A Place Between

My phone must have been ringing for at least two minutes straight before I finally come to my senses.

Damn… what time is it?

I squint at the screen. It’s Marty. Oh no.

“Yeah? Did I oversleep?”

“I don’t know about that, buddy. I just know you’re not here.”

“What time is it?”

“Eight forty. So get your act together.”

“Alright, but—”

“Lucas. No buts. Be here by nine.”

For crying out loud. Why do we even have this morning check-in?

Of course Marty is right. If I didn’t have to show up there every morning, sooner or later I’d probably stop getting up altogether.

The Fairhaven Courier office sits on the edge of town, which I don’t really mind. Truth is, I can get there in five minutes once I actually start moving. They say getting started is the hardest part. They’re absolutely right. But the distance isn’t much. Fairhaven is a small town. And it should stay that way. I can’t stand the hustle and bustle.

I need to hurry, so I throw myself together quickly. In the bathroom mirror my face looks pretty worn out (which it is), and my hair strongly resembles a haystack. Doesn’t bother me. Same goes for my clothes, which can’t exactly be called stylish. Jeans, a T-shirt, a leather jacket—only because of the bike, since mornings are still a bit chilly. I slide my phone into my back pocket and my keys into my right front pocket, just like always. Ever since I lost my keys once, I always do it this way. They don’t disappear from there.

My parents are already gone, of course. I like them. For some people it might be embarrassing to still live at home as an adult, but for me it isn’t. My folks are decent people.

I head toward the garage. I prefer keeping the black Triumph Bonneville there overnight rather than leaving it on the street. Not that I’m afraid anyone would mess with my bike. Fairhaven is a pretty quiet town. Still, it feels better knowing it’s inside. The least I can do for it.

I’m not really the best owner the Bonneville could have. I don’t know nearly as much about it as those guys who are always tinkering with their rides in Frank’s garage. The Triumph Bonneville is a T120 model, and I love it. It loves me too, you could say—unconditionally. It has never let me down. Well, once, when I ran out of gas, but that was obviously my fault.

I roll the bike out into the street and swing a leg over it. I turn the key and wait for the electronics to wake up. Then I start it. I like the sound of the engine. I pull my helmet on and take off. I usually leave around eight, when there’s still a bit of traffic but people are already out on the streets. I’d say I managed to avoid rush hour, but Fairhaven doesn’t really have rush hour.

With a heavy heart I ride past the Honey Bean Café, giving a small honk in case Emily notices. Most of the time I stop there for coffee, sometimes even breakfast. But not today. I messed up. I overslept.

I’ve known Emily since childhood, and she’s the only person I truly consider a friend. Sure, I’ve got buddies, and I do have a social life sometimes. But a buddy and a friend aren’t the same thing. Besides, after a while I get tired if there’s too much talk about bikes, girls, and parties. Not that I have anything against those things.

I love my bike. Really do. But that doesn’t mean I spend all day polishing it, scrubbing it, or bolting every possible gadget onto it. For me it’s a work tool. Actually—more like a coworker. We spend the whole day cruising around town together. Sometimes I have to ride out to the nearby villages, but nobody delivers farther than that. I actually like the occasional longer run. Getting out onto the open road for a bit and twisting the throttle. But I never race. That wouldn’t be especially exciting. I just enjoy being alone on the road.

I like being alone. And of course being with Emily. When I’m in the mood not to see anyone, I drop by her place. She’s the only person I can tolerate anytime. She’s an incredibly nice girl. I tell her everything. And she tells me everything too—or at least I think she does. Emily is… she’s Emily to me.

“Good morning!” Marty tries to make it clear that I messed up, but that’s just not his style. He’s not exactly boss material, but that’s his problem.

“Sorry,” I say. “Thanks for calling. I’m here.”

“No problem, buddy,” he waves it off. Good old Marty. I can practically see how hard he has to try to criticize someone—only to immediately add no problem. The guy has a heart of gold. I’m unbelievably lucky to work for him. Honestly, he saved my life when he hired me. I had zero desire to go to college. My parents insisted, of course, but they also know I’ve already slipped out of their hands. I grew up. Embarrassing, but that’s how it is.

Still, I didn’t want to be a jerk about it. I love my parents. Which is why it worked out especially well that Marty hired me as a motorcycle courier.

“I’m not giving up on college,” I told my mom back then. “But let me save up some money first. It’ll be easier for you if you don’t have to pay for everything.”

They accepted that somewhat suspiciously, but mostly with relief, and just like that the whole college topic disappeared.

That was two years ago. Honestly, I’m not saving much money, because I don’t earn that much. And whatever I do make, I mostly end up leaving at the Honey Bean Café by the end of the month.

I don’t have to pay at the café. Well— not immediately. Emily writes down what I consume, and at the end of the month I settle everything in one go. If it were up to Emily, I wouldn’t have to pay at all. But she’s not the owner.

I drop by almost every day. Partly because Emily matters to me. As a friend. It’s a weird thing, but I can’t really imagine my life without her. Once she went away for a week, and I felt like my whole life had collapsed. Luckily we kept in touch through text messages. Later she said she sent more texts during that week than she normally sends in a year. Same here, actually.

The other reason I go to the Honey Bean so often is because their pies are incredible. Sure, they sell other pastries, even sandwiches, but eighty percent of the orders are pies. And I deliver them. That’s my job. I deliver so many pies that half the town probably thinks I’m the pie guy.

It’s funny—I don’t really consider myself a very social person, yet courier work somehow turns out differently. When I bring food to people, there’s no pressure that we have to talk about something. That’s why conversations come naturally. Over the two years I’ve been doing deliveries, I’ve gotten to know about half the town. Which isn’t exactly a huge achievement, since Fairhaven isn’t very big.

“Hey, there was an update. Could you download it?” Marty says, almost apologetically.

“Something new?” I ask.

He shakes his head.

“Just bug fixes. But it’s necessary.”

I sit down and refresh the app. Nobody offers me coffee. I never drink any here anyway, because honestly the filtered stuff they make in the office is nowhere near the real espresso I can get at Emily’s place. Of course this one would be free. Still. Whatever.

“Can I start?”

Marty glances at his watch and nods. It’s almost nine. We don’t deliver before nine, but the orders start coming in earlier.

“Sure.”

The door opens and Dylan walks in.

“Good morning, sleepyhead. Party last night?” he asks.

“Yeah,” I say. “Well… not really. Watched a movie. Couldn’t fall asleep.”

“No big deal, I’m just messing with you,” he says.

Dylan’s a good guy. He does the same job as me, but he delivers in a white Chevy Express. So anything that wouldn’t fit into my motorcycle box automatically goes to him. I’ve thanked my lucky stars a thousand times for getting this job. Honestly, it feels like a privilege. Marty—the boss with the heart of gold. Dylan—more like a buddy than a coworker. And of course Sarah, without whom everything would grind to a halt. Speaking of which—here she is.

“Guys, what’s with the gloomy faces? Seriously, pull yourselves together. I look at you two and I feel like killing myself.”

Her humor is sharp, but her heart is gold. I love Sarah. Not like that, though. Not as a woman. Not because she isn’t attractive—she definitely is. It’s just… Sarah is Sarah. A coworker. Incredibly nice. But not my type. Actually, I’m not even sure I have a type. My past relationships never lasted very long. Sometimes I’ve wondered if I’m unbearably boring. But Emily says I’m not at all. Though if I ever needed relationship advice, I probably wouldn’t ask her—she’s not exactly famous for long-term relationships either.

We check into the system, Sarah swipes her all-powerful fingers across the tablet a few times, and the first orders immediately come in.

“Maison Camille?” I ask. “What the hell is that?”

“113 Linden Avenue,” Sarah replies. “You know… the address is right there.”

“Yeah, I see it,” I nod, a little annoyed, because I know I’ve already lost this round, and if Sarah were in the mood she could bury me alive. But she isn’t.

“A new hair salon, sweetheart. And that’s what you’re delivering.” On the metal shelf by the wall sits a package. “Opened three days ago. Didn’t notice?”

I shake my head. Haven’t been on Linden Avenue in a while.

“That’s it?” I ask.

“What else do you want? Should I add a kiss?”

I grab the package and walk out to the Bonneville. Then I immediately smack my forehead and turn back toward the office for the delivery box where I usually store the packages. At the door I run into Sarah, who has already brought it after me.

“Next time you’ll forget your head,” she remarks wickedly.

I snap open the box and place the package inside. My phone goes onto the handlebar mount, and I open the app. That’s how things work these days. I tap the package and the address appears:

Maison Camille, 113 Linden Avenue.

Maison Camille? I think as I start the engine. Who the hell is Camille? Or is that just the name of the place?

It wasn’t just the name of the place.

It was Camille’s name.