Page 90 of In the Long Run
‘I’m thinking of seeing if I could stay here.Get a transfer, maybe.’
‘Because of Gen?’
My chest tightens.‘Because of everything.’
He tips his head to the side, freeing a hand to squeeze my knee.‘Sounds like something you should talk to her about.’
‘I will.When the time’s right.’
His eyes turn wistful, and I know he’s thinking about Alizée and the pâtisserie.About all the change that’s coming both our ways.‘Just don’t wait too long.’
I turn off the tap when I hear the doorbell and dry my hands, leaving a trail of dish bubbles on the tea towel hanging off the oven.
‘Hey,’ Gen says when I open the door.
‘Hi yourself,’ I reply, leaning against the doorjamb.I take a minute to drink her in.The red spot on the tip of her nose from the cold.The pronounced curl of her still-damp-from-the-shower hair.She’s gotten changed into yoga pants and a … buttery yellow Croissants and Kilometres hoodie.The ‘c’ is a croissant with eyes and stick-figure arms and legs with running shoes.It even has a sweatband around its head.And the ‘o’s are stopwatches.Alizée’s and Get Fit, Get Strom’s logos are underneath it.
‘Where did you get that?’I ask her, gesturing at the top.
‘Meredith.I’ve got one for you, too.’She pulls it out from behind her.My name is embroidered on the back.Along with the words ‘Founding Member’.‘Brought you guys some of Caleb’s chicken enchiladas too.’
I take the dish from her other hand and put it on the little hall table.‘You want to come in?’
Please say yes.
‘Sure.’She steps inside, a hand trailing across my stomach as she passes me.
‘Hey,’ I say to get her attention, and she stops.
‘Thanks for coming by.I missed you.’
Looping her arms around my neck, Gen presses her torso against mine.I’ll never get over the way we fit together.‘Of course.’
I tilt my head towards hers as she tips her chin up.Our kiss is lazy, languid.The kind that doesn’t reflect any of the turmoil or urgency that’s overwhelmed my whole day.It’s familiar.Calming.Gen knows exactly what I need, and she gives it to me.
‘How’d you get on with the police?’she whispers once we’ve broken apart and are making our way down the hall.
‘The crime scene’s been released.They’ll be in touch with any developments or discoveries.Celeste and I cleaned up what we could, got most of the water out of there.We need a plumber to come and clear out all the pipes.’
Turns out whoever is responsible didn’t just put pâtisserie items down the toilets.First they tipped bags of oats down them.
‘Why would someone do that?’she asks.‘Do they have any leads?’
I don’t want to ruin this little slice of niceness in my otherwise shitty day by addressing the unasked part of her question.Was it him?The last thing I want is for her to feel responsible as well.‘They’re still investigating.’
‘I can help clean up too.’
‘Thanks.’
‘How’s Eugene?’she asks quietly.
‘He’s gone to bed.’
‘But it’s’—she checks her watch—‘five thirty.’
I rub my thumb across the top of her hand.‘Been a big day.’
I want to tell her that we had a fight.That I’m feeling raw and exhausted from the fiery words we exchanged and our honest discussion afterwards.But I hesitate, because sharing my feelings is still so new, my plan nothing more than a few hopes.
