But it was his building’s proximity to the Lakefront Trail that had been the clincher for Sam when he purchased the modest, though exorbitantly priced, studio. The lake was hands-down Sam’s favorite part of living in Chicago. No challenge was so insurmountable it couldn’t be solved by spending some time jogging, walking or thinking by Lake Michigan. He had, in fact, spent a good deal of time on the Lakefront Trail after his concussion, walking slowly first, then briskly as he worked back up to his usual two- to three-mile daily run. It was on that very trail he had decided to break up with Pepper. It seemed every important life decision Sam had made in the past five or six years had originated with a run along the lake.
More than ever, he needed to remember why he loved Chicago and why staying here was so important to him. How better to reaffirm his allegiance to his hometown than by enjoying the very best it had to offer?
Dawn fought through the clouds that covered the somber sky until the city glowed with a hazy light. There was a dusting of snow on the ground—it was December, after all, and this was Chicago—but that didn’t slow Sam down, and after a good stretch in the lobby of his building he found his way to the path.
In May, the blue of the sky and lake would contrast against the crisp gray of the paved trail and bright green grassy patches of park. Budding trees in cheery shades of lime green and yellow and flowering trees with bursts of pink or white would paint the landscape with vibrant color.
Today, of course, the scene was bleak and colorless. City buildings created a cold, steel-gray basin that held the austerity of the winter scene: the gray path dusted white, and the lake colorless and hazy. Dark brown leafless trees with wiry branches were stark against the muddled morning sky.
He didn’t love the trail any less for the severity of its cold, ashen palette. The trail was his friend in any season—in all seasons—and he valued it as much for its spare, quiet beauty now as he did for its vibrant, cheerfulness in spring and summer.
Few people passed him: one on a bike and later two joggers. It wasn’t an ideal day for exercise: the sun hid behind murky, undecided clouds, and until it made a solid appearance and warmed the air, only the most intrepid athletes—or confused insomniacs—would venture out. He kept his pace up, and his body felt warm despite the unforgiving wind. At some point, Sam realized his brain was keeping rhythm with his pace by verbalizing the beat in his head, and it frustrated him when he acknowledged the sound his brain had chosen, like a pulse with each stride:
Jen-ny. Jen-ny. Jen-ny. Jen-ny.
Jenny. He slowed down until he stopped, staring out at the lake, lacing his hands behind his neck, as the wind scraped and buffed his cheeks until his eyes shone.
Here, in his sacred place, in his favorite place, his mind could not turn away from her. And suddenly it occurred to him that the trail—where every important decision of his early adulthood had been made, where every problem found a solution, where every trouble was soothed—was part of his past. His weekend in Gardiner was acting as a cornerstone, and his life now existed in two parts: an older, outdated part that included everything he loved about Chicago on one side, and a newer, more vibrant, more visceral part that included Jenny on the other.
It wasn’t that the Lakefront Trail was any less beautiful or meaningful to Sam, but in the blink of an eye its meaning went from actual to sentimental. The soothing place where he had solved his life’s conundrums was nothing more than a picturesque snow-covered trail beside a cold gray lake where a man could run and run and run, but couldn’t run away.
He turned his eyes to the sky.
Make. It. Stop. Or tell me how to make it stop! How do I get over her? How do I move on? Tell me, because I don’t want to feel like this anymore! I don’t want to miss her like this every second of the day! Please!
His answer was the muffled sound of cold winter waves and the crackle of wind in his ears.
He closed his eyes and let his head drop to his chest. The place that always held neat and tidy answers to tough questions had none to offer today. He shook his head in heavy-hearted frustration before starting back to his apartment.
***
Ron stuck his head in Sam’s office, rapping lightly on the door. “Sammy-boy!”
“Hey, Ron.” Sam squinted and rubbed his eyes. He’d been working for eight or nine straight hours, only breaking for a bag of chips and bottle of water from the vending machine.
Ron plopped down in one of the guest chairs. “Heading to the old family homestead for Christmas?”
“Yep. Thinking about leaving tomorrow.”
Sam generally slept at his apartment on Christmas Eve and joined his parents and sisters on Christmas morning at his parent’s house north of the city. This year he thought he’d leave on the 23rd and spend a couple of days with his folks. He was hoping that his suburban childhood home and the company of his family would help him not feel so lonesome.