Grandma Ruth caught me sneaking out the night after Mom had shut the front door on Josh's face and banned me from his prom. Grandma had lived with us for about a year after losing Grandpa to pneumonia. I thought she'd been asleep, or at the very least too deaf to hear me mousing around the back door; she was too proud for a hearing aid. 

When she saw me, dressed like a virgin hooker on the way to a rave, she set her whiskey glass carefully on a lacy coaster. "Allison," she began, at a crackling volume that to this day I'm still shocked Mom hadn't heard. "Whatever you think you're doing, it ain't nothing good if the clock's marched on past midnight."

She was too many states away to stop me now.

Quarter to twelve, I pulled a thin sweatshirt over my favorite running tee: a teal and black racerback with mesh paneling.

Tonight, midnight meant freedom.

Becky and Clara had really given it the old college try, attempting to get me to move past Logan by moving onto some sexy young hunk they'd scraped off the floor of a frat basement. Problem was, it was early in the night, the buzz had barely kicked in, and I was the current curiosity around Pentworth.

Most regarded me affably—this time I hadn't cost anybody a championship trophy—but their eyes channeled misgiving and doubt. And the more booze I drank, the more doubt I'd heard.

"Logan was Crown Prince of Norway. Obviously I had to have known. I was fucking smart, wasn't I? Mom's a mad scientist or some shit, yeah? God, she must be fucking embarrassed! Hey, you know I'm no prince, but I can treat you like a queen."

I squinted at the guy's lips. The words coming out weren't what my ears were hearing. With a sudden lurch of fear I'd realized it was almost eleven, and I had no idea what I'd been doing the past hour, or how much I'd drank.

"Al!" Becky had shouted from the squeeze of the beer pong table, lifting two Bud Lights. Shaking my head, I swiped a water out of the upstairs fridge and left.

They were getting to me. I was getting to me. I needed a chance to breathe. I needed this week fading fast in the rear view mirror.

Becky warned me not to, but I'd read hundreds of articles in the days following Logan's announcement. Many made mention of girlfriend Allison Stevens, some small time celebrity chef's daughter with a violent past, a team captain who suspiciously hadn't raced in over a year. Who was I? What did I know? 

One week and it'll blow over. One week, and the clock ticks to someone else's fifteen minutes.

That week of being nagged, pestered, and photographed lasted forever. I was, news outlets concluded, the missing link in a chain of mysteries. Despite that, the police never questioned me, nor Interpol, nor had any communications come from the country I only remembered around Christmas. Reporters, and sometimes people with a burning desire to know the truth or tell me their thoughts on my bad behavior, came up to me in the street. They'd be at my practices. They'd be at the dining hall. People I never spoke with suddenly wanted to work with me on projects and grab lunch.  To no avail I'd begged the Dean for online assignments.

By the end of last night I'd been so pissed, I pushed my body the hardest I had since the second ACL tear, running directionless until my legs wobbled and collapsed and I had to call Becky for a ride.

Reluctant to endure her wrath twice, I zipped twenty bucks into my pocket to call a cab later.

My usually legs maxed out around a hard-run five miles.

Tonight, two miles flew by in a blur of neon and car horns. Chest pounding and breath breaking, incentive replaced anger in frosty puffs.

Run another block. Reach the stop sign. Now the bar. You made it ten yards. Run twenty more.

Boston's park chain formed an emerald necklace through the winding city. I sprinted through the fog-draped gates of the most famous jewel: the Boston Commons. Lamplights illuminated misty swirls. I hustled through the fuzzy rings of streetlight at a dizzying pace. 

A man shambled out from the darkness just before the next light. His outstretched foot connected with mine. Club fingers latched onto my sweaty shoulder. Stumbling, I spun around. My ear buds popped out to a cacophony of swears. Sprinting well after midnight, I didn't smell like a delicate nightflower either, but his shirt seemed to have marinated in a rotted beer keg.

My wheezing quickened. He wasn't Wahler but my nerves were drenched in fear. I jostled past without apology. The Wahler-smell-alike yelled, might've given chase; my eyes never lifted off the next silky twist of light. Running was my safety net. As long as I had that, no one could catch me. 

I didn't stop running, not from the drunk, not from my troubles, not from anything, until the jeers faded and only my footsteps echoed through the black.

Halfway to the leaf-ridden spray pool, past several whimsical bronze animal sculptures, my feet hit uneven ground. My right ankle clicked, twisted and brought my ass down into gelatinous pond muck. I cursed.

Ducks murmured annoyance in the dead reeds.

My nails pried a dirt clod loose, which I flung at the nearest floating shadow. Seconds later, water off the mallard's wing spattered my cheek. Raucous quacks gathered his brothers into the starless night.

"What the hell is wrong with me?" I shouted at their retreating backs. Hobbled, sobbing into my shoulder because I landed in some frosted pond scum: this wasn't me.

What was wrong was Logan. 

Logan never felt like an ex, not even after I slammed the door on countless reporters. Our abrupt end left no time for a bitter fight or a chance to lie about staying friends. A conclusion, however painful and teary, would have made it feel over. Instead, his departure was an open-ended question mark tacked onto my life.

He never called. In interviews, he brushed my name away with a mention of dear sweet Annelise or, when televised, an irritated frown.

Voices cheerfully inebriated boomed across the pond. Drunks. Fantastic. Careful to avoid them, I limped to Boylston Street and hailed a cab under the safety of busy lights.

Within two minutes a yellow car hummed curbside. Militia ghosts—steamy reactions of the pond being warmer than the surrounding air—glided through its exhaust. I used to be afraid of the eerie twists and curling shapeshifts of fog; seemed to my young mind that it was alive. Dad always said nothing that haunts the fog can hurt you. Everything in the fog is from your imagination. So we'd pick smoky coils and invent names and occupations of soldiers before the Revolutionary War. What I wouldn't give to march alongside those phantoms tonight. What I wouldn't give to be someone else.

My phone buzzed against my thigh as I slipped into the backseat and gave the driver my address. Mom's forced smile —"Why do you need a picture of me?"—filled the cracked screen. 

"Tonight keeps getting better," I muttered, unlocking the screen at the listless pace of the dead. "What's up, Mom?"

"Tell Romeo to vacate the premises before your father flays something other than fish!" Humor thawed her usual chill. She knew about Logan alright, was so excited she couldn't even play pretend.

Content to delay impending doom as long as she was, I redid my ponytail. "That's the radio. I was running. Needed to clear my head."

Her enthusiasm tapered into a calculating pause. "Remember what Grandma said?"

"The taxi dropped Clara off five minutes ago," I lied. To spare the driver, I silenced the speaker and held the cell against my ear in time to catch a derisive snort. "Why are you calling?"

"Allison, please," she drawled. "I've studied you since your father taped your ultrasound on the fridge. I have enough maternal instinct left to know when you're in pain."

"After midnight?"

"You answered."

"Yes, well, I tweaked my ankle," I admitted. Not that she cared. We both knew this conversation's headliner. She'd been waiting such a long time to say it.

"Worthy of a clinic visit?"

"Not sure."

"Ah, well, in other news, I saw Logan on television this morning." Excitement rose within her breath as she crooned a triumphant, "Without you."

My thighs unstuck from plastic seat cushions and re-stuck as I cooled my forehead on the windowpane. "Yep."

"Engaged to a Swedish princess! He certainly surpassed my expectations."

"Someone finally proved you wrong," I said sullenly. "That makes me what, chopped liver?"

"Darling, as researcher you won't even sniff that kind of wealth. But Logan only won in pedigree, not personality. I've seen how he treats your name."

The headlights illuminated a pair of drunks harassing a bachelorette party. I'd surrender my grant money on the spot to trade places with the maid of honor. Instead, I made a face at the men as we passed and tried being the better person with Mom. "They make a cute couple, I guess."

"I presume your relationship has officially reached its conclusion?"

Talking to her, my ankle felt number already. "How's London?" I asked. "Heard you had great weather for the neuroskeletal institute luncheon."

Newspaper crinkled across airwaves. "You've not been credited in assisting with his liberation, if I'm to understand the Daily Telegraph. In fact, they seem to think you knew his big secret."

"I didn't."

"I trust your lack of commentary indicates an ongoing acquaintanceship with the palace?  Prince Niklas and his royal family must surely appreciate your silence."

"I—"

"Connections are invaluable to success . . . Neil, my daughter is on the line. Tea to the study, please, thank you."

The cab meter ticked underneath a slow red light.

"Pardon the interruption, dear. As I have always said, no kind man is without skeletons."

"It's not like that. Doctors diagnosed him with Stockholm syndrome and a whole host of other issues." None of which I believed but all of which I hoped to use to convince her I wasn't stupid. Most articles implied wild off-market drugs, acute memory loss and hackneyed syndromes. State-run outlets did their best not to speculate. Some people, myself and doubtlessly my mother, suggested he'd retained his mental faculties and run voluntarily.

"All the more reason to sever personal ties and foster business connections," she said. "Any man courting you should be of sound mind. A crown prince doesn't lose his sense of direction on a flight to Beijing. Logan used you, Allison Lise, no matter what you conclude. What happened? I raised you to crush, not be crushed."

Two minutes and I'd already had enough. "Can we please focus on the good that came out of this?"

"Which would be what?" she snapped.

"Shaved three seconds off my mile." I wound the earbud wires around my palm. "I decided to try out for USA Track and Field again."

"Good," she said. "Perhaps while you're turning over that new leaf, you'll take my advice and phone Aaron once you've gotten over this hot mess. I know his parents; they aren't royalty but they are honest."

I hung up.

By the time I'd paid the cabbie and shuffled up the first flight to my apartment, my phone had given me a deep tissue massage. This time, however, the caller ID read 'Dad.' Praying Mom wasn't sneaking in an extra gloat, I answered.

"Allie?"

Fed by Dad's mellow voice, my pools of patience trickled toward restoration. I breathed a sigh of relief and held the phone against my shoulder while searching for my apartment key. "You can tell me she's sorry, but I know she isn't."

Dad held his breath, probably waiting for me or Mom to continue. He exhaled into the frigid airwaves. "We've seen the news."

"And?"

"I'm sorry, kiddo."

"Thanks."

"If it's any consolation, reporters inquired during croquet in Victoria Park. Tried to frame you as the Prince's illicit lover. Interrupted your mother's swing to ask about your love life. You should've seen them run! She's crankier than—"

"She chased them off?"

"Brandished her mallet like Thor."

No matter the strains of a relationship, hope springs eternal for mothers. I was humble and grateful for mine. She could've launched into a nasty tirade about Logan. Being a Nobel laureate, she would have been heard across the world.

"Why?"

"These aren't the accolades she wants for you."

With that maternal needle, Dad's honesty popped my inflating heart. I sighed. Self-defense, then. If I look bad, she looks worse for raising me.

"How're you holding up, kiddo?"

"Okay, I guess. Time helps." It hadn't. It was too soon for time to matter.

Middle school breakups were silly and soon forgotten. The wound would ache, but by the next day you'd be blushing and crushing again. 

That hurt was nothing like high school breakups. Everything felt like love in high school. There was a reason Romeo and Juliet were young lovers. Sure, here and there my heart strings tugged at the memory of first love and what could've been, but I'd never felt robbed of my future happiness. 

Logan was different. Start to finish different. We were supposed to make it.

Now, I couldn't even say I was fine. My heart burned with the physical, raw ache of being kicked across a July sidewalk. Deep down I knew Logan was my One Who Got Away.

"You'll get past this," Dad spoke in the quiet tone of unwanted truth. "We all do."

The run was long over but my face felt hot. "Logan's the love of my life," I whispered.

Somehow, Dad managed to make a sigh feel like a hug.

"You know, I think you're old enough for some fatherly wisdom. Get ready, kiddo. I was twenty-two. Hungry for life, hungrier for carbs, weighed about 250 pounds. I wasn't always this sleek brontosaurus you see before you. Belly of a hippo. Heard every fat chef joke in the book. I didn't care. I followed my passion, wholeheartedly, gastronomically. Breads were a challenge for me. Still are. The best bagels I ever ate were boiled by a spry, little Italian woman off North Main. Her son inherited the business a year later. Quality went to hell in a handbasket. Cheap ingredients, rapid franchising. Soon more effort was put into advertisement than the bagels. I came close to replicating the original, but it was never the same."

In the safety of the living room I wiped my eyes on my shirt. "Bagels, really?"

"Food is love in so many ways." A chuckle mellowed his tale. "Now, I was understandably pissed over losing my favorite bagels forever, but one breakfast at Francine's made me realize how many tasty bagels still exist. You're twenty. You'll find love again. It may not be Logan's love, but that doesn't make it any less powerful or perfect."

Stir-fry's lamp illuminated the living room rose gold. Becky's purse lay on the counter. She deserved undisturbed sleep for enduring this week.

"Gotta go, Dad," I whispered.

"Someday when you're feeling better—" Mom's background correction upped my blood pressure. "I mean, Sunday. Come home for dinner next Sunday. Invite Becky."

"You're flying into JFK that morning. Won't you be exhausted?"

"Nothing cheers me more than my daughter." He paused long enough for me to hear his glasses creak as he folded them. "Allison, I'm so sorry we aren't there for you. If your mother wasn't the keynote speaker  . . . "

Dishcloth in hand, I scoured the freezer for peas to ice my ankle. "I'm managing. Only thing you should worry about is bringing home some authentic chewy toffee alongside my tuition money."

"Done and done. Give me a call if any racy articles get written. As your father I'd like to gather and then burn those."

"Will do."

"Look on the bright side, kiddo. You're famous."

I plopped onto the couch with my frozen bag of peas and wished I wasn't.