She holds a glass under the tap. "I don't understand you, Aurora," she says as the beer slowly fills the glass, forming an impressive foam crown.
"I don't want to meet anyone. It's... too complicated." Unconsciously, I press the nail of my pinky finger into my thumb.
Maybe it would be freeing to finally talk to someone about it. But that wouldn't change the situation either. I have to deal with it on my own. No one can help me.
Vivienne places the beer on my tray and looks at me intently. "There's a solution to every problem."
True. And—as tough as it is—I've found mine.
I force the corners of my mouth upward and nod in agreement. Then I lift the tray and disappear outside.
***
Five hours later, I take off the apron, slip into my running shorts, and pack my work outfit into the backpack. Vivienne is already at her party after I assured her multiple times that I'm more than happy to handle the closing shift alone. With a brisk movement, I lock the locker, sling the backpack over my shoulder, and fasten the clasps across my chest.
As soon as I exit the café through the back door, I start jogging. I weave through the leisurely strolling tourists along the beach promenade. To my left, the waves crash, and the sun begins to approach the horizon, casting an orange-red glow over the seemingly endless salt fields that soon come into view.
For over four years, I've been living here on the coast of Brittany. Day after day, I jog along the picturesque salt fields, sometimes even at night. As usual, I pick up the pace. I feel my heart working harder, the mild western wind brushing against my heated skin.
My phone rings. I retrieve it from the side pocket of the backpack while still running. Vico's sun-kissed face smiles at me from the display. His chin-length hair is wild, and his eyes radiate warmth.
After years of silence, he has been trying to reach me incessantly for the past few weeks. He calls, he texts. He asks me to call him back, and even though I never do, he sends messages telling me about home.
About how he has finally returned to Tuscany to restore our family estate to its former glory. About how his Hanna saved him from himself with her incredible talent. And about how he wakes up every morning with a broad smile on his face, knowing that he is finally living the life that is right for him.
Swallowing hard, I lengthen my strides, but the phone in my hand keeps ringing unchanged.
What am I supposed to tell my brother?
The truth about why I never come home to Tuscany to visit him?
No. I can't do that.
Finally, my phone falls silent. I clench my teeth, put the phone back in the backpack, and head toward the medieval city walls of Guérande.
Shortly after, I sprint through the cobbled alley leading to Grande Place. I have to dodge some tourists, but that's alright. It requires so much focus that I can't think of anything else.
Breathing heavily, I pass the historic church in the center of the small town. Under the colorful flags, strung like garlands between the stone facades, I turn into the next alley. A wild mix of letters and numbers dances across the illuminated panel on the outer wall of a pharmacy.
17 degrees Celsius, I read as I rush toward the sign.
8:05 p.m.
I dodge a group of teenagers with skateboards. The illuminated panel blinks again.
May 5th
In the middle of my stride, I freeze.
17 degrees Celsius. 8:05 p.m. May 5th.
Gasping, I fixate on the sign. The information keeps looping. And with each repetition, it seems to grow darker around me.
May 5th.
My throat tightens, the carefree world around me blurs. It takes far too long for my legs to do what they do best: they start running.
Faster.
And even faster.
I run like this for miles. Beads of sweat roll down my forehead, and my muscles burn. I breathe out in bursts, my heartbeat dominating all my senses.
Then finally, my mind becomes empty.
Just the way it needs to be.
