Page 37 of In the Long Run

KNOX

Talk about a shitfight. There’s no other way to describe it.

Instructed not to enter Alizée’s by a crime scene officer typing into a laptop, Eugene and I peer through the open back door.

The back lock hangs at an unnatural angle, the wood around it splintered.

Water has mixed with what must be flour – from the big bags bought in bulk and kept in the storeroom, I’m guessing – covering the pale blue and white tiles in sludge.

Empty three-litre milk bottles have been tossed on top of the mess.

The whole place reeks, somehow rotten and stale all at once.

‘Oh, my Alizée’s,’ Eugene whispers, his eyes filling with tears. I grab his hand and crouch next to his wheelchair, but I don’t know what to say. He’s been avoiding coming back here for months and now he has to see it like this?

How could so much damage be done in so little time?

‘I’m so sorry,’ Celeste croaks. ‘This is all my fault.’

She’s paler than normal and her hands are filthy. So are the bottoms of her jeans and her shoes.

‘I forgot to set the alarm. We were short-staffed, and Brand Bolton came in as we were closing—’

I knew it.

‘Woah, woah, woah,’ I say. ‘Take a deep breath and tell us everything. Why was he here? Again?’ He’s the only rat that’s been anywhere near Alizée’s.

Celeste gulps and wipes her eyes with the sleeve of her jacket.

‘Here,’ I say, squeezing Eugene’s shoulder and turning the wheelchair towards one of the picnic tables near the car park.

He doesn’t really need the chair anymore, but I wanted him to be comfortable.

‘Let’s talk over here. Are you warm enough?

’ I ask Eug, ready to hand over my jacket if he needs it.

The rage burning through my body will keep me warm enough.

He doesn’t answer me, just stares over at Alizée’s. I wait until Celeste is slumped on a bench, her elbows on the table, face buried in her hands. ‘Let’s start again. You were about to close and …’

‘I’ve ruined everything.’ She hiccups, shoulders shaking.

I shake my head. ‘No, you said Brand came in?’

‘Yeah. It was just me and Margaux. She was doing the final kitchen clean-up and I was counting the till. I told him we’d packed everything away and he’d have to come back, but he pulled out a measuring tape and started measuring things.

It was really weird. I told the police this already,’ she says, when I open my mouth to ask that exact question.

‘Then what happened?’ I ask. Next to me, Eugene heaves a huge sigh and when I look over, he’s shaking. I pull my beanie off and put it on his head. Follow it with my jacket, which I use to cover his legs. He doesn’t fight me.

Celeste opens and closes her eyes, scrunching them shut for a beat, her nose wrinkling.

‘He laughed and said something about how it was cute that we were trying to save the place. That it would be his one day soon.’

‘And then?’ I prompt, balling my hands into fists inside the pouch of my hoodie.

‘He left. Or at least we thought he’d left, but he was leaning against his car in the car park when we came out.

Talking on his phone. All smiley and like he was waiting for us.

It was …’ She pauses, her gaze shifting away from Eugene and me to the scarred green wooden picnic table in between us.

‘It was creepy. Ask Margaux. She said the same thing. He finished his phone call and it seemed like he was going to try and talk to us again, so I locked up in a rush. I totally forgot about the alarm.’ Celeste drops her head into the crook of her arms. ‘He followed us out of the car park but went the other way. I thought he was just being a dick. But then when I got here this morning, the place was trashed. And, well, you know the rest.’

I’m going to … I glue my jaws together.

I’m not going to kill him.

I’m not going to react.

I’m going to keep my nose clean and let the police do their job. My focus needs to be on supporting Eugene and Celeste through all of this. And then I’m going to do what I always do: clean up the mess and make things right.

Because while I might not like all the parts of who I’ve become, I’m beginning to realise there are some I do.

‘What are you doing?’ I ask Eugene as I come out of the bathroom that afternoon after showering. He’s surrounded by the papers I’ve spent months digitising, his bad foot on the ottoman Celeste bought him.

He doesn’t look up. ‘I was looking for the insurer’s phone number. Just had a few more questions. But I got sidetracked.’

‘Can I help?’

He shuffles a few of the papers on his lap. ‘No, no. I’ve got it.’

I pull a clean hoodie over my head and pad down the hall towards the kitchen. Celeste and Eugene made French onion soup and a bunch of different desserts while Gen and I were away. Those leftovers have my name written all over them.

‘Hungry?’ I call over my shoulder as I open the microwave and find a day-old loaf of Alizée’s sourdough in there.

I put it on the bench and open the fridge.

‘Eug? You want some soup? Or something sweet?’ I try again but he doesn’t respond.

He’s been understandably flat all afternoon.

He didn’t want to come home while Celeste and I cleaned, but there wasn’t really anything he could do to help considering all the slip hazards.

I’m sure if I heat up a bowl, he’ll eat some of it.

The thump of his moon boot against the hallway carpet announces his arrival in the kitchen. ‘Did you do this?’ he asks, in a tone I’m not used to hearing from him. He’s angry.

I turn slowly around, swallow the mouthful of cold soup I helped myself to before even getting the container out of the fridge. ‘Do what?’

He slaps a piece of paper on the bench and points at the bank logo in the top corner. ‘This.’

Dread trickles down my spine as I reseal the container of soup and close the refrigerator door. The money I deposited when I first returned is the only credit on the page. ‘I did.’

‘I told you not to!’ He jabs his finger towards my chest, and I let him.

‘I know, but I didn’t know what else to do.’

His hand falls to his side. ‘You listen to me. You respect my wishes. I had this under control. Where’d you get all this money anyway?’

‘I know you’re mad—’

‘You think? You lied to me.’

I swallow. ‘I did.’

‘What’s our deal?’ He throws the words in my face, and I flinch.

‘That we don’t do that.’

‘I can’t believe you.’

‘I was trying to help. You’ve worked so hard to build Alizée’s into what it is, and I didn’t want a …’ Fuck, what’s a word for ‘mistake’ that isn’t ‘mistake’? Because that’s not going to be helpful right now. I change tack, shake my head. ‘I didn’t want that to change.’

‘My mistakes are my mistakes, Knox,’ he seethes. ‘If I ruin everything, I ruin everything. You don’t have to solve other people’s problems for them. How many times do I have to tell you that? How am I ever going to pay you back?’

I push away from the counter, cross my arms. ‘I don’t want it back. I don’t care about the money. When things turn to shit, family helps each other. I was helping.’

‘That’s not how it works. That’s too much money! Where’d you get so much cash?’

Extreme tiredness hits me and before I can control myself, I give into my frustration and darkest fears.

That not everything is atonable.

People might forgive but they never, ever forget.

‘Which part was wrong? The bit about me trying to help, or the bit about us being a family? Where do you think I got all that money? Do you think I’m trying to steal your business from you? That despite how hard I’ve tried to be different, maybe I am just like my parents?’

Eugene falters, his eyes widening. ‘I didn’t mean …’

But it’s too late. I’m tired. I’m shitty.

I can still smell sour milk, and feel the grit of the flour/milk/water mixture under my fingernails.

My wounds are opening up. All the old feelings of shame and not being good enough drown out what Eugene’s already started saying.

What I know is an apology, but I don’t want to hear it.

‘I was helping,’ I hiss, as I stalk past him, brushing off the hand that tries to stop me.

Nothing good will come from continuing this conversation.

The beach is deserted, which makes sense because it’s miserable out here.

Good . It’s what I deserve.

I pick my way over the rocky seawall until I’m at the end, caught in the misty spray being thrown up by the unhappy ocean. It stings my cheeks and freezes my fingers, but I welcome the discomfort because it’s a reality check. A reminder that I can’t do anything right, no matter how hard I try.

I like you, Knox Watson .

But for how long?

I shake my head, ready to tell the wind where it can fuck right off to, but just as quickly my anger dissipates.

I hear Gen’s calm voice, her practical advice to get all the facts first, to look at things objectively.

I knew Eugene would be mad when he found out.

And I can admit that I’m not the only one with leftover trauma courtesy of my parents. Money’s a trigger for both of us.

My phone rings and I debate answering it for so long that I’ve missed the call by the time I pull it out of my pocket. It’s from a blocked number. Shit. It might’ve been the police. I gave them my number hoping to shield Eugene from any additional stress.

I wait to see if the caller leaves a voicemail message.

A minute later my phone chimes with a text, and I hit the button to listen to the message.

The connection’s terrible, the words all garbled like the call came from the bottom of the sea.

The howling wind doesn’t help either. I plug my other ear and pull my hood up over my head.

‘Career adviser calling about …’ The sound disappears again and I hang up. The last thing I feel like doing is talking to my career adviser. Feigning interest in whatever she’s got to say. Not now. Not while I’m in this mood.

Not when I haven’t thought about the Army for weeks.

Not when I can’t hide anymore from the fact I don’t want to go back to Brisbane.

I kick at a loose rock and watch as it sinks into the swirling sea.

It’s odd not knowing where to go.

I don’t want to go home.

I don’t want to go to Gen’s.

That’s a lie. I do want to, but inflicting my mood on her isn’t fair. She’d probably end things early if she saw what a grumpy shit I can be.

There’s rain coming. Dark grey clouds stretch across the sky, their weight menacing and miserable. I stare out at the horizon, welcoming the bad weather. I’d do a rain dance if I knew one.

Wash it all away, I want to say.

Let me start over.

Let me try again, get it right.

Because I have to get this right.

I sigh and tip my head back as the sky opens. Rain falls against the rocks around me, drops bursting against my skin. There’s a roll of thunder, a warning of what’s coming.

And I realise that I don’t want to start over, because if you keep going back to the beginning, chasing perfection, you’ll never get anywhere.

I don’t want to leave.

The last couple of months have been the best of my life.

It’s Eugene sitting on his couch, the dogs curled around him while I read to him.

Celeste laughing at something Yeti says to her at a Wednesday night dinner.

It’s the way Yeti stares at her all confused, like he can’t figure out if she’s something precious or infinitely annoying.

It’s Croissants and Kilometres. All the rainy runs.

The foggy morning sessions that start with chattering teeth and end with layers being shed and coffee and pastries at Alizée’s.

All the Strava segments we’ve set up on our training runs.

Choosing segment names that won’t make sense to anyone else but are little reminders on the map that we were here.

We did this. And we had fun doing it. Non-runners won’t understand, but that’s okay because we did it for ourselves.

What started as showing up for ourselves became about showing up for each other. Our get-to-know-you chats have evolved into deeper conversations and a string of private jokes.

We stopped being individuals who like to run a long time ago.

We’re a team. The club has a heartbeat of its own, and being a part of this community has bled into every part of my life and made it better.

I think of one of Eugene’s old sayings about how positivity breeds positivity.

There hasn’t been a single day here that I haven’t smiled.

And then there’s Gen.

She’s woken me up. Pushed me out of my comfort zone. Made me want things.

We could be so much more than lovers. But not if I shut down, hide back inside my shell.

Decision made, I walk carefully along the rocks until I’m back on the path.

It’s time for me to fight for what I want.