Page 32 of In the Long Run

GEN

My dreams are filled with baguettes. I blink awake, giving myself a few seconds to adjust to the soft light of early morning.

The quiet of the cottage is punctuated by Knox’s steady breathing.

I nestle back into his warm chest, all cosy and content.

Just as I really settle into how wonderful it is to wake up in Knox’s arms, my eyes pop open and I jolt upwards.

‘S’going on?’ Knox jack-knifes into a seated position, the sheet falling to his waist where there’s a sizeable lump that’s shaped suspiciously like a … My eyes widen. That explains the baguette dreams. Let’s just say, he hasn’t got a dinner roll downstairs.

Knox rubs his eyes and his gaze settles on my bare legs. A hazy memory of getting hot overnight and taking off my pyjama pants tugs at my mind.

The baguette gets bigger.

‘Um. I’ll just …’ Where are my pants? They’re not on the floor, which means they must be in the bed.

‘How did you sleep?’ Knox asks and I can tell it’s a struggle to keep his voice even. That’s something at least. We should’ve just had sex. Aren’t orgasms good for muscle relaxation or something? Scientists should really look into this.

‘Good.’ I didn’t even make it to the end of the first chapter of his book, lulled to sleep by Knox’s deep voice. I dig a hand under the covers, fingers sliding across the sheets.

Aha. There they are. My fingers close around a cotton drawstring, and I pull the pants closer, stuff my legs into them and tumble out of bed with none of the grace my years as a teen gymnast should’ve given me, landing in a heap on the floor.

‘Are you okay?’ Knox leans over the edge of the bed. God, his bedhead would be best described as ‘sex on a stick’.

‘I’m fine,’ I say brightly to cover my embarrassment before jumping up, and bolting past the bed. I grab my race clothes and lock myself in the toilet, because if I don’t put some distance between us, we’re going to be doing a totally different type of cardio as our race warm-up.

The atmosphere in the race chute is electric. Around us people stretch and check their hydration packs or watches. Knox is quiet, but he’s been that way ever since I came out of the toilet to find him fully dressed, two plates ready with a piece of peanut butter toast and a banana on each.

‘Any words of inspiration for us?’ Anneke asks.

‘Have fun out there,’ Knox says simply. ‘I have no doubt every one of you is going to smash this.’

‘You okay?’ I nudge Violet, who has also been quiet.

She swallows and nods. ‘I’ve had a baby. I can do anything, right? Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to imply anyone who hasn’t had a baby can’t do it. I meant—’

‘It’s fine. I get it. We can all do hard things.’

The wave in front of us shuffles closer to the start line.

Violet breathes out slowly. ‘I need to go to the bathroom again. God. How many nervous wees can one person do?’

Music starts pumping from the speakers around the starting gate. An official-looking man on a small stage tells us it’s time to warm up. A poppy beat takes over as we jump in place, stretch our calves and hamstrings.

‘I’m going to be sick,’ Violet moans.

‘You’re going to be fine,’ Knox says.

‘You want to know what one of my favourite running sayings is?’ I say.

Everyone looks at me and it’s not nearly as daunting now that we’re all friends.

I roll my shoulders, which makes the water in the bladder of my hydration vest slosh around.

‘I don’t know who said it, but for the first half of your run, don’t be a hero.

And in the second half, don’t be a wimp.

We can all do this. It’s going to be great. ’

The first five kilometres are a slog. Our group breaks up as people thread throughout the crowd, find their target pace and settle into the run. Clouds are scattered across the sky, but so far the predicted rain has held off.

By the time the ten-kilometre marker appears, the sun has pushed away any threat of rain and sweat trickles down my forehead, my chest, my back. I’m glad I decided to carry my own water rather than rely on the aid stations.

A blind runner and their guide from Achilles International, both wearing bright yellow shirts, pass Knox, Violet and I before the first bridge crossing.

‘Okay, that’s it,’ Violet says, breathing loudly. ‘You two have to go ahead. You’re stressing me out.’

‘We’re happy to run at your pace.’ Knox pulls his cap off, dragging a hand across his forehead. I don’t know what he’s done to strap down the baguette because surely something that large must be bouncing around?

‘Nope. I insist. I need to do this on my own.’ She makes a shooing motion without breaking stride.

Knox raises his eyebrows at me, his question silent but clear.

‘You’re sure?’ I ask Violet.

‘Yes!’

I lift a shoulder at Knox and follow his lead when he ups his pace, ducking around the group of women in Running Mums Australia shirts that we’ve been following for a couple of kilometres.

Runners are stretched across the whole course now, so within a few minutes it’s just us. Surrounded by a cool – and very welcome – breeze, I can hear the sound of birds calling out to each other, and the thump of our feet against the rail trail. Knox is right next to me, but I want him closer.

‘You good?’ he asks when I gasp and startle, feeling a rush of wetness slide down my back.

‘I think my vest’s leaking.’ Damn it. I knew I should’ve replaced it, but one of the golden rules about running is nothing new on race day. That probably doesn’t apply to water bladders, but I’ve always been a stickler for the rules.

‘Let me take a look. You don’t want to chafe.’ Knox points at a leafy gum up ahead that shades half the path.

I regret stopping as soon as we have because it’s going to suck to get going again, but chafe is the worst, and moisture and friction are the perfect recipe for it.

Knox stands behind me, his fingers brushing against my neck as he moves my hair out of the way. ‘You’re soaked,’ he says. Never have I ever imagined those words would come out of his mouth in this context .

There’s a tug, a bit of pressure and then he pulls the offending bladder out of my vest. There’s barely any water left out of the two litres I filled it with this morning. How did I not notice this?

The six-foot-three reason opens the bladder and shakes out what’s left inside it. He disconnects the mouthpiece and starts winding it up. ‘Take it off,’ he says. Another thing I’ve fantasised about him saying to me in a different situation.

‘If you run in a wet vest, you’re asking for trouble. We’ll strap it to mine. If you need water, we can share.’

The idea of sucking on his hydration pack’s spout feels strangely intimate, which is ridiculous considering I’ve had his tongue in my mouth, but I know he’s right.

I unclip my vest and move my energy gels to my running tights.

Same with my phone. There’s nothing else that I need from it.

Knox rolls my vest up and turns around so I can wedge it underneath the pulley strings criss-crossing the back of his.

I’m almost done when it catches on the bottom corner, so I bend lower, yanking at the elastic.

And I try not to notice how his running shorts cling to his muscular ass. But it’s right there. Looking biteable. Am I an ass girl now? I’ve never been one before, but if I believe any of the positive affirmations constantly shared on social media, all forms of personal growth should be applauded.

‘Gen?’ Knox asks and I snap back to the task at hand.

‘Yep. Ready,’ I screech. The birds in the tree above us flap their wings and squawk in protest.

It doesn’t take long for me to realise that I have clearly developed a dependency on my hydration vest. I feel naked without it. It’s distracting, and I’m still trying to find my rhythm when my shoe clips a rock I should’ve seen on the edge of the trail. I topple sideways, my left ankle rolling.

It doesn’t pop. Which is good, right?

Pops and cracks are bad.

There’s a split second where I blink up at the sky, momentarily blinded by the sun and think I’ve gotten away with it. Then the ache sets in and I groan.

‘Are you okay?’

Knox’s shadow falls across me, blocking out the sun. The universe must be keen to get its giggle on today, or maybe I did hit my head, because the guy’s got a halo and it looks damn good on him.

‘I’m fine,’ I say, pushing up to a seated position and breathing deeply through my nose as I wait for the head rush to pass.

‘Is it your ankle?’ He crouches down, his big hands gently cradling my calf.

‘Uh-huh.’

‘Can you move it?’

I rotate it carefully, testing to see where the pain is. It’s tender, definitely, but not terrible. A dull ache as opposed to a full-on throb.

‘Do you think you can stand?’

Do you think you can kiss it better?

Knox helps me to my feet, his hands not leaving mine while I check to see if I can bear weight.

It’s not terrible but running’s going to suck.

Tears prick at my eyes, which is so stupid.

Falling is so stupid. I should’ve been paying attention to the trail, not letting myself get lost in an adult’s only game of ‘what if’ where Knox and I were the only participants.

Lowering my head so Knox can’t see my tears, I swipe at my face, transferring all the dirty grit from my hands onto my cheeks.

My chest constricts as I try to stop more tears from flowing.

‘How bad is it?’ Knox shifts so we’re face-to-face. His eyes soften when he notices my tears.

‘It’s okay,’ I sniff. ‘I can run.’

His smile isn’t even a tiny bit patronising as he uses his thumbs to wipe away the mess on my cheeks before pulling me into his arms. ‘Here’s what we’re going to do,’ he says, his words muffled as he speaks into the top of my hair. ‘We’re going to take a minute. Catch our breath.’

‘But what about …’

He tilts my chin up. We’re standing so close. Chest to chest with so much of our skin touching. It’s intoxicating. The ache in my ankle fades.