Page 18 of In the Long Run

KNOX

Alizée’s is filled with people.

‘How can I help?’ I ask a harried Celeste, who is behind the counter, still in her running gear. Today’s jumper has a giant peach underneath the word ‘Nice’.

‘Get my apron from out the back, please. Apparently, it’s impossible to look at this jumper and not make a face and/or say something dumb.’

The protective beast that lives inside my chest raises its head. ‘Everyone being polite?’

Celeste rolls her eyes. ‘Yeti’s already told off a couple of dude bros who were being gross.’

‘Good. I’ll be right back.’

I unlock the gated part of the counter and rush down the pale-blue and white chequered hallway to the back room.

It’s exactly how I remember. A bank of lockers on the left, a rack for aprons underneath a whitewashed sign that says ‘la patisserie c’est la vie’ and the small wooden table and chairs I used to sit at to do my homework.

I lift Celeste’s apron off the hook with her name above it and freeze.

At the very end, the name label faded yellow and curling at the edges, is my old apron.

Not that I ever did any baking here. Eug made me wear it to serve customers and clean.

He was always adamant that I feel like a member of the team.

Impulsively, I grab it and lift it over my head.

I press my nose against the denim, breathing in the lemony scent of Eugene’s washing powder.

It smells like home. Like memories. Like there’s no hard feelings, even though I got the hell out of here as soon as I could and, as I’m beginning to realise, stayed away for far too long.

But the bit that makes my breath catch is the fact that it’s clean.

Waiting for me to come home when I’m ready.

I blink and run a hand under my nose as I clear my throat. In the distance, glass shatters. I shake off the nostalgia and spring into action.

‘What happened?’ I ask Celeste when I see the smashed cake stand on the floor behind the counter. Shards of glass litter the floor and cling to a pile of pain aux raisins. The swirls of glossy pastry and raisins have always been popular.

‘A little spill. No big deal,’ Celeste says matter-of-factly.

‘I’m so sorry.’ The woman who asked about being slow earlier is standing in front of me, holding a toddler who has half a chocolate éclair on her face and in her hair. When she smiles, a bit of cream drips out of her small mouth.

‘It’s fine, honestly.’ I take half a step into the side office and yep, there it is. The broom and dustpan are still in the same spot. The fact that so much hasn’t changed makes my chest ache in both a good and bad way.

‘At least let me pay for them.’ The woman shifts her daughter to her other hip and tries to fish a bank card out of the pink running belt she’s wearing.

‘It’s really no problem.’ Alizée’s has a long path to travel back to solid profitability, but Eugene would never take payment for something like this, and I’ve always tried to follow his example.

‘If you like your treats today, come back and buy something again another time.’ Aren’t returning customers the currency small business owners are most interested in?

‘Thank you,’ she says, wiping the little girl’s face.

I start sweeping up the mess. ‘How’d you find the run this morning?’

‘Hard. But good. I’ve wanted to do a marathon for a long time, and I figured why not go for it? I get nervous running on my own though. Have you heard about the guy who’s’—her voice drops to a whisper—‘harassing female runners on the other side of town?’

Must admit I haven’t really been paying much attention to the news lately. ‘No.’

‘Someone said he’s been spotted out this way. The mornings are going to be dark for a while yet.’

A lead weight forms in my stomach.

‘But the police are looking for him, so hopefully they catch him sooner rather than later.’

‘Po-po!’ her daughter cries as she squeezes the chocolate éclair and cream oozes everywhere, all over her arms and yellow leggings.

‘I better get this one outside before we destroy your patisserie.’

‘I’ll see you next week …’ I pause, hoping she’ll tell me her name.

‘Violet.’

‘Violet,’ I repeat. ‘I’m Knox, by the way.’

‘Oh, I know.’ Her eyes light up. ‘My PT saw your TikToks and suggested I come along. Besides, everyone loves a love story!’

Gen chooses that moment to enter with Meredith and Bernie. She’s been queuing outside, which makes me like her even more than I already do. The rosy-red knitted jumper that she’s pulled on over the top of her running clothes matches the flush on her cheeks.

Our eyes meet across the crowded room and I lift my chin, tilt my head to the space next to me, telepathically telling her to come forward. That she gets special treatment. That none of this would’ve happened without her.

Really, I just like being near her.

Gen shakes her head, and I swear she says my name.

That’s what happens when you’re watching someone so closely.

You notice everything about them. And I’m learning that every time I look at Gen, I discover something different about her.

Like there’s a little freckle that sits just above her top lip.

And she’s got a dimple in one cheek but not the other.

That she can’t help but say silly things around me.

Fuck knows I lose my mind around her. Case in point: when I told all of TikTok that I’d liked her immediately.

My attempt to downplay the moment and hide behind our ‘plan’ was clumsy at best.

But the other thing I’m learning about all these little facts I’m collecting is that they’re already not enough. They make me want more, even if I shouldn’t.

Never mind that I don’t know how to ask for more.

There’s a commotion at the door and Brand pushes into Alizée’s, all swagger and show-pony flair, teeth brighter than the overhead lights. He stops next to Gen and says something that makes her chin jut forward, her expression harden.

What’s it going to take for this asshat to get a clue?

I’m out from behind the counter before I even register that I’m moving.

‘Apron suits you,’ is how Brand greets me. He gestures to the queue of people, the half-empty display cases, the line of cups with orders scrawled on the side in front of the coffee machine. He lowers his voice. ‘It’s cute that you think this is going to work.’

It’s not cute how much I’d like to shove him out the door and put as much distance as possible between him and Gen, but I’m aware more than ever that people might be watching. After all, we’ve invited them here to watch.

Gen sighs and shakes her head. The admonishment is wasted because Brand’s already pulled his phone out and started tapping away at the screen.

He’s so dismissive. That’s what shits me the most about him.

His penchant for turtlenecks is a close second, because even though I haven’t given this a lot of thought, they’re clearly at the top of the list of pretentious garments.

I bet he thinks they make him look sophisticated, but instead he just looks like a poor man’s version of a Bond villain.

‘You may as well give up now,’ he continues. ‘Try to get a good price for the building. I’m willing to negotiate – to a point.’

We’re starting to attract looks. ‘I think you should …’

Walk into the ocean and not look back.

Pick a fight with an apex predator.

Find a way to disappear off the face of the Earth.

Gen slides her arm around my waist and presses her body into my side. I’m instantly calmer.

‘I don’t know,’ she murmurs, her voice low and husky and far too close to how I’ve imagined it late at night when the shadows make it easier to lie to myself.

When I can almost convince myself that I’m fine with pretending.

Or that Gen would still like me if she knew what I’d done.

‘It’s already working. Probably a good idea to start looking for another site for your little agency. C’mon, baby, let’s go help Celeste.’

She tugs me away from Brand, her hand never leaving mine. I pull her into the little office, needing a minute to recover.

‘Baby?’ I’ve been called that before, but never by anyone who’s known me for more than a few hours. I’m still processing my reaction when Gen giggles quietly and pokes me in the side. I want to capture her hand, hold it against my skin. Stay like this for as long as she’ll let us.

‘I panicked. Besides, it’s better than “Coffeebean”,’ she teases.

‘Coffeebean is unique.’

‘Coffeebean is terrible. They get ground up.’

I wouldn’t mind grinding on Gen.

‘If we really want to sell the idea that run clubs are the new online dating,’ she says, ‘we’re going to have to up our game.’

A braver man would tell her that nothing about this feels like a game.

But like always, my fear of not being enough keeps me quiet.