Читаем Look Closer полностью

But I will never stop running through these streets. They inspire me, the people fighting through poverty and crummy schools, getting the short end of every stick, but fighting no less. I have lived a blessed life. I know that. I’ve had a few low points, to be sure, but I’ve never wondered whether there would be food on the table, I’ve never wondered whether I’d go to college, I’ve never had to avoid windows in my own home for fear of stray gunfire, I’ve never been told that there was no hope for me. I’ve never been ignored.

“You’ll find someone you love,” my mother said to me in her last week, forcing the words out. She was right. I haven’t had a hard time finding someone I love. I’ve found two people. The problem is them loving me back. That’s the hole I’ve felt, even before I realized it was a hole.

I end up running faster than even I expected—nervous energy, I suppose. I cover seven miles, give or take, in less than forty minutes.

I stop outside the alley behind Viva Mediterránea, cool air on my sweaty face, my stocking cap pulled low. Not that Christian would recognize me, even if he stood out on his patio on this chilly night and looked down at me. Has he seen a picture of me? Maybe. Probably. He’s never met me in person.

At eight, I power up the green phone and pop in the SIM card. A message is already awaiting me:

I start typing so fast, I almost drop the phone:

Her reply box bubbles. It doesn’t take her long:

I respond immediately:

Her reply is just as quick:

I respond immediately, violating the number one rule against using names:

She doesn’t respond. No bubbles.

Again, no response. No bubbles.

I hit “send.”

I hit “send.”

And then, after a few moments, a response: