked, instantly regretting it. Whatever was between them was awkward enough.

"Yes, actually." she said, bouncing on her toes as if she was waiting to be asked. "I work at the studio down there."