Immense thanks to my husband, John, whose faith in me remains steadfast. And to my family, which grew by one this year, and servesasanever-endingsourceofinspiration. Also to my Simon

& Schuster family, which grew by an entire imprint this year.

Thank you, McElderry Books, for your continued support. With a big shout-out to Jon Anderson, who encouraged this new writing venture. And thank you, Atria Books, for your warm welcome.

With special nods to my editor, Sarah Branham; publisher, Judith Curr; the design department, which has to work extra hard to make this book look right; and to marketing, which now has to work hard to make it a success. And, of course, to Carolyn Reidy, an amazing woman who took more than one chance on me.

TRIANGLES

Scientists say every action

initiates an equal and opposite

reaction. I say that’s just the start.

I say

every action initiates a most

unequal and unpredictable

chain reaction, that

every

filament of living becomes

part of a larger weave, while

remaining identifiable. That each

line

of latitude requires several

stripes of longitude to obtain

meaning. That every universe

is part

of a bigger heaven, a heaven

of rhythm and geometry,

where a heartbeat is the apex

of a triangle.

Holly

NOT BIG

On perimeters and diameters.

Math was never my best

thing, not even when school

was a “thing.” I was an English

freak. Lit classes and creative

writing, yeah, I could go for

those. Escape. That’s what

books were. Are. I should

have finished college. Given

myself some choices. But no.

Instead, I let someone build

me a box. Cube me in. Okay,

it’s safe inside, and safe is

not a bad thing to be. Except

after twenty years, stuffed

inside my secure, little box,

I’m in need of a good stretch.

Pushing against the sides. All

it will take is one good shove

for the walls to tumble down.

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And every day

I wonder, will

this be the day?

AS ALWAYS

I wake to anorexic rays of morning, prodding gently through cracks in the blinds.

The breathing beside me is even. Familiar.

Safe. Once upon a time, I might have slid a leg up over Jace, reveled in the way he stirred, hot and hard before the rest of him surfaced from dreams. But not today. Not in many, many days. I ease out from under the sheets, slip into shorts and a sports bra, grab my running shoes, gentle my way out the bedroom door and into the silence of my house, asleep. Even after school starts up again, I won’t see the kids until after six a.m.

But early June, the mad dash to cereal rarely begins until nine. Which gives me almost four hours to myself. I take three bites of a PowerBar, wash it down with Smartwater. Outside, the sun has yet to crawl over the eastern hills, 30/881

yet warm waves temper the night-cooled air.

It’s going to be a hot one today. A quick stretch and I start my daily run downhill. Can’t do it any other way, since we live on top of a sage-crusted knoll. A series of hills rims the lake-lush valley where Jace and I bought our home, fifteen years ago. Down. Along. Up. Along. I run, flushing rabbits. Quail. Squirrels. Hopefully, no coyotes, hunting for the rest. I see them every now and then, eager-eyed and scruffy-coated. Sometimes they trot straight up the roadways, unconcerned about human intrusion. In fact, they relish it, and the opportunities it brings. Trash on Fridays.

Cats on their own evening prowls. Small dogs, let out to wander. But they don’t bother me and almost seem to enjoy my company. No coyote escort today, however. I fall into my well-practiced rhythm, draw deeply of the dawning morning. Here, in the zone where every breath takes on such meaning, I find the best part of my day.

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Today, I discern some subtle shift. Perhaps it is the earth’s lean toward summer, but there is motion.

Unexpected. Disorienting, as if I’m running somewhere new. But am I running from? Or to?

I USED TO HATE RUNNING

In high school, I always trailed

the pack, running laps in P.E.

After graduation and into my one

year of college, I avoided most

forms of exercise, except skiing

and the occasional bike ride.

Three pregnancies, two years in

between each, didn’t do much

except breast-feed and eat. By the time all three kids were finally in school, I was a big sack of blubber, afraid to even start an exercise program.

It took staring down probable

diabetes to make me consider

how much I wanted to stay alive.

I cut carbs. Started walking. One

mile a day, then two. After a while I ran downhill. Later, uphill too.

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Now, less than a year later, I run

more than five miles every day. My legs are amazing, my body is tight, and

I love how that feels. How that looks.

Certain neighbors have made it a habit to come outside and watch me run by every day, despite the early hour.

There is power in that, in the ability to manipulate the intent behind the smiles and hellos. And while I would never take up with someone this close

to home, knowing I could makes me

happy. I run to be happy. Run to

be strong. Run to be successful

at something besides being

a mom. And when I run, I can think.

AND TODAY

I’m thinking again about geometry.

About cubes. Squares. Triangles.

How they’re all made up of lines.

A line is a collection of points

along a straight path that goes on

and on forever in opposite directions.

Two lines that never intersect

are parallel. Two lines that intersect, forming ninety-degree angles,

are perpendicular. Perpendicular lines cross each other. Crossing lines.

Today I’m thinking about how easy

it is to be perpendicular. And about how, while parallel lines may not

intersect, parallel lives too often do.

WHEN I GET BACK

All out of breath and sheathed in a shimmer of perspiration, Jace is up and heading toward the shower. “Coffee?” I ask.

He takes one look at me, smiles.
In a few.

But first, come here. Did I ever tell
you that sweaty women turn me on?

“Thus, your addiction to beach

volleyball?” I go over for a morning kiss, sex the farthest thing from my mind.

Jace, however, is totally in the mood, as advertised by the twitch of his hard-on.

Come on. We haven’t had a morning
go in a while, and I don’t have to be
in the office until nine.
He coaxes me toward the unmade bed.
Pretty please?

I start to protest, to say something about having to change the sheets,

but it’s simpler just to give in for the ten whole minutes it will take to make

him a satisfied man. And me a dutiful wife. He leans me, stomach against

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the rumpled spread, over the bed,

tugs down my shorts. I close my eyes as he slips two fingers inside me.

See, now? You’re ready for me.

Strangely, I am, and when he pushes more than his fingers inside, the sex is comfortable. Easy. No work at all.

It doesn’t even take ten minutes

until I feel the familiar tightening of his thighs. Jace comes. I don’t.

He punctuates his final thrust with a soft
Oomph.
Pulls away, sticky, starts again for the shower. Dues paid, I’m a little less guilty about reminding him,

“Don’t forget I’m going out with Andrea tonight. Mikayla’s spending the night at Emily’s. But Trace and Brianna

will be here. Get home on time, okay?”
HE’S ALWAYS HOME ON TIME

Unless he’s on a really big case,

but lately even his litigations

are slam-dunk average. Some

would call that lucky, I guess.