Free Fall Semester by Stephanie Fournet

shorts and socks.
    As he dressed, Malcolm tried to count back the months it had been since he had last gone for a run. Was it a year? More? He used to have a routine of running in the evenings during the spring and fall and swimming at the indoor pool at the university rec center during the winter and summer. When had he stopped? The spring before last?
    Malcolm strode back to the kitchen and filled a glass with ice and water, which he quickly drained. He would need the hydration in this heat. He set the glass on the counter and walked out the door, not bothering to lock it.
    Conscious of not wanting to head towards St. Mary, Malcolm took a right at the end of his driveway and started a tentative pace towards Souvenir Gate. His body protested almost immediately. The sweat started as he took a left onto Souvenir, and his quads felt like poured cement. He kept his stride until his lungs began searing when he reached St. Francis and hooked another left. He slowed his pace a little and finally felt his body slacken. His legs were more fluid, and although he still puffed for air, he wasn’t dying.
    The sun was still high enough in the west to keep the shade of trees quite narrow, but he skirted into the shadows whenever he could. Sweat began to trickle then stream from him. He turned up Azalea Street, wishing that he had thought to wear a cap to shade his eyes and catch the rivulets of perspiration. He brushed his arm across his forehead, flinging sweat from his face, and he remembered that Maren had worn a wristband for this purpose.
    Endorphins swelled in his bloodstream as he took St. Thomas, heading southeast and crossing Louisa. He opened up his stride a little more and felt his lungs loosen, drawing in deep breaths. He estimated that he had gone just over a mile when he reached the end of St. Thomas and took another left on Curtis, now aiming back for St. Patrick Street. It used to be that he could easily go five miles at a 9-minute pace, a good 45-minute workout. Malcolm glanced at his watch and figured that he was probably not even breaking an 11-minute mile, but even after all the time, he felt like his muscles remembered the rhythm and, given time, could reclaim that pace again.
    Malcolm took a right on Ray Street and a quick left on St. Patrick. He slowed to a walk in front of his house, completely drenched. He had run about two miles. He stopped and stretched his quads and his calves, feeling the neglected muscles twitch and dance beneath his skin. He felt his heartbeat in his chest as it began to recover and noted how much better its racing felt now than it had on the phone with Madeleine earlier.
    He peeled off his soaking shirt as he walked inside his air conditioned house, heading for the shower, and wondered if he could go three miles tomorrow.
     

Chapter 7
    Maren
    “S omeone really hates you.”
    Maren turned from the department bulletin board and found Helene standing behind her, reading the duty assignment posting for the Deep South Writers Conference over her shoulder.
    “What makes you say that?”
    “Because you are scheduled for Friday evening and Saturday morning at the registration table,” Helene pointed to Maren’s name and wrinkled her nose. “With Jess and Dr. Vashal.”
    Maren eyed her friend and dropped her voice.
    “Wanna trade?”
    “Hell, no, sister, you are stuck with that party.”
    Maren raised a brow. The two walked out of the department office, away from any eavesdroppers.
    “Really? I sorta thought you had a thing for him,” she fished.
    “Vashal?!? Don’t make me sick!” Helene evaded. Maren rolled her eyes.
    “You know I meant Jess.”
    “Yeah,” she admitted, sadly. “I do sort of have a thing for him. But, let’s be honest, Mare, could you really see me with Jess Dalton?”
    To Maren’s horror, she saw Jess round the corner the instant before Helene did and grabbed her friend’s arm.
    “I’d rock your world, Coulter,” Jess said as he breezed past them, beaming