Page 30 of The Quiet Tenant

Judge Byrne looks around. “Now,” he says, the mic beginning to moan again. “Where is our guest of honor?”

Oh dear lord.

I have a brief hope that no one will be able to spot him and the judge will move on, but Mrs.Cooper rats him out.

“Right here, Judge!”

Aidan walks up to the judge and takes the mic. No feedback here. Almost like the man knows how to handle electronic equipment.

“I’m not much of a public speaker,” he says, in a way that makes me want to hide him under my coat and smuggle him away from the crowd. “But I want to say thank you. And I want to say how grateful we both are, Cecilia and I, for this community. We miss her mom so much. We miss her more every day. She would be so moved by this.”

The crowd loses it. There’s another round of claps. Aidan says thank you a couple more times, then gives the mic back to Judge Byrne.

The judge clears his throat. “Now, for the not-so-good news: signing up for a race is one thing, but you still have to run it.” There are some faint laughs. “Have a safe race. Enjoy this beautiful day. And ifyou get cold, don’t forget there’s hot cocoa waiting for you at the finish line.”

That would be me.

The judge’s nephew, who graduated from the police academy last summer, fires a starter gun. Jakob Dylan’s husky voice sputters out of a speaker to sing “One Headlight.” The runners set off.

I walk to the restaurant, unlock the front door, flip a light switch, and bring the dining room to life. The place is still, quiet. All mine.

At the back, I dig up the folding table we keep in the pantry for events. The finish line is a block away. I lock up again, then carry the table over and set it farther down from the finish, to give runners time to catch their breath before they reach me.

I’m crouched down, checking the safety mechanism, when I hearit.

“Hi.”

My head snaps back up in surprise and hits the side of the table with a bang. A sharp pain radiates from the top of my skull.

Motherfucker.

His fingers brace the point of impact, as if he could retroactively prevent the collision.

“I’m so sorry,” he says. “Didn’t mean to startle you.”

I get up, massaging my head. He takes the side of my arm, helps me steady myself.

“You okay?”

I search the depths of my brain for something, anything, any combination of letters that would do the trick, even vaguely.

“Hi,” I manage. “I’m fine. Really.” I smile, stop rubbing my scalp, as if to prove something.

He looks over his shoulder. His daughter is standing next to Judge Byrne, who is trying to engage her in conversation—explaining a riveting chapter of our town history, I would assume.

“Thank you for doing this,” he tells me, gesturing at what will soon be a hot-cocoa station. “Especially so early on a Saturday morning.”

I nod. “It’s no trouble. The restaurant is just around the corner.”

He places a hand on the folding table. “Let me help. It’s the least I can do, after making you bang your head like that.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“Please.”

He glances back at the judge briefly. “I’m happy to be here. I am. But…how do I put this?”

“You don’t love a crowd.”

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