Wrong Quarterback | ✓

11 | oops, we did it again

          Normally Avery would notice she's pushing herself too hard if she wants to keep this pace up for another five miles but her mind is far too occupied to be mindful of her running. More or less flying down the street, she passes by buildings and outdoor seatings in a blur, her earbuds in but with no music on. She had tried blasting one of her three running playlists as usual only to turn it off after barely having made it two miles from her house, the loud thoughts running through her mind far enough of a noise on their own.

         She kissed Ethan Taylor.

She kissed Ethan Taylor.

She kissed Ethan Taylor.

She kissed Ethan Taylor.

           Scratch that. She didn't kiss Ethan Taylor. No, she participated in a full blown make out session with Ethan Taylor. On the beach. With her friends only a short distance away. And ever since said friends left town one by one yesterday morning it's all she can seem to think about.

         She whirls through the south side of the park, the trees lining the gravel path barely a flurry of green in the corner of her eye before her feet touch against pavement again, another row of house facades in soft colors of cream and yellow passing her by as she steers her steps out of the city centre towards the ice hall. Her pulse speeds up as another flare of memory from that night only a couple of days ago flashes through her mind and she lets a deep breath out her nostrils as she circles the ice hall, kicking up speed rather than slowing down as she continues along the beach boardwalk, a draft to the air as she's exposed to the ocean.

She's been going it over in her head ever since it happened. Thankfully, her friends took her occasional zoning out as processing the fiasco of the Orlando trip that wasn't and she happily let them believe they were right, knowing what a storm would arise if they knew what actually lingered on her mind.

She's been turning the events of that night inside out, upside down, untangling every last straw trying to understand how exactly she ended up locking lips with Ethan Taylor.

         So far she has nothing.

Or well. She has a lot. But nothing of it makes any sense. There are three things she does know. One, she made out with Ethan Taylor the other night. Duh. Two, despite how many times these past two days she's been trying to convince herself that her champagne induced mind played a part of the outcome, she was nowhere near that drunk – a little bit tipsy at best, just enough to push her over an edge she would have known not to cross while sober. She sighs. Three, she desperately wants to do it again.

It doesn't make any sense.

         They've always gotten along – in their own twisted way, between the banter and the quick remarks – ever since that October night sophomore year when she walked into that cupboard door, busting her nose, and the two of them spent a good half hour in the kitchen of Jacob Wilson's house cleaning her up.

And yes, they have been more friendly as of late – the conversation flowing without actually having to insult one another every other sentence. Him helping her get her mind off of the cancelled family trip fiasco. The texting. But kissing him? Making out? With Ethan Taylor?

         The soles of her shoes touch against sand, leaving the few Bed & Breakfasts lined along the end of the beach walk behind as she runs along the shore for a short distance before setting off up long the beach trail, whirling past two women in colorful athletic wear hiking the other way.