10. The Run
Chapter ten
The Run
By the time I hit the waterfront, my lungs are already pissed off at me.
They can get in line.
The storm left Coupeville damp, battered, and smelling like wet cedar and mud. Branches litter the edges of the sidewalk. A few shop owners are out front with brooms, pushing leaves into piles that will scatter the next time the wind gets bored.
The bay is gray and choppy, restless under a sky that hasn’t fully committed to becoming a sunny day.
I keep running.
My shoes slap through shallow puddles. Air burns down my throat with every inhale. My calves complain, but that’s the point. Muscle pain has a definition. It shows up where expected, does its job, and doesn’t ask questions.
In my gut, something that is not as easily defined is churning.
I run harder.
A gull shrieks from the railing near the pier.
“Same to you,” I mutter.
The problem with bad decisions is that you don’t always know they’re bad while they’re happening. Sometimes they just feel like something innocent. And sometimes they feel like.
I miss a breath, curse under it, and push up the small incline past the marina.
Nope.
We aren’t doing this.
Yesterday happened. The clinic didn’t collapse. The tree didn’t come through the wall. I made it home. Doc made it home. Everyone lived. That is enough information for one morning.
My body disagrees.
My body has been disagreeing since I woke before dawn tangled in sheets, my hand buried between my legs, hot with memory and heavy stimulation.
So I ran from it and pulled on running clothes, and left the house before my brain could show me anymore.
Running is my physical whiteout. Running cancels out thoughts and instead of a slick white line, it leaves only heavy breathing, sweat, and pavement.
Usually.
“Lockhart,” Jake calls behind me. “Are we fleeing law enforcement or feelings?”
I don’t slow. “If you have to ask, you’re already behind.”
His footsteps come closer until he falls in beside me, irritatingly steady for a man who probably decided to join me three minutes ago. Jake Bellamy has an unfair athletic ease that makes people think he works out all the time. He does not.
He looks over. “You’re out early.”
“It would seem so.”
“Didn’t want company?”
“Does that really matter to you now?”
“You’re right. It does not.”
We run half a block without speaking. His stride settles beside mine with old familiarity. Jake knows this route. He knows which section of sidewalk buckles near the bookstore, which puddle by the curb is deeper than it looks.
And he knows me and how long I’ll pretend not to hear his questions. We’ve known each other too long for him to rush me. Unfortunately, we’ve also known each other too long for him to leave me alone.
“You’re pushing hard,” he says.
“I’m improving my cardiovascular health.”
“You hate cardio as a concept.”
“I respect it as a weapon.”
“Against?”
“Everything.”
He gives a quiet laugh. “That bad?”
I give him a side-eye and turn down toward the water instead. He stays with me.
He’s handsome in the way I’ve always known, a quick smile, dark hair that never does what he tells it, and relaxed confidence. You can go anywhere in town, and people will know him and be happy to see him.
He could be dangerous if he used it for evil.
Mostly, he uses it to get extra fries and cookies.
He keeps my pace through another stretch. The wind comes off the bay and pushes at us. My ponytail beats against the back of my neck.
“So, what is it?” he asks. “Work?”
I shake my head before I can stop myself.
“Ah.” He lengthens his stride to match mine. “So, worse.”
“Your support is overwhelming.”
“I’m here, aren’t I?”
“You’re also nosy.”
“That’s part of my best-friend charm package.” His grin flashes, then fades. He doesn’t push again right away.
That’s why Jake works in my life. He can be ridiculous, but he knows when to give a person room to bleed privately for a minute. We pass the hardware store. Trevor is outside sweeping wet leaves from the entrance.
“Morning, Annie,” he calls. “Morning, Jake.”
I wave.
Jake says, “Morning.”
Trevor looks at me. “Hey, if a rash is better after the storm, does that mean it was weather-related?”
I point at him without breaking stride. “Call the clinic Monday if it comes back.”
He nods like I’ve given him ancient wisdom instead of common sense.
Jake waits until we’re out of earshot. “I hate that you never really get to be off-duty.”
“Could be worse, I could be a proctologist.” A laugh slips out. Small. Rough. Real enough that Jake looks pleased.
We reach the stretch where the waterfront opens wide. The bay rolls beside us, dark and unsettled. A few boats rock against their lines. The storm has left everything looking battered and bruised.
The waterfront cannery sits beyond the road, watching the water with empty windows.
I slow before I mean to.
Jake slows too.
The cannery always pulls at me, but this morning the feeling hits deeper. Maybe it’s the storm damage scattered around town. Maybe it’s Rhea’s rumor from lunch. Maybe it’s the fact that the building looks both ruined and stubborn, which I recognize on a cellular level.
Weathered brick. Overgrown landscaping. Strong bones under neglect.
Jake leans his forearms on the railing. “You’re making the face.”
“What face?”
“The one you always make when we come down here.”
“I can’t help it. The place calls to me. It’s beautiful and people don’t see its worth anymore.”
“Are we still talking about the building?”
I rest my hands on my hips, catching my breath. “If I had money, I’d buy it.”
“You always say that. You’d buy it, restore it, make it into a clinic and animal shelter and live above it.”
“That sounds perfect, doesn’t it?”
“That sounds like you.”
I look toward the cannery again. “It deserves better than being left to rot.”
Jake’s humor eases back. “Yeah. It does.”
The agreement is quiet and lands between us without fanfare. He grew up here too. Not every piece of town matters to him the way it does to me, but he understands the shape of the ache.
“If someone buys it,” I say, “they better take care of it properly.”
“They will, Annie. You won’t give them any choice.”
“Harsh.”
“Accurate.”
A couple walks past us with coffee cups and rain jackets so new the creases haven’t relaxed. The woman takes a picture of the cannery and says something about “beautiful.” I look away.
Jake catches it and bumps his shoulder against mine. “C’mon. Let’s get coffee.”
“I’m running.”
“You were running. Now you’ve been jogging in place staring at real estate for ten minutes.”
“It’s called completing a cool down.”
“Annie. Coffee. Now.”
“I don’t want coffee.”
He turns his head toward me with an incredulous look on his face.
I sigh. “Fine. I want coffee.”
“See? Friendship.”
“Coercion.”
“Same family.”
We head toward the coffee shop tucked into the heart of downtown, the one with the chipped blue door and the cinnamon rolls that sell out by nine unless Mrs. Dorsey gets there first and buys enough to feed the Methodist women’s group and possibly a militia.
The bell over the door gives its cheerful little jangle when Jake opens it.
Warmth hits my face.
So does disaster.
Doc is sitting at a table near the window with Ellie.
He sees me before I can step back to wait outside.
For half a second, neither of us moves.
He’s in jeans and a dark sweater, one hand around a coffee cup, his hair slightly mussed from the wind. He looks like he’s spending a quiet morning with his daughter.
Which should be harmless.
My stomach disagrees.
Ellie turns to see what he’s looking at and brightens. “Annie!”
Her smile catches me before I can brace for it. Open. Happy. Completely unaware of the complication sitting across the table from her.
I pull in a breath and wave. “Hey, Ellie.”
That takes the sharpest edge off my panic.
Jake nearly walks into me. “You stopping short for warmth or drama?”
I step aside. “Both.”
Ellie smiles at him. “Hi.”
Jake gives her a little salute. “Hey. Chocolate chip, right?”
Her grin widens. “Animal shelter guy.”
“Excellent. I like being remembered for my charitable work.”
“You sold cookies,” I snark.
“For the homeless animals. Keep up.”
Doc stands enough to shake Jake’s hand. “Good to see you again.”
“You too, Doc.”
Doc’s eyes come back to me. “Morning, Annie.”
“Morning.”
That’s all. One word. Safe enough.
Ellie points to the empty chairs. “You can sit with us. Please?”
I open my mouth to decline with grace.
“I’d love to,” Jake says. “You two need anything?”
I glare at him. He looks over, all innocence. “What?”
“One day I’m going to leave you somewhere.”
“You’ve done that regularly since we were sixteen.”
“See, it's a good strategy.”
“Evidently not very effective. I keep coming back.” He laughs and heads to the counter. “I’m assuming the usual?”
“You would be correct.”
Ellie laughs, and the sound decides it for me. I sit beside her, across from Doc, and set my hands in my lap so they don’t do anything revealing, like shake.
The table is small. Too small for history, bad judgment, a teenage girl, my best friend, and the man I was wrapped around yesterday in a closet.
He orders coffee and a muffin. I order black coffee because survival has levels.
Ellie looks at me. “Were you guys out running?”
“Trying to.”
Jake returns with the coffees and two muffins. I wrap both hands around the cup, grateful for the heat and the excuse to focus on something that won’t watch me too carefully.
“So Doc, tell me about this berry incident,” Jake asks. “I’d love to hear the victim’s… oops, sorry, the culprit’s side of the story.”
I nudge his knee with mine. “Quiet.”
He nudges back. “What, you’re always saying there are two sides to every story.”
Ellie leans toward Jake. “That was one of the funniest things I’ve ever seen.”
“I’m glad my humiliation was able to brighten your day,” Doc snarks.
“It did,” she says solemnly.
Doc smiles and it suddenly gets warmer in here. I have to look away.
Ellie looks delighted. “Dad said you were intense.”
Doc’s brows lift. “I said no such thing.”
“You said she had strong opinions.”