Page 77 of Run To You
I don’t even hesitate. “I promise.”
“I mean it, Eden. You’re, like—“ She glances sideways, embarrassed. ”—my person. You and Meena are going to have to share custody or something. So don’t bail, even for art.”
And there it is, all the things we can’t say in public, squeezed between two mugs and a blanket made from sustainable rainforest alpaca or whatever.
“I won’t. Not ever again.”
She leans back and closes her eyes, basking in the silence, and for a second, I think she’s fallen asleep.
“Next time, don’t bribe me. Just text.” She sighs, sounding chill.
“Would you have said yes?” I snort, already knowing the bloody answer to such a daft question.
She cracks a smile, eyes still closed. “Absolutely fucking not.”
We both laugh, falling into our old rhythm with the ease that only comes from a decade plus of carrying each other through every weird, dumb, and brilliant thing that’s ever happened to us.
As soon as I drop Pia home, she’s mobbed at the porch by a screaming Meena. Todd looks a mixture of grateful and traumatised. He gives me a curt nod and a thumbs-up, as if I transported his wife back from war. Life resumes.
Back in my car, I dial Sloane. She answers after one ring, voice a little crackly from wherever she is. “You survived?” she says with a light laugh.
“Barely. Pia tried to drown me in eucalyptus.”
She laughs, soft and hot. “Are you coming over?”
“On my way.”
I relish the memory of the afternoon spent with my best friend until I find myself seated on Sloane’s couch, attentively listening as she goes over her notes from the recent mentoring session. Her new job at Holcroft starts soon, and she’s clearly nervous. There’s no need because I know how hard she’s worked to get herself set up.
From the conception of the idea to now, Sloane has already got herself a business which is ninety percent ready to go. I’m in awe of her, to be honest.
26
Sloane
Being back at Holcroft is surreal because now I’m an adult and the teachers are looking and talking to me as their peer and not a student. I’m having a harder time adjusting than they are. It’s freaky.
The easiest part of my first day as a bona fide employee has been meeting the kids. Most of them are taller than me and a lot fitter. Mr. Porter was right, they are an impressive bunch.
I’ve been assigned a little corner of the old nurse’s room—now officially the Athletics Training Suite, which means the only thing new is a folding screen and the scentof industrial disinfectant. It might be small, but it’s mine. My first office as a professional woman out in the world. Ten months ago I wouldn’t have thought this was possible, so I couldn’t be happier to inhabit the space.
Mr. Porter greeted me with a handshake and an apologetic grimace, then spent ten minutes running down the list of “frequently acquired injuries.”
The school is operating on summer hours, and the only students expected to turn up are athletes and students taking summer classes. The athletes should be working on drills and strength training, so I’m not sure why there are a bunch of injuries already.
At 7:06 a.m.—which is a disgusting time to be awake by the way—the first cross-country runner limped in, stifling a yawn and brandishing a half-unwrapped energy bar. She was a freshman, sharp-boned and perpetually on the verge of an eye roll, but she let me tape her knee and even said thank you.
By 8:15 a.m., my room was full of the raw, jangling energy of high school athletes, which is to say…gossip, sweat, and a constant stream of requests for more tape.
All I can say is, thank god the supplies are coming out of Holcroft’s budget and not mine. I’d be out of businessbefore I get started. I plan to reserve my tape for private clients.
The thing that stood out to me the most was how weird it felt to have power. I don’t mean the kind of “power” that comes with the ability to issue a parking pass, but the power to say: I think this is tendinitis and here’s what you do about it. To be the expert. Every time a kid calls me “Ms. Bishop” I get a shiver up my spine, like: how did I get here?
It’s the afternoon now, and I’m in a rhythm of doling out ice packs, taping up limbs and check-ins with Coach Porter about the soccer star who maybe-but-not-quite dislocated her shoulder.
The thing that surprises me most is how easily the students confide in me. I remember teachers and adults making a big deal about the boundaries between staff and students, all those horror stories about overstepping. But what I’m seeing now is teenagers desperate for someone to take them seriously, but not too seriously.
At 3:20 p.m., after the last bell, I sit behind my desk, staring at an untouched cup of coffee. My hands are still sticky from kinesiology tape. My head feels full of new information—names and ailments and personalities—andI have to actively remind myself that this is my job. It’s not an audition for a life, it’s the real thing.
