Twenty minutes later, there was a banging on my apartment door so aggressive I briefly considered the possibility of a police raid.
I opened it to find Apple, armed with a tote bag overflowing with items, her face set in an expression of determined chaos.
"I came to supervise," she announced, pushing past me into the apartment. "You clearly cannot be trusted to pack appropriately for a weekend in Psycho Woods."
"I can pack just fine."
"Shh… shh… shh… G? My dear, beloved walnut, G." She turned to face me, holding up one finger and placing it on my lips to shut me up. "You once packed for our weekend trip to that music festival by the lake—the one with all the bands you claimed you'd never heard of but then knew every lyric to—and you brought three academic books about Mesopotamian burial rituals, one pair of jeans, and no underwear. NO UNDERWEAR, G! You walked around in the same jeans for three days while I had to loan you mine and explain to random strangers why my best friend kept doing laundry in the bathroom sink. I have witnessed your 'packing skills' firsthand. You need help."
I couldn't argue with that.
She dumped the contents of her tote bag onto my bed, and I stared at the pile in disbelief.
Pepper spray. Three bottles.
A whistle on a lanyard.
A personal alarm shaped like a cat. ("It was cute," she shrugged. "Also loud.")
A small flashlight. ("For finding your way in the dark. Or blinding him if he gets too close.")
A package of protein bars. ("In case you need to make a run for it and can't stop for food.")
And Jessica. The rolling pin. Wrapped carefully in a kitchen towel like a sacred relic.
"Apple, I can't bring all of this."
"You can and you will." She crossed her arms. "Now show me what you're packing."
I opened my suitcase, and she immediately began critiquing.
"Too many books. No, put that one back. You're going to be busy being mysterious, not reading. What are you wearing?" She held up my chosen sweater and nodded approvingly. "Okay, this is good. This is "I didn't try but I definitely tried" energy. He won't know what hit him."
We spent the next hour going through every item. Apple rejected three of my book choices. ("G, this one is about fungal networks. FUNGAL NETWORKS. You cannot seduce a man while thinking about mushrooms.") and added a scarf she'd brought ("It's red. Power colour. Also, you can use it to tie him up if things go that direction.").
"Nothing is going to go that direction," I protested.
"Famous last words." She held up a small notepad. "What's this?"
"Research notes."
She flipped through them, then looked at me with exaggerated pity. "G. These are just... words. So many words. This would put anyone to sleep. If he reads these, he'll run again out of sheer boredom."
"Good. Then I won't have to knee him in the family jewels."
Apple howled with laughter. "THAT'S MY G. Okay, you're learning."
By the time we finished, my suitcase was a bizarre mix of practical clothing, self-defence items, and one rolling pin wrapped like a newborn. Apple surveyed her work with satisfaction.
"Perfect. You're ready."
We ordered takeout and settled onto my couch, the way we had a hundred times before. Apple grabbed the remote and scrolled through streaming options.
"We need background noise while we discuss strategy."
"Strategy?"
"Operation: Don't Let the Psycho Win." She settled on some reality show about people renovating cabins. "Okay, so. Let's talk about him."
"There's nothing to talk about."
"G." She turned to face me, tucking her legs under her. "There's EVERYTHING to talk about. We need a game plan. We need code names. We need—"
"Code names?"
"Absolutely. I've already got one for him." She grinned. "Kaelen the Ever-Running."
I choked on my spring roll. "That's terrible."
"It's ACCURATE. Every time he sees you, he runs. Hence, Ever-Running. It's poetic."
"He saw me once and ran. That's one time. He hasn't had the chance to see me again since, so technically it's not a pattern yet. One time doesn't make him the Ever-Running. It makes him... momentarily startled. There's a difference." I didn't mention that the second time we saw each other—in the park—I had been the one to flee first, vanishing into the night like my own personal cowardice had finally caught up with me. That detail felt unnecessary. And also, slightly embarrassing.
Apple raised an eyebrow. "Momentarily startled. That's what we're calling it now?"
"That's what I'm calling it."
"Momentarily startled enough to sprint out of a coffee shop like the hounds of hell were nipping at his designer heels."
I sighed. "You're impossible."
"I'm thorough." She tapped her pen on the notebook. "Okay, fine. We'll put a pin in the nickname. But if he runs again—"
"You'll be the first to say 'I told you so.'"
"Damn right I will. Now, moving on."
"Once is enough for a nickname. The man bolted from a coffee shop like you were selling essential oils door-to-door. He deserves the title." She grabbed a notebook from my coffee table, completely ignoring whatever I had just said, and wrote in big letters: KAELEN THE EVER-RUNNING. "There. Official."
"You're ridiculous."
"I'm thorough." She tapped her pen on the notebook. "Okay, so. Scenario one: He's awkward and distant. What do you do?"
I shrugged. "Be polite. Professional. Let him come to me."
"Good. Scenario two: He's cold and dismissive."
"Same thing. Let him wonder why I'm not chasing."
"Excellent. Scenario three: He corners you alone and tries to—"
"Knee him in the family jewels. Got it."
Apple beamed. "I've taught you well."
We spent the next hour workshopping increasingly ridiculous scenarios.
What if he tried to impress you with his wealth?
("Yawn and ask if he knows anything about fungal networks.")
What if he showed up with a girlfriend?
("Ask her if she's seen any good horror movies lately.")
What if he confessed his undying love on the first night?
("Run..")
By the time the takeout containers were empty and the cabin renovation show had ended, Apple had filled three pages of my notebook with strategies, observations, and increasingly unhelpful drawings of what she imagined "The Ever-Running" looked like in various compromising positions.
"He probably looks like a sad otter when he's confused," she mused, adding whiskers to her latest sketch. "All wide-eyed and flustered."
"You've never even met him."
"Don't need to. I've studied the type." She set down her pen and looked at me, her expression softening. "Seriously, though. You okay? About all this?"
I considered lying. But this was Apple.
"I'm nervous," I admitted.
Apple was quiet for a moment, which was rare enough to be alarming.
"Okay," she said finally. "Here's the thing. I don't understand half of what goes on in your head. You're gloomy and you read books that would put a statue to sleep. But I've also seen the way guys look at you on campus—the way they stare like they've never seen a girl read before, like you're some kind of ethereal creature who wandered out of a painting and accidentally enrolled in university. You're beautiful, G. Like, annoyingly beautiful. And you don't even seem to notice, which somehow makes it worse. Or better. I haven't decided." She reached over and squeezed my hand. "So, go. See what happens. Shine your girl confident power, shine that beauty—the one that makes half the philosophy department trip over their own tongues when you walk by. Make him regret every life choice that led him to running away from you. And if it all goes wrong—"
"Jessica's ready."
"Damn right she is." Apple grinned. "Now text me when you get there. And don't forget the pepper spray. I'm serious about the pepper spray."
Later that night, after Apple had left and my apartment had fallen quiet, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling. My suitcase sat by the door, packed with Apple's chaos and my own quiet hope.
Kaelen the Ever-Running.
I smiled in the darkness. Whatever happened this weekend, at least I had Apple. At least I had Jessica. At least I had pepper spray and a personal alarm shaped like a cat.
I slipped my phone into my pocket, still smiling, and finished packing. The trap was set, and I was walking right into it.
But somehow, with Apple's chaotic love wrapped around me like armour, I felt ready for anything.