Page 2 of Running Home to You
“Abby?”
She didn’t dare turn. She didn’t move or breathe as heavy footsteps thudded down the bleachers. It was too late to run now. Instead, she clutched the coin in her pocket, closed her eyes, and surrendered.
Eight Years Earlier
Junior Year
Professor Cruz asked her to lunch after two weeks of staring each other down. Abby didn’t doubt she was the worst student in her class, hadn’t wanted to take it in the first place, but they’d been hurtling toward this encounter since she arrived at Insley University. Longer than that. They’d been building toward this meeting her entire life.
That first day, Abby had arrived late and slipped into a desk at the top of the slanted rows, maintaining as much space as possible.
“And we’ll take a deeper dive into the varying levels of scrutiny applied to the Fourteenth and Fifteenth Amendments, so that by test time, you’re able to apply those to hypothetical…”
Professor Cruz trailed as her eyes landed on Abby. Despite the distance separating them and never having met before, the exchange radiated reunion rather than discovery. The pause dragged so long that a student in front spoke up.
“Professor, are you okay?”
A few students shifted to find what distracted her. Their beady eyes made Abby squirm, but she didn’t dare look away first.
“Right. What was I saying?” The professor pivoted from her audience and fiddled with the clicker to jump ahead a few slides on the projector. “Right, let’s start with strict scrutiny.”
After class, Abby scrambled to the exit, not prepared for anything beyond a shared stare. The professor didn’t seem to be either, as no new text messages came. It almost prompted Abby to drop the class altogether, but curiosity won out. For the next few weeks, while everyone else studied Gender and the Law, Abby studied Isla Cruz.
She analyzed the way she gestured, the way she paced, and the way she spoke. Abby thought they might look alike, but it was hard to know for sure. She’d only seen photos before. Isla’s hair was more chocolate than Abby’s black waves, her skin lighter but warm. She was slender, where Abby was wide hipped and broad shouldered, taller, muscles teeming on her frame despite six months of disuse.
For those first few weeks, at the end of every class, Abby disappeared, putting a safe distance between them. Until one day Isla followed her into the hall.
“Hey, Abby, can you wait a minute?”
She shut her eyes as students streamed past on either side of her. She considered merging in and pretending she hadn’t heard her, but they couldn’t play strangers forever.
Abby turned. “Hey.”
Isla’s eyes scaled her up and down. Abby might’ve found it off-putting if she wasn’t doing the same.
“Do you want to get lunch?”
Rather than converge at one of the campus dining halls, they went into town. Insley University lay just outside of Hood River, a community of fewer than ten thousand, its heart a medley of small restaurants, mom-and-pop shops, and breweries. Tourists flocked for hikes and windsurfing, panoramic views of the river and mountains, wineries hidden in sprawling orchards among the hills.
They met at a bar called Sunny’s.Insley sports memorabilia adorned the walls, beer residue stuck to the floorboards, and students lounged on the wraparound patio. When the waiter took their order, Isla asked for an iced tea while Abby ordered a double vodka soda. The professor’s brow furrowed as Abby produced her fake ID.
“How are you liking Insley?” she asked when the server left.
“It’s fine.”
“Sorry about the situation with your classes,” Isla said. “I worked with the academic advisors. There weren’t a lot of spots left, and I figured I could open an extra place in my class. That way you can at least get some upper-level credits to start. I know pre-law isn’t exactly for everyone. Or maybe it is. I didn’t even ask what your major is. At least, I didn’t notice one on your transcript. Not that it’s a problem if you don’t have one yet. Do you know what you want to do after you graduate?”
Their drinks arrived, a well-timed disruption to Isla’s ramble, especially since Abby didn’t have an answer to that dreaded question.
“Sorry, I’m talking too much.” Isla’s cheeks flamed. “This is just kind of weird.”
Rather than find her annoying, Abby took pity. Maybe because she noticed their sameness. Her eyes, wide set and vibrant copper, peered out as if from a mirror. Her mouth was the same too, plump lips, the lower barely fuller than the top.
“Yeah,” Abby said. “Yeah, it’s definitely fucking weird.”
“And you’re doing okay? You’re settled in at the apartment? Do you need help with furniture or money?”
“You don’t have to do that.”
