I’m still shaken by the conversation with Mia. About what she said, and what she thinks. What else am I supposed to be doing in this room, other than sorting through his things? That’s the entire point. Eve asked me to do it.

I’m getting down to the basics up here. There’s the bedding, the computer, the backpack, the odds and ends. But the shelves have been cleared, and his desk drawers have been emptied; his clothes have been packed away, and the walls are bare.

I can’t bring myself to strip the bed. It feels so violent, and final.

Instead I go for the closet, empty of clothes, now just an assortment of shoes and shoeboxes and whatever lingers on the shelf up high. Most of his shoes are lined up in pairs, and I leave them paired this way, stacking them in a large brown box. There are cleats and snow boots, flip-flops and sneakers—all different angles of the same Caleb. And then, in the right corner, there’s a pair shoved into a plastic grocery bag, tied at the top.

I rip it open, and immediately understand why. There are sand granules. And the pair of old sneakers smells like the ocean. I picture Caleb in front of me, kicking up sand with each stride. The burn of my lungs and my legs, and the glare of the sun off the ocean.

I was supposed to be training on the beach, which I hated, the sand kicking up and the ground giving way, everything in slow motion, like running in a dream. If hiking was Caleb’s thing to introduce me to, this was mine. It was a run I needed to do as part of summer training, but hated doing alone. Something about being on the beach by myself, before anyone else was up. Something about the feeling that at any moment a tidal wave could sneak up on us, wipe me out, with nobody knowing.

“Hailey, come on,” I’d begged her on a weekend in mid-July, while we all sat on beach blankets, side by side.

“I’m not doing that. I hate running in sand.”

“Hailey, September’s going to hurt.”

“Then let September hurt. I’m enjoying my summer.”

Hailey was also naturally faster than me, not needing to train as hard, or as consistently, to be able to stand on the starting line and run just over three miles in under twenty minutes. She could transform from “girl in a dress with red lipstick” to “girl who can kick your ass in red lipstick” in the time it took to slip on running shoes.

“We should do it,” Max had said to Caleb while I dug through my bag for more sunscreen.

Caleb made a face, but then he saw mine, so hopeful, leaning toward him. Pleasepleaseplease, I mouthed. I was one step away from asking Julian, and I really didn’t want to ask Julian.

“Fine,” he said. “Looking forward to kicking your asses tomorrow.”

I rolled my eyes. “Wear old shoes,” I’d told them.

“I thought people ran barefoot on the beach,” Max said.

“You don’t want to do that for five miles.”

Max pursed his lips. “I’m regretting this decision already.”

I didn’t know precisely how fast Caleb was until that day. I’d seen him on the lacrosse field, and I’d seen him doing line sprints during practice, but I had no idea whether he’d be able to pace himself for a distance run in sand.

We sat on the worn wooden steps leading down onto the beach while Max retied his shoes. “So,” I said, squinting from the glare of the sun on the ocean, “we head that way until the pink hotel.” The pink hotel was as good a landmark as it got on the beach. I’d mapped it out beforehand. “Then we turn around and come back.”

Caleb nodded. Max leaned over the splintered railing, peering down the beach.

Caleb grinned. “Loser sings the national anthem on the corner of the street.”

“Oh my God,” I mumbled, “what is it with you two and the national anthem?” There was always some variation of that, in a bet. Singing it in the middle of class (Caleb), or at the sports banquet dinner (Max, before he got shut down by the athletic director), or on the train into the city (Caleb, but then the whole train got into it, and we all sang, so really that one didn’t count).

Caleb shrugged. “Ready?” he asked.

I started jogging, and Caleb took off at a near-sprint, his sneakers kicking up the sand in front of me.

“Dammit,” Max said, and he kicked into another gear, desperately trying to keep up. Max played shortstop, and I knew he could sprint. But they were both going to burn themselves out in the first hundred meters, I decided. I was going to beat them both within the first mile.

Except I didn’t.

I caught up with Max halfway to the pink hotel, but Caleb kept getting farther and farther ahead. He looped back, passing us, never letting up speed. “Jessa,” he called as he blew by, “don’t you dare let him beat you or you’ll be belting ‘The Star-Spangled Banner’ in the parking lot!”

“What?” I shouted back. I had assumed the bet was only between the two of them. I dug in deeper and pulled away from Max, but in the last section, he pulled even. He was breathing heavily, nearly spent, but his strides were twice as long as mine and he was going to win, I could feel it.

I closed my eyes, imagined this was a race and not practice, that the person beside me was any other person and the ground below was solid and I was stronger than them, and had practiced harder, and longer, and I had more left in the tank. I felt my steps pull even with his again, and in the last few meters before the spot Caleb sat on the steps, I sprinted with everything I had, and I beat him.

I collapsed onto the sand in front of Caleb, who was smiling. It seemed he was just barely out of breath.

Max groaned, crossed one leg in front of the other, and fell onto the sand. “I let you win,” he said, his chest heaving as he lay on his back beside us.

“There is no way you let me win.” I kicked sand onto his shins.

Max rolled onto his knees, kicked off his shoes, peeled off his shirt. “I’m just gonna…” He trailed off, making his way to the edge of the water. He walked in up to his knees, his thighs, then turned around so he was facing us and let a wave hit him in the back. He stumbled, fell, let the wave push him up onto shore.

“God, Max, you’re like a beached whale,” I called.

I turned to see Caleb staring at the side of my face. “Going in?” he asked, switching his expression to a coy grin.

I tipped my head at Max’s shoes in the sand. “Someone has to guard the sneakers,” I said.

He laughed. “You’re so full of crap.” Then he picked me up over his shoulder and started running for the shoreline.

“No, no, no, no!” I yelled. “Wait.” I pounded his back. “At least let me take off my shoes. They’re expensive.”

He placed me on the sand, and I stepped back as I bent over to peel them off.

“Take yours off, too,” I said, but he only watched me, grinning.

Then I turned and sprinted down the beach, but Caleb was ready for me, and he caught me in three quick strides. I squealed while he tossed me over his shoulder and ran straight into the surf.

He dropped me into the water, and the cold felt so good, so shocking, but I panicked for a moment, until I got my feet back under me, felt the sand giving way under my weight. We were deeper than I thought, and I automatically scrambled back toward shore.

“Ugh, I hate you!” I said, but he was laughing, holding me up.

He carried me on his back as he walked back out, as he had the month before at the river. “I told you, Jessa. I’m not gonna let you drown.”

On the beach, he took off his sneakers, caked with wet sand and salt water. He tipped them over, and the ocean streamed out. “I told you, Caleb. Take off your shoes.”

Max was lying on the sand, drying in the sun. There were other runners on the beach now. “Please tell me you brought water,” he said. “Please. I’m unprepared. I think I’m dying.” A girl stared at him lying there shirtless as she ran down the beach, and he raised his hand at her, smirking.

I reached a hand down. “Drinks are in the car, hot stuff.”

At the car, Caleb opened the trunk, and they each grabbed a Gatorade from my cooler. “You guys should do this with me. Cross-country, I mean. You’re fast, Caleb. And you’ll both stay in shape.”

“I notice you did not say that I was fast,” Max said.

“I said you’d stay in shape.” I smiled wide. “Come on, it’s fun.”

“That wasn’t fun,” Max said.

“You’ll feel awesome later.”

“Somehow I doubt that.”

“You both just did five miles from nothing. That’s harder than most of our practices. Come on, Max, I see you in the weight room, trying to keep in shape until baseball season. I’ve seen you on the treadmill.”

He focused on me then, took a long sip, brushed the wet hair from his eyes. I held my breath, waiting. “Yeah, okay,” he said. “Okay, I’ll do it.”

We both turned to Caleb, who was looking Max over. He turned to me, took a deep breath. “Sorry, Jessa. Not my thing.”

Then he looked at Max again, and there was this awkward silence, where I wasn’t sure what we were doing here, standing in a circle, a feeling I couldn’t put my finger on. Then Caleb finally said, “Come on, Max. We’re all waiting here.”

Max handed him the bottle of Gatorade and climbed up on the hood of Caleb’s car. He walked onto the roof, stretched his arms out to the sides, and belted the lyrics, “O say can you see—”

The sneakers are beach-worn, waterlogged, completely spent. I hate that I have to throw these out, but they’re ruined. I warned him, I think. I told him. But Caleb was like that. He didn’t like to be told what to do, even by me.