Page 78 of Run To You
I’m making something of myself.
The door creaks. I look up, expecting another kid with a twisted ankle, but it’s not. It’s Eden. She’s got her bag slung carelessly over one shoulder and is wearing paint-splattered jeans. She leans in the doorframe, arms crossed, one eyebrow up. Her eyes scan me, and I suddenly feel hot.
I sit up straight, startled out of my first-day haze. “You’re early.”
She grins. “Your mum texted me. Said she’d make me dinner if I checked up on you.” She comes in closer. “She didn’t have to offer to cook me anything, I’m more than happy to check you out…I mean, check on you.” She grins wolfishly.
I try to tidy my desk as my cheeks flame. When Eden looks at me like that I feel my self-control slip, and I cannot get nasty with her in my new office.
She spots the untouched coffee, takes a sip and grimaces. “This is terrible.”
She sits on the edge of my desk after sliding the offending coffee away from her.
“It wasn’t a disaster,” I say with a smile. “I only almost cried twice.”
I’m not even lying. As great as today has been, it has been a lot, and my emotions were on the surface every minute of the day.
“Only twice?” she says, impressed. “I would’ve had a full meltdown by lunchtime if it were me back at my old high school!” She playfully shudders at the thought, but deep down I know she enjoyed her time at Holcroft, especially senior year. Okay, maybe not those few months I spent corralling her into exercise.
I pull up a chair for her, and she slides off the desk edge and into the seat, propping her chin on her palm and giving me that look that makes my knees weak. I wonder, sometimes, if I’ll ever get used to her being mine again.
My therapist warned me I’d keep reliving old patterns, always expecting the other shoe to drop. But the only shoe in the room is Eden’s old Doc Marten, tapping the linoleum while she listens to me talk about taping up fifteen different knees.
She looks around the room, eyeing my mini kingdom. “Doesn’t smell like it used to. That’s a win!”
I laugh. “Right!”
For a while, we just sit. The silence between us is easy, like it used to be—before everything got hard and sad. I tell her about the soccer star and the cross-country kid, about Coach Porter’s attempts at motivational speeches and about the way high school gossip has only grown more creative since we left.
She listens, genuinely. When she talks, she tells me about the painting she’s just finished and how she’s ahead with the artwork she plans to send to England for the gallery show.
It’s after five when she finally stands, stretching, and says, “C’mon. Your mum’s making pasta and I’m not letting you be late for your own celebratory dinner.”
I hesitate, hands hovering over the mess of paperwork I should probably finish. She sees and tugs me out of the chair by the sleeve.
“They’ll still be there in the morning, babe,” she says, calm and matter-of-fact. “Let’s go home.”
A week later, life already feels more routine. I’m starting to recognize the regulars, such as the linebacker who came inlast Thursday with a finger bent a smooth ninety degrees in the wrong direction. The shy girl from JV soccer who feigns a limp just to get out of math class, which is a part of her summer school program. The pack of juniors who treat the waiting area as their own personal therapy session, dissecting TikTok drama and college choices while I ice their bruises.
Eden drops by daily, sometimes with coffee, sometimes with a sketchpad full of new ideas, and once with an entire tray of her mother’s lemon squares that ended up getting stolen by all the hungry teens loitering around.
On Thursdays I run the after-school injury prevention workshop for the star athletes I’m paid to keep in top shape. The class is a fancy way of saying “stretching group.” My first week, only two kids showed up. Now it’s a solid seven, most of them from the soccer team. There’s an easy camaraderie among them, a willingness to expose their weirdest quirks and pain points, and I love that most of all.
This week, Kiera walks in near the end of the session, cradling a clipboard and looking more grown-up than anyone has a right to at twenty-two. She gives me a quick, professional smile. “Can I steal you for a sec?”
I glance at my group. I’ve just demonstrated the world’s least graceful hamstring stretch, and one of the kids is giggling at my expense.
“No mutinies while I’m gone,” I threaten, and follow Kiera into the corridor.
She closes the door behind us—habit, I think, not secrecy—and leans against the wall. “You’re killing it.”
“That’s actually…really nice to hear.”
“Word gets around. Kids like you.”
I want to deflect, like I always do, but even I know I’m doing better than expected. There’s a pause long enough to make me anxious, so I ask, “How’s coaching?”
She shrugs. “Good. Team’s scrappy this year, in a good way. I wanted to say—” She looks at her shoes, finds something on the toe to focus on. “I’m glad we’re friends again, and maybe we can all go out to dinner together? Like a double date.”
