Page 6 of In the Long Run

GEN

I should’ve expected this.

‘I thought you’d want to know,’ my sister, Meredith, says, her tired voice coming through my AirPods clearly.

While my day is approaching mid-afternoon, Mere’s is closer to dinner.

She runs all the early classes at Get Fit, Get Strom, the gym she and her husband, Bernie, own a few blocks from my flat.

And yes, they named it after themselves, loving how similar their surname is to the word ‘strong’.

‘But … but …’ I splutter, looking down at the overflowing shopping basket in my hands as if the answer to my mother’s lunacy is hiding underneath the shiny red apples I like to snack on. Or maybe there’s a prepackaged bag of commonsense lurking among my tins of ethically sourced tuna.

‘Still there?’ Meredith asks.

‘I said I didn’t want a party – and certainly not a surprise party.

’ I distinctly remember all the conversations we’ve had about this because it’s hard to forget something that’s been happening weekly for the last six months.

Mum’s someone who likes to celebrate every little thing, and I love that for her .

The way she chooses to find joy in tiny, mundane details that others often overlook – like when she finally sourced the right birdbath for the front yard and we had a dinner to celebrate it – is admirable. But when it’s foisted on me? Hard pass.

‘She thinks you have a thing about turning thirty.’

I have a thing about being the centre of attention. I have a thing about being told – with actions, not words, usually, but still – that I’m falling behind. I have a thing about being thrown a pity party.

I trudge down the juice aisle, looking for the specials. Real juice is another thing that’s recently fallen into the ‘occasional treat’ category because the only types I can currently afford don’t contain any ingredients from the fruit category of the food pyramid.

‘Why would she do this?’ I ask a bottle of Brekkie Juice that’s half price.

Meredith laughs lightly and it’s nice to hear her sounding happy after everything she and Bernie have been through lately, even if it is at my expense. Last month she confided in me that they were hitting pause on IVF treatments and taking a break for a couple of months.

‘Really?’

My groan is loud enough to attract the attention of an older man several metres away. I lower my voice. ‘Is this about Brand or …’

‘The Man We Do Not Speak Of?’ Mere asks.

Sadly, bad boyfriend choices are nothing new for me.

Brand’s still being a pain in the ass, sure, but the guy before him who set me on this new life trajectory?

The one sponsored by ramen noodles and no-brand everything?

My skin still smarts when I think about Tim.

Spoiler alert: all the advice to never date your boss exists for very good reasons, but Gen-of-the-past didn’t know that.

It’s so true that you learn something from every relationship, because Tim taught me that with certain people, you can’t have Dr Jekyll without Mr Hyde.

I just didn’t realise it until everything blew up in my face.

‘She doesn’t even know what really happened with that jackass,’ Mere says. ‘Mum’s still confused about why you dumped Brand. She wants you to be happy, and to her that means being hopelessly in love with the perfect man.’

I add the Brekkie Juice to my basket and head towards the rice aisle. God forbid I choose to be content on my own. ‘But I am happy.’

Compared to where I was a year ago, I’m ecstatic.

I’m not stuck in a job I hate, working for the man who ruined everything.

Brand will eventually get the message or find someone new and shiny to fixate on.

I’m building a new life. One that’s just mine.

Business is slower than I’d like but it’s growing.

Yesterday I had an enquiry from the bookstore next door to Get Fit, Get Strom.

It’s not hard to figure out who recommended me, but I’ll take what I can get at the moment and be grateful.

And at least with Mere giving me the heads up, I might be able to convince Mum this party is a bad idea.

Why is society so uncomfortable with people who choose to be on their own anyway?

Based on my previous dating experiences, there isn’t a single thing a man can give me that I can’t give myself.

Case in point: the orgasm I had after Caleb left for work last night, when I didn’t have to stress about him hearing any buzzing through the wall that separates our bedrooms.

I’m doing fine on my own.

Knox’s navy eyes materialise in my mind. The way his pupils had dilated, how tenderly he’d cupped my jaw when I’d thought we were about to kiss. I’d wanted so much more from him, and the sting of his rejection lingers.

‘She means well,’ Mere says.

‘I know.’ I pick up a bag of brown rice and toss it into my basket, not caring if it squashes the cheap loaf of multigrain that’s best as toast. Not that I’m complaining. Skimping on my groceries means I can afford coffees from Alizée’s and a weekly takeaway meal. A girl’s got to have priorities.

‘But that’s not all,’ Meredith says as I turn down the toiletries and personal hygiene aisle. Tampons are the last thing on my list, because the universe loves to kick me when I’m down.

Hefting the basket so it balances against my hip, I raise one hand and pinch the bridge of my nose.

‘What else is there?’ I ask, already imagining that Mum’s done something ridiculous like make it a black-tie event.

These days I consider wearing pants that have a zip, not an elastic waist, dressing up.

‘It’s tonight.’

‘What?! But my birthday isn’t for another two weeks,’ I screech.

‘She didn’t tell me about it until just now. Probably knew I’d blab to you.’

Great. At least we’re predictable, I guess.

‘Do you know who she’s invited?’ I grab the first packet of tampons I see and toss them into my overflowing basket. They ricochet off the side of my juice and fall to the floor, sliding several metres away and landing at the feet of … Sweet mercy, kill me now.

Knox kneels, his black running shorts riding high and the muscles in his thighs doing things that make me bite my lip. Stupid hormones.

It’s official. The universe and I are going to have a falling out.

I’ve got an ex who won’t leave me alone, an unwanted surprise party tonight and now, when I’m feeling all hormonal and gross, I have to see the hot guy who got all up in my grill in the most delicious way and then rejected me?

This is very uncool. I swear under my breath.

‘What’s happening?’ Meredith asks.

‘Nothing. I’ll call you back,’ I mutter, putting my basket on the ground so I can fish my phone out of the side pocket of my leggings and end the call.

It doesn’t make any sense but Knox looks even better under the fluorescent lights. His hair’s all tousled, he’s got that post-exercise glow happening and his long-sleeve shirt hugs his chest like it wants to be his very best friend forever.

‘Hey,’ Knox says. The pack of tampons are so small in his hand. I’ll give him his dues, though. He doesn’t blush or act like the fact that women menstruate is something men shouldn’t know about. He’s just as matter of fact and calm as he was the other night, which is also annoying.

‘Thanks,’ I mumble, wrapping my hand around the box. The corners dig into my palm.

‘You okay? How are things with Brand?’

‘I’m fine, Knox. It’s not your problem,’ I snap, directing my frustration with Mum and this party at him and regretting it immediately when the corners of his mouth tip down. ‘I’m sorry. That was rude.’

‘I do the same thing every time,’ Knox says.

What is he talking about? I drag my eyes away from the linoleum floor until our gazes meet.

‘Always think a basket will be enough and live to regret my decision.’ He nods at my basket.

My attention shifts to his. You can tell a lot about a person based on what’s in their shopping basket.

Knox is big into fresh vegetables and meat.

There’s a lot of food in there. Who’s he making dinner for?

And why do I care? Is it really because my uterus is rioting?

Or because I’d needed a little something to get myself there last night and, without planning to, I’d imagined his quiet commands, his firm hands?

My phone rings and I pull it out of my pocket. It’s Mum. ‘I better get this,’ I say, waving my phone around like I need to prove someone’s calling me.

‘Sure,’ Knox says and turns back to his shopping before pausing and twisting back around. ‘Good to see you, Gen.’

You know what else is annoying? How I can’t help but like the way he says my name.

‘Hi, Mum,’ I say.

‘Sweetie, hi. I wanted to remind you about dinner at the Clamshell tonight. You’re still free?’

‘I’m not feeling great,’ I say, like the big chicken I am.

I’ve never been any good at standing up for myself where Mum’s concerned, but that’s only because once Eva Halliday’s made her mind up about something, there’s no stopping her.

Even if Mum suspects I know about the party, she’s not going to let me off the hook.

‘I’m sure you’ll be fine. We’ll see you there at seven. Try to wear something that isn’t marketed as “athleisure”, please.’

I sigh. This party bus is leaving the station, and I’d better get on board.

Torn jeans and my ‘nice’ white sneakers are the extent of my rebellion.

I’d considered wearing a black bra under my loose-fitting cream blouse, but I didn’t want to give Mum an eye twitch.

If I had a dollar for every time she’d told Meredith and I when we were growing up that underwear should always be worn but never seen, I’d probably have a nicer collection of bras and panties than the plain cotton sets I buy.

Even before I entered my financially compromised era, I preferred comfort over prettiness.