I don’t save the spare muffin for myself. At some point around 10 a.m., the bell above the door announces Simo with a happy jingle. I swear it doesn’t sound so chipper when anyone else enters. And even though he arrives a good hour, sometimes two, after we’ve run out of chocolate-chip muffins, I place one in front of him, dusted with a snowy sprinkling of icing sugar.
‘No, it’s all right,’ I tell Dad. ‘Like you said, I can’t keep hiding. Besides, you need me. I’m the better baker between the two of us.’
Dad makes a show of clutching his breaking heart. ‘I taught you everything you know!’
‘That’s a lie. Miss M taught me how to bake.’
‘A little advice: never have children. They will grow up to stab you in the back, repeatedly, with a dull knife.’
‘Goodnight, Dad!’
‘Goodnight, son.’
He disappears into the bathroom, and I fall on to my bed. My phone shows a text from Simo.
Simo:Morning run tomorrow?
It’s true that I like the frenzy of the cafe and baking alongside Dad, but I might have ulterior motives about working tomorrow. It gives me space – space I wouldn’t have with Simo right next to me. I’m not shutting him out; all I need is a couple more days. To recover and rebuild the thick skin that has served me so well as a safety layer between Simo and my feelings for him. And yet, I could never turn him down.
Luca:I’m on cafe duty, but I’ll save you a muffin?
With me in the kitchen and him by a window seat, there’ll be several tables and a counter between us. Perhaps that’s all the space I need.
CHAPTER 4 – SIMO
It’s Monday, 6.40 a.m. and I’m considering the best way to wake up Luca. He’s the type of person who can sleep anywhere, any time of day, no matter the noise level. On our flight back from Spain this summer, he spent all of it snoring away, despite the two crying children and seriously hostile plane seats. It’s a skill I envy. The only disadvantage is that waking him up takes real effort. For a second, I even consider a bucket of cold water.
Since last week, I’ve been hyper-conscious of myself around him. The noticeboard rumours follow me wherever I go, and trying to get rid of them is about as simple as cutting off my own shadow. Instead, I weigh my words and swallow them more often than not. I take note of every time we touch. I watch him constantly but pretend not to. I go to all these lengths and act like nothing’s changed. It’s exhausting, mostly because I fear the cracks will start to show.
I decide to drop my whole body on to his sleeping self. It’s what I would normally do without thinking twice. I’m faking thoughtlessness like my life depends on it, and maybe it does. Luca is all bones and sharp lines, but theduvet softens the fall. He barely shifts below me, so I begin to poke his ribs, and when that doesn’t do it, I crawl on top of his back. It’s an act devoid of tenderness, of that I make sure.
‘Monster,’ he groans into his pillow.
‘Get up, get up, we’re going for a run!’
‘Can’t get up,’ he huffs, ‘with you on top.’
If there’s one thing I’ve learned about Luca in our years of friendship, it’s that it takes a village, nay, an army to get this boy out of bed. Mostly I’m happy to tag along and go wherever Luca takes me. The only time I have to take the lead is in the mornings. Especially today. We’re on a mission.
I move off the bed and rip away the duvet, revealing a very ruffled Luca. In the dim room, the hills and dips of his spine catch the light like waves on a dark ocean, the moon fracturing on a crest.
‘Give a boy a minute, will you?’ Luca grumbles, and I realise that I’m staring.
‘I’ll give you three, but if you’re still not up . . .’ I leave the room, glad to no longer be confronted with so much exposed skin.
Luca shuffles into the lounge, sleep still clinging to his every move, but he’s managed to throw on running gear. A few minutes later, he’s brushed his teeth, and we find ourselves on the promenade. The sun hasn’t yet broken through the fog, and the shutters of Paul’s kiosk remain shut, but the first dog walkers are making their way up the beach. We fall into a jog, then slowly pick up speed.
Running is the only thing that’s been keeping me sane.When Lombard hasn’t yet woken up, and all I can hear are the waves and the steady rhythm of our feet hitting the tarmac, I can relax. Tall Victorian seafront homes give way to squat brick cottages, smoke rising from chimneys the only sign of life. The cottages are soon replaced by beach huts in varying shades of pastel, until we reach the edge of town and break free. Running reminds me to breathe. It’s a paradox, because Luca is right beside me and he’s kind of the root of my problems.
It’s not like it’s his fault. A whole week has passed and we still don’t know who put the notice up. At the risk of stating the obvious, it’s been a miserable one. Seven days of pointing fingers, of being avoided by my parents, of flinching away from my best friend, of full-blown denial. No, I’m not in love with Luca. No, we’re not together.
The town council has been ghosting us. When we asked for an appointment, every councillor’s schedule was full until the end of the month. When we turned up to open meetings, they were cancelled at the last minute. But today, they can’t evade us. Because every Monday at 7.15 a.m., they meet to pick that week’s message to go on the noticeboard. It’s an unshakeable tradition, as old as Lombard itself. I’ll get my answers and make sure that this week’s board makes no mention of us.
We head north, and while I’d usually loop us back through town, I keep going until we reach the causeway. The tide is in, cutting off access to Clifford Island. I spot the manor’s turrets in the distance, slicing through the fog and the crowns of the surrounding trees. Usually I try to avoid the old estate, with its many dark windows, half-hiddenbeneath layers of ivy and steeped in ghost stories, but today I want to run till I reach it and keep running on. But I’ve already pushed Luca further than usual, and he’s not uttered a word of complaint. I won’t get away with it much longer. Also, I don’t want to miss our one chance to ambush the town council.
We turn back, our feet running hot. The first rays of sun pierce the mist and make the waves shine as we reach town. On a different day, in a different mood, we might throw off our shoes and run straight into the ocean. But there’s none of that playfulness today.
In front of the noticeboard, we come to a stop. I ignore the message that’s still there as much as possible, but I can feel the words looming above me. The initial shock has passed, replaced by slow-bubbling anger. That I don’t know where to direct that anger only makes it worse, and so everyone gets a taste of it. Luca, because as mean as it is, I wouldn’t be in this mess without him. Mum for ignoring what’s happened, and ignoring me in the process. Dad for his inability to even broach the subject, when I can tell that there are things he wants to say. Every single person throwing looks and comments my way when they should be minding their own business. And the town council.
