A Reason to Run (The Camdyn Series Book 1) Read online

  A Reason to Run

  a novel

  -§-

  Christina Coryell

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written permission of the publisher. To contact the publisher, submit a request at www.christinacoryell.com.

  Text copyright © 2014 by Christina Coryell

  Cover image copyright © 2014 by Daren Coryell

  To Linda Meckem,

  Thank you not only for your help,

  but also for your encouragement.

  In grade school, people used to write LYLAS

  (love ya like a sister)

  in my yearbook, and I never believed them.

  Well, LYLAS. For real. Forever.

  A Reason to Run

  It starts innocently enough – two boys whispering, the sound of feet scuffling in the background, someone laughing, a hissed command to be quiet. Four girls stand on a riser by the door with three boys behind them, while several others sit on the floor. The middle boy on the riser rolls his eyes exaggeratedly, prompting a feminine giggle from somewhere behind the camera. To the right, a boy sits on a folding chair, trumpet on his lap, staring at his watch. A girl behind him waves and smiles, glances into the hall, and shrugs her shoulders. Nothing remarkable is happening – some nervous coughing, a couple more giggles – but there is the sense that there is about to be some action, so you keep watching.

  Suddenly, the waving girl bursts to life, whispering, “She’s coming! She’s coming!” Trumpet boy leaps to his feet, raises the instrument, and begins to play a clear, loud melody.

  The camera spins to the empty door frame. For a few seconds it looks as though it is a false alarm, but then there is a brief glimpse of blonde tresses in the doorway as our subject peeks into the room. She waves and then withdraws into the hallway. The camera moves forward until it catches her standing just beyond the door, arms crossed, leaning against the wall with a smile on her face.

  I have to mention here that the kid on the trumpet really is quite good – he could have a bright future ahead of him.

  I know, I know - back to the subject.

  The girl to the far left of the riser begins singing the big band era version of “I’ll Get By (As Long As I Have You).”

  Our subject in the hallway has leaned back enough that the camera can only see the tip of a few curls, the bottom of her black jogging pants and her purple tennis shoes. The other singers have joined in now, a chorus supported by the backing tone of the trumpet, absolutely beautiful. She hasn’t moved an inch. I know what she is thinking. She’s thinking that this school has a terrific music program, and these kids are really talented, and she will tell them all that in a few moments.

  It’s safe to assume by now that she is clueless.

  The camera remains trained on her as the song comes to an end. She straightens and leans away from the wall, moving fully into the doorway. She gives the singers a thumbs-up and then starts clapping, nodding at the trumpet guy. They are all shyly grinning in return, because they are in on the secret.

  That’s when he enters to the right of the camera, dressed in a light blue shirt and gray jeans with a black tie. She sees him at the same moment the camera does, and she stops dead in her tracks, smile disappearing. She is regarding him with suspicion, wondering what he is doing.

  He keeps standing there looking at her in a very serious manner, and she takes a step backward. Whatever he is trying to do, she is clearly not having it. Seriously, buddy, read her face already, will you?

  But for some reason he doesn’t, or can’t. He drops down to one knee. She takes another step back, shaking her head. The waving girl is caught behind them on the camera, eyes wide in disbelief.

  He reaches out to take her hand, but she jerks it back. She glances over at the students, realizes a few are recording her, and instinctively lifts her left hand to her forehead. Undeterred, he pulls a black box from his pocket.

  “What are you doing?” she whispers almost inaudibly as he snaps the black box open. There is a split second glare on the camera as the light reflects off the ring inside.

  “Asking you to marry me,” he states matter-of-factly, as if that’s the most normal thing in the world. She glances over at the camera again.

  “Are you insane?!” she blurts, backing towards her escape. “I’m sorry kids – you guys were great, really - absolutely terrific.”

  And with that she disappears through the doorway, the sound of her purple tennis shoes snapping against the floor tiles. The camera moves to the jilted suitor then, who is staring into the hall in disbelief. Clearly he did not expect this.

  There are a couple nervous giggles, and then the young cameraman’s voice very clearly stating, “Dude, that was harsh.”

  Fade to black.

  -§-

  Just a viral video - something people chuckle about with their coworkers and share with their friends on social media. It had over 3 million views the last time I checked, and it just aired on my local news broadcast, but who really cares about one random video? Nothing new to see here and no big deal.

  That is, unless you happen to be the girl in the purple tennis shoes, like me.

  Chapter One

  Thirteen minutes - that’s the length of time between the airing of the video on the ten o’clock news and the visit from my closest neighbor, Carlos, to fake propose to me. One of his friends was lurking behind him, and I’m sure they thought they were quite hilarious.

  The next morning, a man claiming to be one of my downstairs neighbors rang my doorbell and then proceeded to tell me that he had considered asking me out many times, but something told him I was a heartbreaker. Although, if I did want to go out with him…

  I told him I wasn’t interested, in so many words.

  When I worked up the nerve to leave my apartment, I met a group of three women in the stairwell who thought I had done members of my gender everywhere a great favor by “putting a man in his place.” I tried to explain to them that it was all a big misunderstanding, but they were caught up in their own little drama, so I politely excused myself.

  Then there were two notes under the windshield wiper on my black four-door coupe: “Oh my, hilarious!!!” and “You are cruel.” I was hit with a sudden wave of paranoia. How did people know this was my car? Had they been watching me? Were they watching me now? For a moment I felt like the main character in a spy drama. When I turned the ignition, would the car explode?

  I didn’t have long to consider the possibilities, because as I swung open the car door, a Channel Six news van pulled into the parking lot. I hurriedly put my sunglasses on, slid down in my seat, and pulled out onto the highway.

  That was that. Someone had tipped off the news station that had aired that horrible video in the first place, and now they knew who I was. Even worse, they knew where I lived! None of my neighbors really spoke to me, and I didn’t speak to them - I preferred it that way. The only neighbor whose name I knew was Carlos, and that was because he had gotten my mail a couple of times (under rather questionable circumstances, I might add).

  So I did what any sane person would do – I drove around my block for forty-five minutes until the news van finally left, and then I snuck across the parking lot like a ninja. Stealthily opening and c
losing my apartment door without a sound, I was careful not to disturb the business card taped near the peephole, with a handwritten note that someone wanted to hear “my side of the story.”

  Around two more weeks, that’s all that was left of my lease on this place. I had given my landlord my notice when I paid the last month’s rent. One month would have been plenty of time to find a new residence in a new town full of new people, and give myself a fresh start. That’s what I had in mind when I called Peter the week before and told him we needed to talk.

  Why did I call him anyway? Oh, you can bet that question had haunted me those past few days. I didn’t owe him anything, why didn’t I leave well enough alone? It wasn’t as though we were in a relationship. I had only been out with him on an official date once, and that was because I didn’t want to hurt his mother’s feelings. I met her while researching for the book I was writing, and she invited me over for dinner. We became friends, and when she introduced me to Peter, I felt like I owed it to her to say yes just that once. It wasn’t that there was anything overtly wrong with him, he just wasn’t right for me. He asked me out after that, but I always told him the same thing: “I’m writing tonight – I have a deadline.” I saw him several times at her house, but that was the extent of it. At least, that should have been the extent of it, if I hadn’t been an idiot and called him again. In any normal circumstance it wouldn’t have mattered, but who could have predicted that he was going to propose?

  Actually, I should have seen it coming, right? It’s not like it hasn’t happened to me four other times. What is it my brother Charlie likes to call it? Some card playing term…

  Overplaying their hand, that’s it! Charlie’s theory is something along the lines that the guy senses something is amiss, he feels like the final play is about to go down, and so he goes all in with whatever lousy cards he’s holding, because he doesn’t want to end the game with his cards against his chest.

  (Hmm…that sounds so much better when Charlie explains it, somehow.)

  I guess the theory is all well and good, but I still didn’t see it coming with Peter until it had progressed all the way into viral video territory. I mean, there was just the one official date. I admit, he did send me gifts a couple times, and he did show up every time I was around his mother, but that was just a coincidence. At least, that’s what she told me.

  Naturally, she was in on it the whole time. I casually mentioned to her last week that I was going to be leaving soon – I was finished with my research and it was time to move on.

  “I hope you won’t leave without telling Peter,” she said. “He thinks so highly of you.”

  I hesitantly promised her I wouldn’t, and two days later, when I remembered our conversation, I called him right after lunch. I expected his voice mail, because he would be teaching class, but he picked up right away.

  “Hi Peter,” I said casually, “your mother thought I should call you.”

  “Now isn’t really a good time,” he whispered. “Can you drop by the school at four o’clock? Come to the music room?”

  The conversation then meandered to me not knowing where the music room was, how he forgot I had never been there, and me asking why we couldn’t just meet in the parking lot. In the end, he gave me directions, and although I was thoroughly annoyed, I agreed to meet him inside the school.

  Thus, a colossally poor decision was made with good intentions, and I now found myself cowering in my apartment, hiding from the media and thinking about when to make my escape. I could pack my things easily enough, but I couldn’t fit everything in my car. There was no way to bring a moving truck in, not with everyone watching my every move. Since I couldn’t manage to remove my belongings from the apartment unnoticed, I would have to come back for them later.

  The problem was, I hadn’t decided where the road would take me next. I really hadn’t even given it much thought, since I still had a couple of weeks to sort that through – not that I would have given it much thought anyway. I probably would have employed my usual habit of moving somewhere on a whim and then deciding what to do after I got there.

  I didn’t set out to have that kind of life – it just happened. After college, I moved back in with my grandmother in St. Louis, where I worked retail and did some freelancing in my spare time. Things went well, and after a couple of months, I dropped the retail and was doing nothing but writing. Over a year had passed when a publisher I was working with suggested that I write a novel, and I said I would give it some thought.

  Two weeks later, my grandma passed away. I felt lost, and I couldn’t imagine myself spending another moment in the empty house, so I moved to Dallas and threw myself into an ambitious writing project full of modern-day politics and intrigue. Maybe it came as a result of feeling alone, or perhaps I was just feeling vulnerable after the recent loss, but for weeks I couldn’t imagine showing it to anyone. When I finally forced myself to send it to the publisher, I was grateful that they agreed to my request that it be published under a pen name. It enjoyed moderate success, but nothing to brag about.

  After that, I bounced around a bit, spending some time in Arizona and Colorado and plugging out a couple more novels that paid the bills, but not much more. Eventually I found myself in Oklahoma, and while there, I decided to write a fictional account of one young woman’s journey on the Trail of Tears. It was very different than my previous novels. My only thought was that I was certain to be working toward an ultimate disappointment. I finished writing, submitted my manuscript, and moved to an apartment in St. Louis.

  Much to my surprise, the new book was a hit, and the publisher requested more historical fiction. I decided to write my next book about Martha Washington a little over a year ago, so I set myself up in Alexandria, Virginia. Living there, I could be close to the place she called home, Mount Vernon. That move had proven fairly expensive, but I really loved the experience, especially walking the cobblestone streets and visiting Christ Church. At times I could have fooled myself into believing that I really had stepped back in time.

  When I finished my work with Mrs. Washington, I decided to look into my own family history a bit. I ultimately ended up researching my fifth great-grandmother, Wilhelmina Lawrence (Willa for short), who was considered by my family to be a heroine of sorts, a real pioneer woman. She was born and raised in Virginia before she went west, so I took up residence in Richmond. I found a decent enough set of apartments where I could blend in and go unnoticed, at least so I thought, until Peter…

  Ugh, Peter. I still couldn’t believe this was happening to me, it was so surreal. This was one of those moments where I really wished my grandma was still around – she always knew what to do somehow. If not, at least she could calm me down. What I wouldn’t give to go back to Grandma’s house – home cooked meals, bed sheets that smelled like flowers, and the feeling that someone exists who loves you unconditionally.

  It wasn’t Grandma’s house anymore, though – it was Charlie and Trina’s. Trina, my college roommate and the best friend I ever had. We used to joke about being together until we were old and gray, but then she met Charlie and suddenly I was solo. Don’t get me wrong – I loved having Trina as my sister. What I didn’t like was that feeling that your best friend could be telling all your secrets to your brother.

  Not that I had many secrets at the moment. I could hear the muffled voices of a man and a woman outside my door, and then loud knocking. I made no move to answer, but strained to listen and see if I could understand them. I heard more mumbling, but nothing intelligible.

  “I don’t know where she could be, her car is here,” I heard a third voice say. It sounded like Carlos. His voice was followed by more knocking.

  “Miss Taylor! Are you home? We would like to ask you a few questions,” the female voice called.

  “She can’t be here,” Carlos said. “She would have come out to see you – she’s a nice girl.”

  “Well, if you see her, will you call me?” the female asked. The sound got
fainter, and I assumed they were walking away.

  Not sure what else to do, I moved to my closet and started absently removing my clothes from the hangers. I packed all three of my suitcases as full as I could stuff them, and then moved the rest to the boxes I kept in the hall closet. One thing about moving often, I had learned never to get rid of boxes – I was sure to need them again in the future. I spent a couple of hours absently packing, and then stacked the boxes in the center of my bedroom and looked at the sad pile. With the exception of my books (which were still strewn about here and there and everywhere) and my guitar, my whole existence appeared to fit into three suitcases, two cardboard boxes, and a plastic tote. It seemed a little pathetic. I sat down on the edge of my bed and put my chin in my hands.

  Of course it seems pathetic, I told myself, because it is pathetic. Completely so.

  I wondered if I was being too hard on myself, but I knew deep down that I wasn’t. I should have just thrown the door open, told those news people to get lost, and stood up for myself. How much time did I spend writing about strong women and daydreaming situations where they rose up and people took notice? Still, every time my chance came, I shrank back like I was afraid something was going to eat me. When I did work up the nerve to face my problems, it was always too late to matter.

  I thought for a moment about my ancestor Willa’s gravestone. There was a whole paragraph chiseled on that rock about how she was a pioneer woman, strong and faithful, loved by her neighbors and respected by her peers. Someone had taken a lot of time to put all those words there. I wondered what my gravestone would say. I could imagine it now:

  Bestselling author C.W. Oliver by day,

  Perpetual mess Camdyn Taylor by night.