Words Get In the Way Read Online Free PDF

finish line and glanced at his watch. Not bad for no training, he thought, but not even close to my best. Those days are long gone. He looked around to see if Jon had come in yet, but there was no sign of him. He waited, watching the now-steady stream of runners.
    “Hey, Linden! How’d you do?”
    Linden turned and smiled. “Under 17. How ’bout you?”
    “Just came in,” Mr. Coleman answered, smiling and catching his breath. “These old muscles just don’t fire like they used to.” Linden nodded, and as they walked around together, he took the opportunity to mention the repairs at the cabin.
    “Two of the porch steps need some attention and one of the back window frames is rotting.”
    Mr. Coleman nodded. “No problem. Whatever needs doing—just charge the materials to my account.”
    Linden nodded, and his former teacher eyed him. “I mean it.”
    “I know you mean it,” Linden replied with a grin.
    Another runner joined them, and Mr. Coleman took the water he offered. He paused thoughtfully, looking from one to the other. “Linden, you remember my son Noah.” It was more of a statement than a question.
    Linden nodded and reached out to shake hands. “It’s been a while,” he said. Although Noah was much older, Linden remembered seeing him at cross-country meets. In fact, Noah was a bit of a legend among the high school runners because he still held several unchallenged records.
    Linden looked from Noah to Mr. Coleman and realized he’d never seen them standing side by side. They looked more like brothers than father and son. Linden talked with them for a few minutes more and then wished them well and turned to go. As he walked away, a slender, blond-haired boy ran by, and Linden glanced over his shoulder and watched him stop breathlessly in front of Mr. Coleman and Noah.
    “Hey, Dad, Grampa,” he exclaimed, “I did it! I broke 18!”
     
    Linden drove slowly past the tidy little ranch that sat back from the road. Mr. Wyeth’s old pickup was parked in the driveway, and beside it, under a leaning, rusty basketball hoop, was the Chevy Nova that Callie had driven in high school. The screen door was wide open, but there didn’t seem to be anyone around. Linden suddenly wondered what he would do if Callie was around—if she just happened to be standing in the driveway. Would he quickly look away and pretend he didn’t see her? Would he smile and wave? Would he stop? And if he stopped, what would he say? What do you say, after your heart has been broken, to the one who broke it? Do you just say, “Hi, how are you?” Do you act nonchalant as if nothing ever happened, as if all that you shared never really mattered? Or do you search that person’s eyes, trying to understand, and then blurt out the only question you ever wanted to ask: Do you realize what you did to me?
    Linden turned the truck toward home and wondered why he continued to torment himself. Why was he even thinking about Callie? And why the hell, after all these years, couldn’t he move on?

7
    C allie glanced at the calendar hanging on the wall above her dad’s desk. It was still turned to January, and a dilapidated Plymouth, abandoned in a snowy Vermont field, graced the scene. She took the calendar down, turned it to July, and looked at the picture of a forgotten Chevy Nomad with a tree growing up where the engine had once been. She looked at the date: Sunday, July 4, 1999. If her mom were alive, holiday or not, they’d be getting ready for church. She hung the calendar up, broke down the last empty box, and dropped it on top of the others on the bed in the spare room. Henry had fallen asleep on the couch the night before, right after they’d had scrambled eggs and toast for supper. Callie had carried him down the hall and gently laid him on the bed, and then she’d spent the rest of the evening unpacking. That morning, while he was busy playing with his LEGOs, she’d finished unpacking his toys and finally decided to leave her