Page 3 of In the Long Run

KNOX

Sleepless nights are nothing new for me.

I sit up, stretch my cramped shoulders and roll my neck.

My head aches, but last night’s beers with Yeti aren’t responsible.

I’d blame Brand, but what’s the point? That jackass has never taken accountability for his own actions and he proved last night that nothing’s changed.

The only bright spot was Gen, but like everything, I fucked that up too.

A quick glance at my phone tells me it’s far too early for hospital visiting hours and that Eugene hasn’t messaged or called.

Hopefully the doctors got his pain levels under control, because leaving him the way I did last night will haunt me for a long time.

Yeti dragged me out to the Clamshell when he heard what a mess I was.

Fingers of light are creeping across the sky outside my window and within seconds, I’m out of bed, pulling on my PT kit, stuffing my feet into socks and my favourite runners.

Madeleine and Chouquette, Eugene’s schnauzers, watch me with shrewd expressions, their bodies and tails still.

You’d think they’d be used to getting up before the sun considering Eugene owns a patisserie.

They’re grumpy because I wouldn’t let them sleep with me, but I barely fit in the single bed, which became mine when I was eleven.

I’d have happily shared it with Gen, but that would’ve been a terrible idea.

It would be a lie to say the only reason I’d almost kissed her was to piss off Brand.

I’d done it because I wanted to, forgetting until the last safe moment that my life’s never been about what I want.

My phone buzzes.

Yeti: Tell me you got Gen’s number?

I remember how Gen’s body moulded against mine and I swear I can still smell the citrus of her shampoo.

Feel her breath against my skin. Hear the small moan she gave that felt like a gift.

I shake off the memory, text a thumbs down back to Yeti and move through the crowded flat, feeding the dogs and making a quick coffee.

Eugene’s only got instant here because he always gets a proper one at Alizée’s, his patisserie.

While the kettle boils, I straighten the pile of mail next to it.

The morning light is muted but the red ink and large ‘Overdue’ stamped on two of the letters catch my eye.

I pause. Look around like someone’s going to see me snooping, even though the letters aren’t hidden.

What’s a couple of overdue bills, anyway?

Eugene never pushed me to reveal my secrets.

He always gave me time to digest things, turn them over in my mind.

But this is another reminder that while we’re not technically family, our communication methods can be just as dysfunctional.

Who knows when he would’ve told me about his accident if Celeste, his second in charge, hadn’t called once he was in the ambulance?

With each sip, the bitterness of my coffee increases but I finish it quickly.

I’ve logged thousands of kilometres along the Esplanade, and the quiet peace that running gives my mind is what I need right now.

Madeleine and Chouquette growl through the back door and I hesitate.

At four years old, they probably could come with me, but I need to run without limits this morning.

Mouthing a promise to take them for a short, easy walk/jog later that does nothing to appease them because they’re dogs , I open the screen door to the courtyard and step out into the chilly morning air.

It settles against my exposed forearms and bare legs and I shiver.

I should’ve brought my running tights and jacket, but I packed in a rush, unsure of how long Eugene would need me here as he recovers from his accident.

The need to move has me rushing through my warm-up and skipping the butt kicks and high knees I usually do.

I’ll pay for it later but whatever. There are a few people already out and about, ambling along the footpath that winds past the Clamshell and down to the beach.

It’s a struggle to find the right rhythm initially because all I want to do is run and run and run until everything’s the way it should be, but I force myself to start slowly.

A light wind whips the water of Port Phillip Bay into little waves that don’t break or crest, but roll into the shore like they’ve got no worries in the world. I’m jealous – it’s been so long since I experienced that, I barely remember what it’s like.

I’m busy watching the waves and almost miss the pretty brunette in long black tights and a pale-yellow singlet running towards me.

Gen.

Her ponytail bounces in time to her cadence and before I can talk myself out of it, I call out hello. You, sir, are a glutton for punishment. More accurately, I’m still as drawn to her as I was last night. It’s why I tripped over my words, made an ass of myself.

Gen slows to a stop and pauses her sports watch. Her cheeks are rosy and her grey eyes match the sky.

‘How are you?’ I ask, clearing my throat to downplay the way it came out all gruff. Gruff’s better than squeaky, but not by much.

‘I’m fine.’ She avoids my eyes.

I scratch my jaw, trying to think of a way to clean up the mess I made last night. But my protective side takes over and what comes out of my mouth instead is, ‘Has Brand tried to contact you again?’

She pulls out her ponytail. Her brown hair is wild, tumbling this way and that.

It skims the top of her shoulders and my eyes linger on the strap of her black sports bra.

It’s twisted, leaving a red mark against her tanned skin, but I don’t mention it because one creepy dude in a woman’s life is already one too many.

And being grouped with Brand is something I’ve always strived to avoid.

‘A couple of texts. I’ll handle it.’ Her businesslike tone grates and I can’t help myself.

‘I’d be happy to—’

Gen reties her hair. ‘I have to get going.’

I leave it. ‘Sure. I’ll see you around.’ She is Eugene’s neighbour after all.

‘Maybe,’ she says. But it’s one of those maybes that parents give children when the answer’s already no. And then she’s running away from me without a backwards glance, her pace quick. Good thing I’m used to people leaving.

I watch Gen for a few seconds. I refuse to wish this interaction and the one last night had gone differently because I’m all out of wishes – have been since I was a kid – so I duck my head and sprint in the opposite direction.

Eugene’s going to be a terrible patient. He pushes the overbed table away and frowns at his water glass like it’s at fault for his broken foot, not the pothole that caused his fall.

‘Lisfrancs are an uncommon injury with an unfortunately long recovery process,’ a kind hospital rehab worker named Kate says, and the frustrated lines marring Eugene’s face deepen. His water’s going to be vapour before this meeting’s over.

‘Heard you own that French patisserie, Alizée’s. It’s a little ironic you’ve suffered an injury named after a Napoleonic army surgeon.’

I bite the inside of my cheek. I’ve known Eugene long enough to know he won’t appreciate anyone stating the obvious, but Kate’s not so lucky. Eugene shifts his glare. Forget what I said about his water. Kate might be vapour soon.

‘It’s hilarious,’ he deadpans. I’m struck by how much older he looks in the hospital bed.

There’s more grey than black in his short, curly hair and the lines around his eyes are more prominent than I remember.

My gut tells me that laughing isn’t the cause of them like it used to be.

His round glasses are tucked into the neck of his hospital gown, visible smudges on the lenses.

This morning’s paper sits next to him, folded so precisely I can tell he hasn’t opened it yet. It’s like he’s already given up.

Uncomfortable with the path of my thoughts, I put my military training to use and take control of this conversation.

‘The surgeon said Eugene should be able to come home tomorrow.’ His operation’s scheduled for this afternoon and his bad mood is one hundred per cent exacerbated by the fact that he’s fasting.

I almost stopped at Alizée’s to pick up some of his favourites before remembering he wouldn’t be allowed to eat them.

‘Providing it goes well, that should be fine.’ Kate taps away at her iPad. ‘While we’re talking about home, I’d like to get a better idea of what that looks like. Is it a house? An apartment?’

Eugene waves his hand, signalling that I’m up.

My attention to detail has been mentioned on every school and Army report I’ve ever had.

If anyone can get Eugene’s place safe and tidy for his return, it’s me.

I’ll put all the excess stuff in my room.

All I need is a bed and access to my backpack.

I’ve spent months out field with less and survived fine. I cross one ankle over the other.

‘It’s a ground floor flat, so stairs aren’t an issue.

The shower’s over the bath, but I’ve already hired a bench seat for it.

And I can shift some furniture around to make it easier with his wheelchair.

’ I’m not sure how long it will take until Eugene’s able to manage one of those knee scooters, but I got one, just in case.

‘Do you live alone, Eugene?’

He continues to stare at his drink and I don’t blame him.

Eug’s a busy guy. Always has been. That’s why it meant – and means – so much that he’s always made time for me when, really, no one would’ve blamed him for being the first to turn his back and walk away.

Fuck knows no one else had wanted me when everything really went to shit.

‘He does,’ I answer for him. It’s been fourteen years since I lived with Eug and he’s kept my old room exactly the same for me, despite my lack of visits.

‘His mobility will be severely restricted as he recovers,’ she says, looking worried. ‘Living independently isn’t an option.’