Lock and Key(87)

We jerked to a stop suddenly, narrowly missing a collision with two women pushing a cart entirely full of wine. After some dirty looks and a lot of clanking, they claimed their right of way and moved on. I said, “She said she was too busy for a relationship.”

“Everyone’s busy,” Nate said.

“I know. I think she’s really just scared.”

He glanced over at me. “Scared? Of Reggie? What, she thinks he might force her to give up caffeine for real or something? ”

“No,” I said.

“Of what, then?” he asked.

I paused, only just now realizing that the subject was hitting a little close to home. “You know, getting hurt. Putting herself out there, opening up to someone.”

“Yeah,” he said, adding some cheese straws to the cart, “but risk is just part of relationships. Sometimes they work, sometimes they don’t.”

I picked up a box of cheese straws, examining it. “Yeah,” I said. “But it’s not all about chance, either.”

“Meaning what? ” he asked, taking the box from me and adding it to the rest.

“Just that, if you know ahead of time that there might an issue that dooms everything—like, say, you’re incredibly controlling and independent, like Harriet—maybe it’s better to acknowledge that and not waste your time. Or someone else’s.”

I looked over at Nate, who I now realized was watching me. He said, “So being independent dooms relationships? Since when?”

“That was just one example,” I said. “It can be anything.”

He gave me a weird look, which was kind of annoying, considering he’d brought this up in the first place. And anyway, what did he want me to do, just come out and admit it would never work between us because it was too hard to care about anyone, much less someone I had to worry about? It was time to get back to the theoretical, and quickly. “All I’m saying is that Harriet won’t even trust me with the cashbox. So maybe it’s a lot to ask for her to give over her whole life to someone.”

“I don’t think Reggie wants her life,” Nate said, nudging the cart forward again. “Just a date.”

“Still,” I said, “one can lead to the other. And maybe, to her, that’s too much risk.”

I felt him look at me again, but I made a point of checking my watch. It was almost time to go. “Yeah,” he said. “Maybe.”

Ten minutes later—and one minute late—I arrived back at Harriet’s, where, true to form, she was waiting for me. “Am I glad to see you,” she said. “I was starting to get nervous. I think we’re about to have a big rush. I can just kind of feel it.”

I looked down the middle of the mall, which was busy but not packed, and then the other way at the food court, which looked much the same. “Well, I’m here now,” I said, sticking my purse in the cabinet under the register. As I did, I remembered the thing I’d bought for her, pulling it out. “Here,” I said, tossing it over. “For you.”

“Really? ” She caught it, then turned the box in her hand. “Macaroons! I love these.”

“They’re Belgian,” I said.

“All right,” she replied, tearing them open. “Even better.”

“Come on, Laney! Pick up the pace!”

I looked at Olivia, then in the direction she was yelling, the distant end of the mall parking lot. All I could see were a few cars and a Double Burger wrapper being kicked around by the breeze. “What are you doing, again?”

“Don’t even ask,” she told me. This was the same thing she’d said when I’d come across her, ten minutes earlier, sitting on the curb outside the Vista 10 box office on this unseasonably warm Saturday, a book open in her lap. “All I can say is it’s not my choice.”

“Not your—” I said, but then this sentence, and my concentration, were interrupted by a thump-thump noise. This time when I turned, I saw Laney, wearing a purple track-suit, rounding the distant corner of Meyer’s Department Store at a very slow jog, headed our way.

“Finally,” Olivia said, pulling a digital kitchen timer out from beneath her book and getting to her feet. “You’re going to have to go faster than that if you want me to sit out here for another lap!” she yelled, cupping her hands around her mouth. “You understand? ”

Laney ignored her, or just didn’t hear, keeping her gaze straight as she kept on, thump-thump, thump-thump. As she got closer I saw her expression was serious, her face flushed, although she did give me a nod as she passed.

Olivia consulted the stopwatch. “Eight minutes,” she called out as Laney continued on toward the other end of the mall. “That’s a sixteen-minute mile. Also known as slow.”

“Still training for the five-K, huh?” I asked as a mall security guard rolled by, glancing at us.

“Oh, she’s beyond training now,” Olivia replied, sitting down on the curb again and setting the timer beside her. “She’s focused, living and breathing the run. And yes, that is a direct quote.”

“You’re supportive,” I said.

“No, I’m realistic,” she replied. “She’s been training for two months now, and her times aren’t improving. At all. If she insists on doing this, she’s just going to embarrass herself.”