16. Jay
Chapter sixteen
Jay
K aty insisted on calling a cab for me to get home last night. I told her I’d be fine walking, but she wouldn’t let me go alone after the day I’d had, and there was no way in hell I’d let her walk me home and then walk home again—alone—afterwards. Especially not after the glass of wine she poured herself while we watched Die Hard . So, she called me a cab, and this morning, she showed up at my flat.
When my phone rang as I was rubbing a towel over my hair, fresh from the shower, it was nice to hear her voice. It was a surprise to hear she’d driven over. I didn’t even know she had a car. Whenever we meet at Flights and Fancies, she walks or takes the bus, and I know she never drives to work. But she called from her car and promised me a breakfast that would blow my mind, so once I directed her to the visitor spaces in the underground parking garage, I quickly shoved my used towels into the washing machine and hid last night’s dirty dishes in the sink before she reached my door.
Now, we’re sat up at my breakfast bar with coffee and bagels between us—Katy wasn’t wrong, this breakfast is fantastic—and she’s eyeing me with suspicion. Even with hardened, narrowed eyes, she’s beautiful. Her golden ponytail is glowing, backlit by the low sun from the window, hanging over one shoulder.
“I think I want to try running again.”
“Running? Are you—I mean, is your leg up to it?”
“It’s been feeling better. Good, even. I can walk longer before it starts to ache.”
“That’s good!” Her grin grows as she carefully tears off a piece of her bagel. “Do you want me to come with you?”
“I don’t need a babysitter, Katy.” I manage to speak without snapping, but the words still come out harsher than I intend them to, and I kick myself as soon as they’re out of my mouth. Hurt flashes through Katy’s brown eyes before she can school her expression into something neutral. I take a large bite of my bagel, tearing out an entire strip of greasy, perfectly-crispy bacon with my teeth. I have to use my fingers to stop it from falling and slapping me on the chest.
“I didn’t mean—no, you know what? Forget I said anything. If you think you’re ready, then go for it.”
“Cody cleared me weeks ago.” It’s the first time I’ve admitted it. I just haven’t felt like actually doing it. I keep that part to myself. My head has been all over the place lately. The more time I spend with Katy, the more time I want to spend with her. But the more I’m afraid of her, too. Afraid for her. The more I’m afraid my baggage will be too heavy. That my darkness will dull her shine. That all the barriers between us—my sister, our age gap, the completely different lives we’ve lived—will be insurmountable.
“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 out at 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 her old 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, with two in 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 the pain . 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.
“No, I don’t think so.” I release a long breath from pursed lips and move to roll my pants down again. Katy adjusts it, blousing it over my trainers as I move to stand.
“Don’t rush, love.” One hand rests on my foot. “Just take your time. Rest a minute longer, if you need.”
I take another minute before pushing to my feet. The pain has gone, leaving only a dull ache in my muscles and a light throb in my skin, where nerve endings are still relearning how to fire.
“Come on. Let’s go back to mine and order pizza. I think we’ve earned it after this.”
She grabs my hand and leads me back to her car. I left mine at her house this evening. With rush hour traffic gone, it’s only a short drive back to Katy’s house, and I release an embarrassing groan as I hoist myself out of her car. It’s the kind of grunt and groan sound that old men make when they stand up or sit down. The kind I always used to mock my dad for. By the time I’m fully upright, steadying myself with one hand on the roof of her tiny Yaris, Katy has rounded the front of the car and is patting me on the chest.
“Come on. I’ll even let you shower first. Wait—do you have anything to change into?”
“There’s a go-bag in my car,” I sigh. I’d almost forgotten it was there until now. You can take the man out of the army but you’ll never take the army training, the preparedness, the readiness for all eventualities, out of the man. I click the key fob in my pants pocket and amble across the road to my car, pulling the bag from the back and locking it again. I wait for the lights to flash before clicking it one more time—just to be sure—and meeting Katy at her front door.
“Pepperoni?” she asks. “Wings or garlic bread?”
“Get both. I’ll pay.”
I pull my wallet from my pocket and hand over my debit card. Her lips curve into a wicked smile, crinkling the corners of her eyes, and fuck, I love that I can make her smile like that. That smile, the one that lights up her whole face, warms me like sunshine. “Okay,” she says, ushering me up the stairs. “I’ll jump in the shower when you’re done.”
Growing up with a mum and sister who liked to hog all the hot water instilled in me the value of a quick shower, and the skill was honed in shower tents in the Middle Eastern deserts, where the water was blessedly cool, but the pressure was poor and cleanliness worse. I let the blissfully hot water sluice over my skin, rinsing the sweat and shame off my body and loosening some of the muscles already beginning to tighten. There’s a small graze on my left knee, and one on the side of my hand where I caught myself as I fell. I wince as the water stings them. Once I’m dry and dressed in the clean joggers and T-shirt from my car, I drag my bag and my weary body downstairs to meet Katy.
She squeezes my arm lightly as she passes me, heading up for her own shower. I hate the way my body reacts to her touch, with panic rather than peace. The way my skin prickles, and every muscle fibre stiffens, my breathing hitches, my pulse quickens. The way her proximity so often ignites my fight or flight response. I will my breathing to even out as I take a seat in the armchair across from the sofa, digging my right heel into the edge of the seat and rolling up the legs of my trousers.
Running my hands over the skin of my shins, it already feels dry and scaly after my shower. I rifle through my bag for an emollient cream and smooth it over the scars. I can practically see my skin greedily accepting hydration, using the cream to smooth out all the bumps and ridges. It’s just a shame this greasy shit only works on skin, and not my fucking brain.
True to her word, Katy’s shower is almost as quick as mine, and she returns a few minutes later in grey leggings and a pale pink sweatshirt. Even as oversized as it is, the cuffed waistband clings to her narrow waist, blousing the material over her hips, and the wide collar offers a tantalising glimpse of the creamy skin of her shoulder. It’s not like I’ve never seen her in this kind of outfit—it seems to be a staple style when she’s at home—but my god, the gentle flush on her skin from the hot water, and the curve of her lips as she smiles at me with curious eyes…
What I wouldn’t give to be that sweater right now.
Twenty minutes later, I gather tissues as Katy unloads our food onto a pair of plates.
“You have a tattoo,” I say dumbly.
“You have several,” she responds with a cheeky smirk and a raised eyebrow. “Are we stating the obvious, or are you going to ask me what you want to know?”
“I didn’t know you had one.”
“Not really something I tend to advertise. Hi, my name’s Katy and I have a taco tattooed on my ribs.” She leads the way into the living room and I flick off the kitchen light as I follow, taking my plate and my seat and slouching with my legs spread in front of me.
“A… taco?” I hadn’t been able to make sense of the tiny explosion of colour, but a taco probably would’ve been my very last guess. An embarrassed flush colours Katy’s cheeks as she ducks her head.
“A taco,” she confirms. “Amie and I were… possibly a little too under the influence. An ill-conceived idea after little too much fun with our good buddy Sauvignon Blanc.”
“It happens to the best of us.” I try to console her, but I can’t help the way my lips twitch. I stuff a chunk of garlic bread into my mouth.
“So where’s your drunken tattoo, then? Let me guess, Father Christmas’s face around your right nipple?”
The mouthful of Sprite I take to wash down the garlic bread almost makes an immediate reappearance through my nose. I have to fight to swallow without spraying it across the room. There are many things I’m coming to know and like about Katy Keller, but this—her dry humour—might be one of my favourites.
“No,” I say, pressing my lips into a line. “But a buddy I jumped with had a cactus on his arse after he lost a bet.”
“Cam told me once that his best friend has a cockroach on his bum for the same reason.”
“Cam seems like the sort to have some interesting tats.”
“Nah. Too much of a pussy. Boy’s afraid of needles.”
“Wuss. What about you—would you get more?”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” Katy twists her lips in contemplation. “I mean… I’m not against it. I guess I just haven’t found anything I like enough to permanently mark my skin with it, you know?”
“Except tacos?”
“Except tacos. Fucking love tacos.”
Her nose crinkles as she grins, and we return to our food in companionable silence. Her words get me thinking. What do I like enough to permanently mark it on my skin? My career—check. Camping in the woods—check. My sister—check. Even some good artwork.
But already, I can see Katy symbolised in ink, too. And that thought both thrills and terrifies me in equal measure.