Page 21 of Run To You
There were so many questions I wanted to ask her but didn’t, because who the bloody hell wants a soul-searching convo on a dirt trail where anyone could turn up? I wanted to ask her how she’s doing, likereallydoing, not the surface-level shit we managed. I wanted to know where she’s been, what the hell happened two years ago! But my mouth didn’t cooperate. At least we managed to say something to each other, I guess.
It was clear she was expecting me to go off on her, but I honestly didn’t want to. There was no need. I could tell she was relieved, if not surprised by my reaction to her talking to me. For a moment it was like we were eighteen again, trading flirtatious comments in the gym when we should have been pretending to care about cardio. Then the inevitable awkwardness fell, and Sloane looked like she wanted to run a two-minute mile to escape.
Thirty minutes later I’m on the bench outside the town diner, wondering what the opposite of a “meet-cute” is. Meet-humiliate? Meet-existential-crisis?
There’s only one person I can call who won’t either (A) tell me I need to get over it, or (B) ask for a three-hour dramatic reenactment. I dial Pia, praying she’s close enough to the phone. If she’s sitting down, I’ll be out of luck. It’s like yanking a cork out of a bottle, trying to pry her out of a chair these days.
“Hey, E. Are you calling me to say you love me and you’re bringing me tacos?” she answers.
“Pia. Code Red. Need wisdom and Mum’s busy, so I thought you’d do,” I say seriously, knowing full well she’ll huff. I might be having a crisis, but there’s no reason to lose my sense of humour and the love of winding up my bestie.
She sighs, then muffles the phone. “I don’t know why I put up with you. I’m hormonal, you ass!”
“I’m kidding, I’m kidding. You were my first call. Can we meet? I’ll spring for burgers and a milkshake.”
The usual is Benny’s Diner, the site of every post-trauma debrief since junior year.
“If you even think about skimping out on the loaded fries, I will make sure my water breaks on your couch.”
Ew.
We both snort, and the tension in my chest eases by about half a degree.
“See ya soon,” she says and hangs up.
By the time Pia arrives, I’ve already claimed our booth and ordered a chocolate milkshake with extra whipped cream. The server, who is at least eighty, hasn’t changed her uniform since the eighties and remembers everyone’s gossip but nobody’s name. To be honest, if she didn’t wear a tag, I’d forget her name too, which is bad considering we’ve been coming here for years.
Pia slides—with difficulty—into the seat across from me and clocks my damp, gravel-encrusted top instantly. “Did you run or roll down the trail hill?”
I raise one eyebrow. “Guess who I ran into.”
Pia’s jaw actually drops, which is rare for her. “No. Sloane?”
I nod, and then word vomit the entire story, complete with interpretive gesturing and dramatic reenactments of Sloane’s “apology face.” Pia listens with the kind of patienceonly available to people who have spent years listening to me moan.
“She said, and I quote, ‘Please don’t do that, Eden. Don’t let me off the hook by being sweet.’” I slurp the end of my milkshake for emphasis.
Pia’s eyes narrow. “Sounds like someone’s regretting her choices.”
The waitress materialises, sets down our veggie burgers, and refills my water glass without making eye contact. Pia waits until she’s gone, then leans in, elbows on the table.
“So. How do you feel?”
I poke at my fries. “Like someone took my heart out, deep-fried it, and then tried to convince me it’s a vegan chicken tender.”
Pia looks at me for a long moment, then snorts so hard she almost inhales her straw. “You’re a mess.” She giggles.
“I know.”
She takes a bite of her burger. “Do you wanna avoid her, or do you wanna see her? Because you are incapable of the third option, which is ‘act like a normal person and coexist.’”
Rude…but true.
I sigh. “I don’t know. Part of me wants to just—see what happens. Maybe it was all just timing, right? Like, maybe she’s not the same person. I mean, I could see she was looking like the Sloane I used to know, before she got ill. Maybe this is my chance to, I don’t know, paint on a fresh canvas.”
Pia gives me a look that says my metaphor was stupid. I want to remind her about the time she started banging on about me diving into a pool and knowing how to swim. I still don’t know what the bloody hell she was on about, even four and a half years later.
“Or…maybe you don’t need to fix or confront anything. Maybe you just live your life and let Sloane Bishop float by like an expensive, limited-edition bottle of sadness.”
