“So I guess I surprised you this morning?” Frank asked after a few minutes of silent running, and I got the feeling that he hadn’t been able to keep this to himself any longer.

“A little bit,” I said, realizing now that I was surprised—I hadn’t expected him to want to keep running.

“I said we should do it again, and you said anytime,” he said. “I remember you did.”

“I thought you were kidding,” I replied. “It didn’t look like you’d really had a good time.”

“Nothing worth doing is easy,” Frank said. “Especially not in the beginning. But I’m not about to give up.”

“Wow,” I said, shaking my head. We ran in silence for a few steps, just the sound of our sneakers hitting the pavement, occasionally finding the same rhythm and landing in sequence, then falling out of it once more.

“Wow what?” Frank asked, a defensive note I hadn’t heard before creeping into his voice.

“No,” I said quickly, wishing I’d never said anything. “Nothing. Never mind.” Frank nodded and looked straight ahead, his mouth set in a thin line and a dull flush of color in his cheeks. Oh god. Had I just insulted him? If Sloane were here, I could have asked her this question with my eyes, and she would have been able to answer me in the same way. But of course, if Sloane were here, I wouldn’t be running with Frank Porter at all. “I didn’t mean anything bad,” I started, wondering even as I spoke if I should have just let this go. “I just meant that it makes sense.”

There was a low-hanging branch in front of us, and we both ducked in unison to avoid it. “What does?”

“Just that you’d have that attitude,” I said, trying to articulate what had been an instantaneous reaction. “It’s understandable. I mean, because of who you are.” Frank looked over at me, and from his expression, I hadn’t cleared anything up, but had just made things worse.

“Who I am?” he repeated, his voice quiet.

“Yeah,” I said, now really wishing I’d let things go and not tried to explain anything. I didn’t even know Frank Porter; why was I attempting to tell him who he was? I had the distinct feeling like I was not awake enough to handle this conversation. “You’re Frank Porter. You’re good at everything.”

“Not at running,” he pointed out. “I’m terrible at that.”

“But you’re not giving up, like you said. So you probably will be soon.”

Frank looked straight ahead, and we didn’t speak for a few minutes, and I wondered if I’d overstepped, made things worse when I was trying to make them better. I was on the verge of trying to figure out how to apologize when Frank asked, “So how’s the list coming?”

“You got my e-mail?” I asked, and he nodded. Even though I told myself it was a long shot, I could feel my hopes start to rise. Maybe there had been something in the list I’d just been overlooking, and the answer was right there, had been there all along. “Did you find anything?”

Frank shook his head, and I felt my hopes deflate. “But I’ve just started to look,” he said, shooting me a quick smile. “And in the meantime, I had some ideas.”

I looked over at him, then had to do an awkward skipping movement over a rock that had shown up in my path. But I was glad for the distraction; it allowed me to try and process how strange it was to hear Frank talking about my list like it was just ordinary, when it had been my secret, something I’d been turning over and over in my head but not ever talking about. “What do you mean, ideas?”

“For finishing your list,” he said, like this should have been obvious. “I can help you, if you want.” I looked back at the road ahead, trying to sort through how I felt about this. It was one thing to go running twice with Frank Porter. This would be something else. “I’m seriously in need of a project,” he went on. “I mean, even Collins has a summer project.”

“He does?”

“He decided he’s going to have a girlfriend by the end of the summer. Or, as he insists on putting it, a steady hang.”

“And how’s that going?”

Frank laughed. “About as well as you’d imagine. And I get to hear about it every day at work.”

We ran in silence for a while then, but it didn’t feel uncomfortable, and when I looked back at Frank, he held up his iPod, like asking if it was okay if we turned them on. I nodded and slipped my own earbuds in, listening to the same mix I had run to before. It was actually nice, running next to Frank but not feeling the pressure to say the right thing or keep the conversation going. It looked like he was occasionally laughing as he ran, which I didn’t get, unless he was listening to someone like They Might Be Giants, which was about as far into the nineties as I ventured. We had gone farther this time, and we were almost at the entrance to the town beach. I pointed ahead at it, and Frank nodded, and maybe it was because we’d raced to the end before, but we both started sprinting. My muscles weren’t protesting quite as loudly this time, but it was still a struggle to pick up my pace. I reached the carved wooden sign indicating the beach entrance before Frank did, but not by much. We both just gasped for breath for a few seconds, then Frank took his earbuds out and smiled at me. “Nicely done.”

“You too,” I said, as I pulled out my own earphones, bending over slightly, trying to take long, deep breaths and slow down my heart rate. I straightened up and we started to walk back, both of us grimacing, and I knew I’d be feeling this run tomorrow morning.

“Hey, what are you listening to?” Frank asked, and before I could stop him or even realize what was happening, he’d taken the iPod from my hands and was scrolling through my playlist.

“No, that’s not—” I started. “I was just, um . . .”

Frank looked at me, and he was smiling now as he looked down at it. “You know there’s a loop function, right?” he asked. “So you don’t have to keep repeating the playlist?”

“I know,” I muttered. “Mine’s just broken because I left it in my car when it was raining. My roof doesn’t work.”

“I’ve never even heard of these songs,” he said, frowning at it. “What’s the Downeaster ‘Alexa’?”

“It’s Billy Joel,” I said, and I could hear myself getting defensive, which was surprising, because I hadn’t known I felt that strongly about him. “It’s . . . about the plight of fishermen on Long Island.” I had meant for that to bolster my argument that it was a good song, but as soon as I’d said it, I started to rethink this, especially when Frank started laughing.

“I honestly don’t recognize half these artists,” Frank said, shaking his head. “And why aren’t there any g’s in any of these song titles?”

“It’s nothing,” I said, trying to grab it back from him. “Just . . .”

“You have a song on here called ‘Aw Naw,’ ” he said. He turned to me, and I could see he looked incredulous. “Emily, is this country?”

“Well, what are you listening to?” I asked, feeling uncharacteristically bold as I grabbed his iPod, looking down at his playlist.

Mix #4

West Coast

Coconut Records

Heartbreak Yellow

Andy Davis

Our Deal

Best Coast

Dance for You

Dirty Projectors

We Can Work It Out

The Beatles

Crystallized

Young the Giant

Breaking It Up

Lykke Li

Airplanes

Curtis Anderson

Dreaming

Smallpools

Kiss Me Slowly

Parachute

Magic (feat. Rivers Cuomo)

B.o.B

Peggy-O

Among the Oak & Ash

Step Out

José González

City Living

Curtis Anderson

Golden Slumbers

The Beatles

No One Does It Like You

Department of Eagles

Gone, Gone, Gone

Phillip Phillips

Fallen

Imagine Dragons

Spitting Fire

The Boxer Rebellion

Yesterday

The Beatles

Simple Song

The Shins

Passenger Seat

Death Cab For Cutie

Thoughts at Arby’s

Curtis Anderson

Midnight City

M83

About Today

The National

Wake Up

Arcade Fire

I didn’t recognize most the songs, so I pressed Play on the song that had been paused, slipping one of his earphones in. I was confused at first, because I didn’t hear music. There was just the sound of laughter, some people clapping, like I’d heard that first night in his truck. And then a guy with a Boston accent saying, “But seriously . . . in a well-ordered universe, we wouldn’t have doormen, am I right? Like, we open doors for ourselves all day long. But in this one instance we become totally helpless?”

I looked up at Frank, who wasn’t laughing anymore. “Is this that comedian?”

“Curtis Anderson,” Frank said with a nod. “I don’t know, I’ve always thought he was funny. Lissa thought he was really juvenile, but . . .” He shrugged.

“Is that what you’ve been running to?” I asked. Frank nodded, and I shook my head at him. “That’s your problem. You need to make a mix with songs that will pump you up and get you through the run.”

“I see,” Frank said, nodding, his expression serious. “Like songs about fishermen?” I laughed at that without even thinking about it first and looked back down at his playlist.

“These aren’t real bands,” I said, as I scrolled through it. “Like, these have to be made-up names.”

“You mean like the Beatles?” Frank asked, deadpan, as he tried to take his iPod back, and I pretended not to notice.

“Not like the Beatles,” I said, as I finished scrolling through the songs. “But there are a lot of their songs on here.”