Epilogue #2
Then I see them. Well, first I see the banner he and my mother are holding.
I saw it at my first transition but I was too light-headed from my swim to read it properly.
I spent the whole of the bike ride wondering what it said.
It was the perfect distraction. At my second transition, from the bike to running, I finally read it and for the first three kilometres of my run, I was smiling as I recalled it.
But that only lasted so long. The slightly bleak and industrial surroundings of the run killed any good mood I had and I think I had the shortest ever recorded runner’s high which quickly broke to make way for runner’s low, identifiable by blisters on feet, chafing thighs and a very persistent cramp in the stomach.
A cramp that has only worsened with every step I've taken.
I know you’re supposed to carb load before a race but maybe I did overdo it with Mamma’s cannelloni last night.
It’s only a few seconds after I see the banner again and the shouting, smiling faces of my mother, Radia, Chloe and Giles that that cramp turns into a stabbing pain so severe I stop running and double over.
“Cazzu dialulu!” I call out and hug my stomach. Aware of pounding feet all around me, I try to straighten up. I can’t let this get the better of me when I’m literal metres from the finish line, and being watched by those I love most.
But it’s impossible. The pain is too much. It feels both burning hot and ice cold, which interestingly enough is what my body temperature is also replicating. It’s like a blade slicing through my intestines, especially on the right side, and straightening up only increases the pain tenfold.
So, I guess I’m crawling to the finish line.
Because I will finish this. I’ve come too far not to.
Besides, I don’t want Giles to worry. I don’t want him to think that I’m in pain or uncomfortable. I don’t want to give him even a slight hint that something is wrong with me. I know how hard he’s battled his compulsions recently. I don’t want to undo his good work.
And I want to make Giles proud of me. I want to thank him for all he’s done for me as my trainer but also as my boyfriend. I want to tell him that he’s changed my life, bringing colour and excitement and purpose to it. I want to ask him…
An arm wraps around my back, halting my thoughts.
“Are you okay?” Giles voice is near my ear. And of course it’s him. I smell his leafy, earthy scent and I smile, even through the agonising pain.
“Cramp,” I say, even though I’m far from certain this is what it is. I’ve had stitches and cramps aplenty during our training runs and occasionally during my practise swims, and none of them have felt as blindingly bad as this.
“Okay,” he says and his arm starts to pull on me, urging me up a little. “Let’s get you across the finish line.”
“I can do it,” I tell him and I unfold myself just enough to see how far I’ve got to do.
I groan. Did I go backwards? I swear the distance just doubled.
“It’s okay. I’ve got you. We’re going to do this together.”
Together… Him and me. Me and him.
Yeah. That’s what I want.
“Okay,” I say and I push up a little more. The pain doesn’t go anywhere – it’s alarmingly stubborn – but I lean against Giles and trust that he’ll get me where I need to .
And he does. By the time I approach Mamma, Chloe and Radia, we’ve even picked up our pace to a gentle jog. I force out a smile for my mother and wink at Radia and Chloe who look a peculiar mix of concerned and impressed.
Ten seconds later, we cross the finish line.
Two seconds later, I collapse to the ground and everything goes black.
I was right all along. This run, this triathlon really did kill me.
But that isn’t my last thought. My last thought is, Giles.
*****
When I wake up again, I’m in a hospital bed. I know this from the smell. Cleaning products, instant coffee and the slightly acidic sweet smell of illness. I recognise it immediately from when Papa was brought in after his aneurysm.
As my eyes adjust to the bright light, I hear a muffled cacophony of background noise – mumbled conversations, the occasional beep, the soft slaps of shoes walking on lino – and so I know I’m not in a private room.
It takes another beat for me to realise I’m also not alone. That there is a hand in my hand and because I don’t feel like I can lift my head up enough to see who it is, I squeeze it to try and determine if it’s who I want it to be.
“Baby?” I barely whisper.
“Marcello?” Giles’ face with his chiselled jaw, perfect moustache and ocean eyes pops into view above me. His brow is creased with worry and there are grey semi-circles under his eyes, but he still looks so damn handsome.
“What happened?” I ask. My voice is rough and dry, and my throat aches a little from the effort of those two simple words.
“You had to have an emergency appendectomy.”
“A what?”
“Your appendix burst.” Giles brings a hand to my face and smooths hair away from my face. “So they had to remove it.”
I stare at him while I absorb this information. I’m still not sure my brain has a hold on it when I say. “See, I told you the triathlon would kill me.”
His smile is warm but small. “It didn’t kill you. It was just very bad timing. But,” he draws in a breath, “at least it didn’t happen in the swimming or bike rounds. You still got to finish your first triathlon.”
“Hmm.” I try to smile but it feels like a lot of work. “I’ve always had a problem being late for things.”
His soft chuckle is music to my ears. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been hit by a truck and said truck then reversed back over my battered body.”
“I’m sorry.” He combs my hair again and I can’t imagine it’s been washed so it must be sweaty and dirty and messy.
“No, I'm sorry,” I say and I wish I could move, take him in my arms and hold him. “Were you terrified?”
He gives me a brief but real smile. “I was a little alarmed, yes. But you very conveniently collapsed in front of an emergency medical team who were ready to whisk you away in an ambulance when you didn't come round immediately. That helped.”
“I'm considerate like that,” I half-croak, half-joke. “But did it... Did it set off your counting?”
“I've had a few moments over the last eight or so hours, but I'm still here. More importantly, so are you. And you're going to be okay.”
“Where’s Mamma?”
“I sent her home. She was exhausted. She was here most of the night but she really needed to sleep. I said I’d call when you woke up.” He moves to pull his phone out of his trouser pocket.
“Wait,” I say a little louder but as a result, with a lot more rasp.
“What? Do you need a nurse?”
“No, no,” I shake my head, “I want to ask you something.”
“Oh. What?”
“Actually I want to ask you to ask me something,” I croak.
“What?” Giles leans a little closer.
“Do you remember what you asked me when I first took you home and introduced you to Mamma as my boyfriend?”
There’s a pause in which I can almost see, almost hear his brain working. But it doesn’t last long.
“Yeah, I remember.”
“Ask me again.”
His smile is just broad enough to make his moustache bounce. “One day,” he says.
I frown at him, confused but then he speaks again.
“Marcello, will you move in with me?”
My grin moves my whole face, and I’m aware of aches and pains somewhere, everywhere, but they’re fading quickly as I stare into his blue-green eyes. “Yes, Giles. I’d love to.”
He dives down to kiss my lips before I can tell him not to, that I must stink, that I don’t even know how long I’ve been unconscious, let alone how long it’s been since I last cleaned my teeth.
But he clearly doesn’t care. Or rather, he cares only about kissing me. And I’m not about to stop that.
“I’m so glad you’re okay,” he says, his lips brushing mine.
“Baby, I’m sorry, again,” I say. “I hope you weren’t—”
“It’s okay,” he interrupts, knowing exactly what I was trying to say. “I didn't deal with it perfectly, but your mamma helped and I guess that's why I've got Lucille, to help me process it all.”
“And me,” I tell him and bring my hand to the back of his head so I can keep him close. “You've got me now.”
“Yes, I do,” he smiles and rubs the tip of his nose against mine. His bouncing moustache brushes across my top lip.
“I'm so proud of you.” I kiss him again.
“Not as proud as I am of you, Mr Triathlete.”
I’d almost forgotten about the triathlon, but I guess I am a triathlete.
Maybe I’ll even do another one, one day.
But I’m not going to think about that now.
Now I just want to live in this perfectly imperfect moment where I’m lying in a hospital bed, exhausted and filthy, and being loved by a man I never imagined would return all the love I have to give him.
But he does. I know he does.
“Ti amo,” I tell him. “Fino alla fine.”
“I love you too,” he says and gives me a knowing look. I keep forgetting he can speak some Italian too now. “Until the end.”
Absolutely the best mid-life crisis ever.
THE END