Page 35 of The Way We Fell

“So you should do it. If you want to.”

I do want to. But I can’t deny that I’m afraid of running, too. Afraid my leg won’t hold out long enough. Afraid it won’t hold outat all, that running will be off the table for me forever. I’m not a runner the same way Katy is. I've seen the marathon medals hanging in her hallway, and I know she and Amie both ran cross-country for years. Running isn't a part of my life the way it is for her. But I always enjoyed the challenge of it, of weighing myself down and pushing myself to see how far I could go. I enjoyed listening to the world around me as I cleared my mind of everything but the rhythmic thumping of my feet of the asphalt or the desert sand. It was a convenient way to maintain my strength and stamina, something I could do no matter where I was stationed.

“The running track by Foxley Station is quiet on Wednesday nights,” Katy says after a minute. “You could start there.”

I want to try it again. I think I need to.

But I don’t think I can do it alone.

A long moment of silence blankets us. A long moment of Katy’s dark eyes burning holes through me, of her fingertips brushing against mine as our hands rest, almost touching, on the counter.

“Would you—I mean—will you come with me?” Even though I just turned down her offer, my gut tells me I can’t do it without her. Her grin grows wider, a heart-stopping smile beaming across the counter at me, warming every long-forgotten crevice of my soul.

“Of course. You know I will. Name a time and a place, love. I’ll be there.”

“Come on then, old man.” Katy runs backwards, a few feet ahead of me. She doesn’t tell me she’s running intentionally slowly—she doesn’t have to. Her inconsistent speed tells me everything. The way she breaks away from me, and immediately slows right down when she notices the gap forming. The way she’s facing me now, forcing herself to slow down.

The floodlights shine down on her as she runs beneath them. The sun hasn’t fully set on a bright, early-spring day yet, but even in the no-man’s-land transition between late afternoon and early evening, the track is fully lit. It casts a harsh light on her pale skin, clashing with the golden hour light to give her a sickly pallor. She’s still pretty as hell.

I’ll give herold man.

I’m definitely out of shape. The burning in my quads, hamstrings and calf muscles says I’m out of shape. The way my heart is slamming against my ribs says I’m out of shape. The small group of men clearly in their fifties or sixties, easily overtaking me on the track—well, it tells me I’m almost embarrassingly out of shape. I’ve been to the gym a few times since coming home, but never for a full workout, never to the extent that I used to. But today, Katy’s had me run four laps of the track already—a full mile—and now we’re partway through a fifth. I used to run ten miles with a weighted backpack without even blinking. But my T-shirt is drenched, clinging to my torso, and I’ve had to take breaks at the halfway point of each lap.

Katy, for her part, looks fresh as a fucking daisy. I don’t think she’s even broken a sweat. Her blonde hair swings behind her from a ponytail high on the back of her head. The scrunchie is pink—of course it is—and it matches the neon stripe down each side of her charcoal leggings and sports bra. She was wearing a matching jacket earlier, when I arrived at her house, but that was discarded by the end of our first lap, tied around her waist and all but forgotten, leaving an expanse of clear, creamy skin visible over her ribs and stomach, the sinful curve of her waist and hips hugged by the skintight Lycra.

There’s a small patch of colour peeking out from beneath the band of her sports bra, and for the life of me, I can’t figure out what it is that she has inked on her ribs. Tattoos aren’t something we’ve ever talked about. It’s not something we’ve avoided; it’s more that they’ve just never come up in conversation before.

I have a few, and for the most part, I’ve never been one to hide them, whether from Katy, or from anyone else. By far the one with the most meaning is the regimental badge on my left bicep. Consisting of a winged parachute beneath a crown and a lion, withtwoin roman numerals below it, it takes up almost all of the real estate on my upper arm. Caleb and I got them together when we joined the regiment, along with a few other men who joined us. Getting the badge tattooed was a rite of passage, and nothing could’ve made me prouder than to wear it on my skin.

Wrapped around my right bicep is a mountain and forest scene, with a single, A-frame tent in the foreground. There’s a snake wrapped around a skull on my left thigh—because I liked the artwork, and the artist wanted to ink it, so he gave me a discount. And on my wrist, beneath the band of my watch, is a tiny green kangaroo. My way of keeping my little sister close when I had to leave her at home. I’ve never told Ruth about it, and it’s the only tattoo I’ve ever intentionally hidden.

But Katy’s never mentioned having a tattoo, either. The more I look, the more I’m struggling to figure out what it might be. It’s small and blocky, bright colours with a black outline.

“Once more around?” Katy calls to me as we cross the start line for the fifth time. “Make it a mile and a half?”

I want to say yes. I’ve been focusing on my breathing—and trying not to focus on Katy’s arse in those leggings—and although the first few hundred yards almost gave me a heart attack, my cardiovascular system is slowly starting to remember what it’s capable of. I’m still breathless and plagued by lactic acid, but I might actually be able to do this.

Until I can’t.

I feel it a split second before my brain tells me what’s happening. It’s like I put my foot down on something flimsy and hollow; it just keeps going and going until I’m on the floor. And thepain. The intense ache is worse than the fire in my lungs and the cramp in my thighs. It’s enough for me to grunt and groan, holding my shin and rolling in place.

Katy is at my side in seconds, in spite of her short legs and being several paces ahead. She squats to meet me on the ground, her hands immediately coming to cover mine on my leg.

“What is it, love? Did you trip? Is something hurt?”

“My fucking leg,” I grunt through gritted teeth. “Just—gave out on me.”

Fear flashes through Katy’s eyes before she can retrain her expression.

“Can I look?”

Fuck. This was the part I hoped we wouldn’t be doing. I wore long trousers for a reason. I’m much more comfortable running and working out in shorts, but since the accident—since the multiple operations and the hospital stays—both of my legs have been a mess. And I was really hoping to not have to show them off to Katy. Especially when she’s looking like—well,that. Her eyes burn a hole through my T-shirt, straight into my chest before they flick up to catch mine. And I can’t say no to her.

I grit my teeth harder, reaching for my ankle to roll up the navy jogging bottoms. I keep my eyes trained on Katy and she keeps hers on my leg as I reveal it slowly. She swallows hard, exhaling a shaky breath through her nose as the pink, mottled skin comes into view. Shiny, silvery marks, long scars trailing the length of my shin, cover the pale pink. I scrunch my eyes closed as small hands rest over mine, holding up my trouser leg.

“Does it—” Katy swallows hard. “Does it feel like you’ve broken something?”

I wriggle my toes, flex my ankle. It aches, but the pain is already subsiding.

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