Page 22 of In the Long Run
Eugene unfolds his glasses, puts them on and picks up one of the books stacked on the large metal stool he’s always used as a bedside table.‘Your money is your money, Knox.’
‘Is this my home?’I ask.
His eyes narrow.‘Of course it is.’
I sit on the end of his bed, careful not to jostle his bad foot or Madeleine or Chouquette, who are both curled up next to him.‘It was originally your home, and you shared it with me.This is the same thing.’
‘No, it’s not.’
‘What’s mine is yours, Eug.’
He blinks slowly and opens his battered copy ofThe Three Musketeers.Alexandre Dumas is a longtime favourite of his.‘I don’t want to talk about this.Not anymore.I want to read for a bit and then go to sleep.’
I start to stand, but Eugene stops me.‘Don’t think I’m not grateful, because I am.It’s just hard.I thought if I kept trying things would eventually improve.I didn’t want to be a burden, but look where that’s gotten me.I won’t drag you down with me.’
Now’s when I should say that it’s too late.That I’ve already done it.But my throat’s tight, the words nowhere to be found.Instead all I can think about is that old adage of asking for forgiveness instead of permission.
He’ll understand.
He’ll forgive me.
Eugene picks up his book and plucks out the leather bookmark stamped with half-moon crescents, swords and crossbows.I made it for him in Year 7 when my class did a leatherworks project.Gave it to him on Father’s Day, because he’d been more of a father to me by then than my real one was.I bet the belt I made is still tucked in his wardrobe.The buckle broke years ago, but Eug refused to get rid of it.
I stand to leave.I’ll sneak back in and turn the baby monitor on once he’s asleep, like I do every night.Eugene’s huff stops me in the doorway and I turn back.He’s frowning at the page.Eug replaces the bookmark and closes the book.
‘You okay?’I ask.
He must be so sick of me asking that, but he doesn’t get frustrated or raise his voice.‘I can’t focus.’
I shuffle back to his bedside and hold out my hand.I shifted his reading chair into the far corner of the room the other night to give him more space to move around in here.
‘What are you doing?’He stares at me blankly.
‘It’s my turn to read to you.’
His expression softens and I know he’s thinking the same thing I am.That this is familiar ground for us.The roles might be reversed, but that’s okay.It’s a good lesson that sometimes when things change, it’s not all bad.
‘You don’t have to.’
I snatch the book playfully.‘I want to, Eug.Besides, I still don’t know how this ends.’We never finishedThe Three Musketeersbecause I got too cool to keep letting Eugene read to me once I was fourteen.
He’s asleep within two pages, so I mark the place with the bookmark and flip back to the beginning.I want to sit here for a little bit and reacquaint myself with the story so I can keep pretending that what Eugene doesn’t know won’t hurt him.But I’ve been down that path before and it destroyed everything.
But there’s a difference this time, I remind myself as I settle further in the chair and start reading.
This time it’s being done to benefit other people.
Not to ruin lives.
9
GEN
There’s something special about being up early.It’s my favourite time of day.I creep past Caleb’s open door because he didn’t finish work until eleven, but my feet flatten against the hardwood floors when I open my phone and find his text about spending the night at Lawson’s place.We only have a few flatmate rules – don’t use each other’s stuff without asking, make sure all extra-curricular nocturnal activities and guests are respectful and not obnoxiously loud (this was implemented after he brought home a cowgirl from a costume party who wouldn’t stop yeehaw-ing) – but the only one that really matters is our promise to always let each other know if we’re not coming home.
Now that I don’t need to worry about disturbing Caleb, I flick on the lounge room light, blinking a few times until the charcoal leather couch and faux designer coffee table come into focus.My dry washing from yesterday is still in the basket and I rifle through it, searching for my favourite running top, a seafoam long sleeve that was a Christmas present from Meredith and Bernie.Supposedly this brand has the best sweat wicking technology.It’s silly to bypass the stack of similar tops in my drawers, but Meredith always says this colour complements my skin tone.Wanting to look nice has nothing to do with the fact that Knox is going to be there.
The shirt’s wedged underneath endless pairs of running tights.Mum might be right about me needing to make more effort with my appearance.At least I exercise in my workout gear, unlike the legions of people who wear activewear daily and never break a sweat.That’s got to count for something, right?And, while I’m on this little journey of self-reflection, I’m going to give myself a bonus point for maybe making a new friend.
