I want Austin to feel like he can tell me his ‘reasons’. He’s my closest friend in the States, and I want to support him through whatever he’s facing.
“It looks like we’re both keeping secrets.” I glare at him.
Austin raises his hands in mock surrender. “I won’t bring it up again. I just want you to be happy, Sam. And if this is what makes you happy, fine.”
“Iamhappy.” I slam the fridge door, and something inside clanks loudly.
“Really sounds like it,” he says sarcastically, and I flip him off as I go back upstairs.
Chapter 37
Twenty-two years old
Kath
My lungs are on fire, but the finish line is in sight. I push for one last burst of speed, ignoring the burn in my legs. As soon as I cross the line and pause my watch, the endorphins hit. It helps that the sun’s out and the park looks stunning this morning, green grass, vibrant flowers, fewer puddles than usual for England.
I bend over, hands on my knees, catching my breath.
“Twenty-two forty,” the timekeeper calls. I flash him a thumbs-up. Not my best time, but not my worst, either.
I move out of the way and grab some snacks out of my bag. Sipping water, I scan the path for Claire. She appears a few minutes later, puffing, red-faced and drenched in sweat. Frankly, I’m still impressed that I convinced her to do Parkrun with me. She hates cardio almost as much as she hates early mornings. Her usually perfect blonde hair is plastered to her forehead and she glares at me as she crosses the finish line.
“Never again,” she wheezes as we grab our stuff. “I can’t believe I thought this would be fun.”
“It’s just a 5K.” I try not to laugh at her state of distress. “It’s meant to be a fun run. Community vibes. I usually do the Exeter one—loads of myfriends are into it, and there are runs all over the world. You can do them in Canada and New Zealand and all sorts of other places.”
She just shakes her head, apparently out of words. I offer her a banana and we find a bench to sit on.
“I can’t believe you got me to do that,” she says. “I wanted to see you and catch up. Not die on the altar of cardio. I like the gym. Thegym. This outdoor life is too much. I can’t believe you’re doing a marathon.”
She does a full-body shudder and I grin.
“I promise it’s actually fun,” I tell her. “I never thought I’d like running, but now I love it. And I only signed up for the marathon because Tom convinced me to. We’re doing a training run tomorrow actually; he’s staying with my parents over half-term.”
Claire narrows her eyes. “You and Tom can enjoy your little death cult. I’ll be at home, lifting weights like a sane person.”
I laugh. “You’re overdramatic. I promise if you trained, you might enjoy it. Anyway, catch me up. How’s work?”
Claire’s just started in marketing and public relations. I still don’t totally understand what her job involves, but from what I can gather, it’s veryher—all energy, charm and creativity. I'm glad there's some room to create in her job. She wanted to do an art degree, but her mum talked her out of it, the way her mum always does. She did business instead, but at least her job seems to suit her.
We chat about her job, a few of her clients, and her new flatmate, an aspiring DJ who, according to Claire, only owns two playlists: “lo-fi chill” and “absolute chaos”. I’d probably last a week in that house. Too much noise.
Sometimes I find it hard to believe we left school years ago, and that I have friends withactualcareers now. Salaries. Flats. House plants. Meanwhile, I’m still a student, calling my dad when the washing machine makesa weird noise or when the boiler breaks. I don’t feel like a real adult—more like a very convincing impersonator.
Though part of my brain chooses that moment to helpfully remind me that I’m not the only one who’s still a student. I’m pretty sure Sam's still studying, at least I assume so. I’m not sure if something’s changed in the last year given we haven’t spoken.
I stop that train of thought, immediately annoyed with myself. I need to stop thinking about him.
“Other than running, anything new?” Claire stretches her legs out in front of her and I shake myself back into the present.
“I signed up for yoga,” I say. “That’s been fun. Oh, and I did some art classes. But honestly, I was so bad.”
“You werehorrificat art at school,” she laughs. “Do you remember that clay turtle you made in Year 9? The one that looked like something out of a horror movie?”
“OK, rude. That wasabstract.”
“All right, Kandinsky.”
