THIRTY-EIGHT
So, naturally, Abbey decides to combine all three into one death march.
I, on the other hand, am dressed like a sleep-deprived bin chicken who’s lost her will to perform femininity. Luke’s oversized shirt. Old runners. Eyes half closed. Soul fully absent.
‘Don’t talk to me,’ I mumble as I slide into the passenger seat.
Abbey grins. ‘I brought you a banana.’
‘I hope you slip on it.’
She blasts Taylor Swift for the entire ten-minute drive, windows cracked enough to let the cold morning air slap me awake. By the time we pull into the Bondi Beach car park, the sky is already blushing – the shade of pink that hints at sunrise but hasn’t committed yet.
The world is quiet and beautiful and horribly cold.
A cloud of salty mist hugs the coastline, softening the edges of jagged rock while a sleepy ocean laps the shoreline.
Waiting by the surf club is the most aggressively perky group of people I have ever seen on a winter morning, all of them with Disney-Channel-extra levels of enthusiasm.
Everyone’s stretching and chatting and wearing breathable, sweat-wicking clothing.
Someone is bouncing in place as if they’re about to audition for the role of a Peloton instructor.
Abbey claps me on the back. ‘Welcome to run club.’
‘I hate it here.’
She pulls me towards a group of shiny twenty-two-year-olds with smooth foreheads and functioning knees.
‘This is Jamie,’ Abbey says. ‘She’s new.’
They smile as if I’m a stray dog they’ve decided to foster out of goodwill. I give them a wave that resembles a muscle spasm. Then Abbey spots someone and disappears with a casual ‘Back in a sec!’, leaving me standing alone.
I start stretching – or at least mimicking the general idea of stretching – when a voice says, ‘Jamie?’
I don’t have to turn, because I know that voice. The universe has a twisted sense of humour, and I clearly offended a god somewhere in a past life.
I turn anyway.
He’s wearing navy running shorts and a loose grey tee that clings in the right places, and he looks healthy and decent and – ugh – wholesome.
‘Tom,’ I say, blinking. ‘Hey.’
He smiles, a little hesitant. ‘Didn’t expect to see you here.’
‘Me neither,’ I admit. ‘I, uh … I didn’t know this was your run club.’
‘I just joined. Every Tuesday and Saturday.’
‘Cool. Yeah. Very cool.’ I nod. There’s an awkward beat before I blurt, ‘I’m sorry. For ghosting you. For being a complete and utter mess. For … everything.’
Tom stares at me for a second, then he nods. ‘It’s okay.’
‘I was dealing with some stuff, which I now realise is total bullshit and mostly me protecting myself from feeling like a garbage person. So … yeah.’
He chuckles softly. ‘I thought you hated running.’
‘I do hate running,’ I say. ‘My friend dragged me here. I think she’s hoping I’ll drink the Kool Aid.’
‘This group is actually great,’ he says. ‘There’s a shorter route if you don’t want to do the full five. Just turn around at Mackenzies Point.’
‘Oh, thank God,’ I breathe. ‘I was fully prepared to fake an injury or lie down on the beach and let the seagulls eat me.’
He shakes his head, smiling. ‘You’ll be fine. Just pace yourself.’
I nod, feeling lighter and less haunted. ‘So,’ I say, ‘how’s marathon training going?’
‘Good. Still brutal. But good.’ He shrugs. ‘I enjoy the structure.’
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘Structure sounds nice.’
We fall into an easy silence.
Then he says, ‘Would you want to grab dinner sometime?’
My heart stutters. Not in the exciting way, in the ‘please don’t make me do this again’ way. I could lie. I’ve done it a thousand times – smile, nod, slide into the version of myself that makes other people feel comfortable and me feel safe. It would be so easy to say yes, to follow the script.
But I’m tired. Tired of pretending I don’t know what I want. Tired of being agreeable when I’m quietly falling apart.
So, I tell the truth.
‘I think,’ I say carefully, ‘you deserve someone who’s not actively battling with her demons.’
He nods. ‘I respect that.’
‘If we cross paths again and my demons are safely locked away, maybe I’ll take you up on it.’
‘I’ll hold you to it,’ he says and extends his hand.
Someone yells, ‘Ready to go?’
I slide my frozen hand into his and we shake. ‘Deal.’
Abbey reappears beside me, breathless. ‘Who’s ready to run for their lives?’
‘Not me,’ I mutter.
Tom gives me a quick wave. ‘Good luck.’
I nod and then follow the cult into the rising winter sun.
It’s everything I feared.
I’m dying by the one-kilometre mark. My lungs have been personally insulted.
My thighs are liquid. My face is a shade of beetroot not found in nature.
I take the shortcut Tom recommended, and I’m still dead last. When I finally drag myself over the finish spot where everyone else is lounging about, Abbey is waiting with a water bottle and the grin of someone who loves to suffer.
‘You did it!’ she cheers.
I hunch over, hands on my knees. ‘I died.’
‘You’ve been resurrected,’ she says. ‘Isn’t that the best part?’
‘No,’ I gasp. ‘The best part will be when I never do this again.’ She throws an arm around my shoulder. ‘You say that now …’ ‘I say that forever.’
‘Come on. Post-run coffee and ocean swims.’
‘I’d rather be hit by the light rail.’
She hands me the water bottle. I chug it greedily.
‘You know’ – I wheeze in between the words – ‘one of these days I’m going to drag you along to something you’re terrible at, and I’ll take sweet satisfaction in watching you struggle.’
Abbey’s eyes twinkle. ‘Doubt it. I’m a fast learner.’
I sigh. Sweat-soaked, sore and still alive.
It started as a thought I tried to ignore, but my brain kept drifting back to the farm.
Not the dust, not the flies, not the emotional implosion that followed – but the moment before that.
The moment on Banjo’s back. When it was me, the horse, the horizon, and the weird, weightless feeling of not needing to be anywhere else.
Turns out, there’s a horseriding place in Moore Park. Private lessons. No judgemental twelve-year-olds. No spectators. Just me and whatever version of myself shows up.
The place smells of hay and something rich and earthy that makes my city-girl sensibilities feel a little unqualified. But I show up anyway – jeans, Blundstone boots, and a heart doing something suspiciously close to longing.
A woman approaches me near the stables. She’s stocky and walks with a certainty I envy. Her hair is perfectly white, short and meticulously brushed. Her eyes are a warm brown and her smile is wry, like she’s seen some shit and didn’t flinch.
‘Jamie?’ she asks.
I nod. ‘That’s me.’
‘I’m Ava,’ she says. ‘Let’s get you fitted for a helmet so your brain stays where it should.’
That’s fair.
As she adjusts the strap under my chin, she asks, ‘So, what brings you here?’
‘Honestly?’ I pause. ‘I rode a horse in the outback a while ago. It was only once, but I haven’t been able to stop thinking about how it felt.’
Ava squints up at me, checking the sincerity behind my eyes.
‘Hmm,’ she says, tightening the chin strap. ‘That feeling’s a sticky one.’
‘Sticky?’
‘Sticks with you,’ she explains. ‘But riding here is not like the country.’
I nod again. ‘I figured.’
‘Out there, you ride the land,’ she says. ‘Here, you learn the horse.
Learn how to listen. How to earn trust. They’ll give you everything if you treat ’em right – but only if.’ She taps her ear and winks. She then takes me over to a sleek black mare with soft eyes and a proud gait. ‘This here is Stella,’ she says. ‘She’s kind. Honest. But she doesn’t suffer fools.’
I step forward, gently, trying to remember how I said hello to Banjo. I stroke the mare’s neck and whisper, ‘Hey, Stella.’
She blinks at me. We’re off to a good start.
Ava adjusts the saddle, gives it a quick tug, then steps back with a nod. I don’t move right away. Instead, I stand there – one hand resting on the worn leather – and my mind slips, uninvited, to the last time I did this.
Luke’s hands wrapping around my waist and hoisting me up onto Banjo. No hesitation. No teasing. Just quiet strength and the kind of focus that made my breath catch for reasons I didn’t want to name at the time.
He didn’t ask if I needed help. He gave it.
I swallow hard.
This time, I do it on my own. I place my boot in the stirrup, grip the pommel the way Ava showed me, and swing my leg over with a grunt that’s more effort than elegance. The saddle creaks under me, but I’m up.
Just me and the hollow thud of everything I’ve chosen to do alone.
Ava mounts her own horse – a brown mare named Ruby – and leads us out of the stables and onto a trail through Centennial Park.
It’s not the outback. The air’s smothered with city noise.
Planes buzz overhead. Joggers pass us wearing Bluetooth earbuds with labradoodles in tow.
But none of that matters once we start moving.
Ava talks softly as we go, walking me through how to nudge Stella to change pace – which, it turns out, requires actual finesse when there’s no broody six-foot-tall man behind you slapping your horse’s arse.
She shows me how to keep my shoulders loose, how to shift my weight so I’m not fighting the rhythm but moving with it and the two of us are learning the same language one quiet step at a time.
It’s slower than last time. Calmer. No galloping, no wind-in-myhair moment of cinematic magic. But it’s something.
It’s the realisation that this horse – this beautiful, breathing creature – is actually listening to me. Responding. Reading me. And I’m reading her.
It’s not the country. But it’s still something.
By the time we get back to the stables, I feel as though I’ve been wrung out in the best possible way. Ava shows me how to unbuckle the saddle and slide it off gently, how to brush Stella’s coat and check her hooves.
‘She’ll warm to you a lot more if you do it right,’ she says, handing me an apple.
I take it and hold it out flat on my palm, offering it to the black mare. Stella’s lips brush my hand as she takes the apple. Her breath is warm. Her eyes meet mine for a second, and I swear I feel understood.
‘I know,’ I whisper. ‘I’m figuring it out too.’
Ava reappears as I’m rubbing down Stella’s side, helmet under my arm.
She leans against the stable door. ‘So?’
I look at her. Then at Stella. Then back again.
‘It’s still … beautiful,’ I admit, walking out of the stall and closing the door behind me. ‘Being around them. I feel grounded.’
Ava smiles. ‘They have a way of holding up a mirror. You can’t lie to a horse.’
‘Great,’ I say. ‘So much for my career as a professional liar.’
‘You’ll do fine,’ she says, taking the helmet from my hands. ‘Are you coming back?’
I pause. My chest tugs. The ache is still there, deep and Lukeshaped. But this? This feels close to peace in a way I forgot existed.
‘Yeah,’ I say. ‘I am.’
She nods, as if she already knew.
I reach over the stall door and stroke Stella’s mane one more time. ‘See you soon,’ I whisper.
She flicks her ear.