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She stood with her feet in the shallows. Hands on her hips, head tipped back so her tail of hair stretched down her back. He didn’t want to move until she started running.
On another day, if he wasn’t a man without a conscience, he’d stand beside her, feel the same wave lap at his ankles, the same stretch of sand bury his toes. He’d run beside her, adjusting his stride so he didn’t outpace her, letting her determine how hard they ran, how long. He gripped the brick edge of the balcony.
He craved that synchronicity of being with her; breathing in the same space, seeing the same vista, hearing her voice, being aware of the cheeky glint in her eye, right before she realised she was flirting and closed it down with a tight expression that locked her thoughts away, but still managed to tell him he disgusted her.
And that was as it should be. Exactly what a man without substance, without backbone, deserved.
Why wasn’t she running? She turned and he almost ducked, so real was the feeling she was looking right at him. From where she stood she’d see a figure on the balcony but she wouldn’t know it was him, wouldn’t expect it to be. He realised she was looking at the clock over the surf club door. So much for casual, she was waiting for him.
He was made of jelly, not stone. He’d go downstairs and when he stood under the clock, if she was still at the shore he’d go down to her. Tell her again, this friends idea was a waste of her time, a threat to her well-being.
From under the clock he couldn’t see the shore. Too many parked cars in the way. He glanced up the length of the beach, where he’d be able to see if she was running, and couldn’t spot her. He crossed the promenade and stood at the top of the ramp that led down to the sand. She was still at the shore and now she could see him. She made a big armed come here, hurry up gesture. He knew her face would be sunshine itself. But he felt like a storm front.
He jumped the distance from the ramp to the sand and toed off his shoes, leaving them against the wall. They’d be there when he got back; they were too busted up for anyone to want to steal. He’d tell her to go, to leave him alone, to get on with her fucking life.
He watched his feet push into the sand, listened for the clean squeak of shell fragments colliding with skin and when he looked up she was gone. She’d started to move along the wave edge. He quickened his pace and she moved from a walk to a jog. He hit the wet sand and felt his leg muscles contract as he pushed into a run. Did she know he was there? Ahead, she ran around a kid building an epic castle and he slowed to avoid a surfer with a tangled leg rope. Not once did she look behind to see if he followed.
They could travel the whole beach like this, her in front, him behind, starting to sweat but less from the dying heat than the sight of her. Nothing on her body was spare or extra or left over. If he was jelly, insubstantial and weak, she was bamboo, wild and strong and flexible. She could splatter him into a million skerricks of nothing and he would still dirty her with his foulness.
He stopped, feet smacking the wet sand hard, breath coming in grunts. Why was it so hard to remember that? When he looked at her all he felt was want, the steady sting of desire whiplashing around his heart and throat. It made him forget he was unfit, unclean.
“Come on, you big girl.”
He looked up. She’d stopped too, was dancing foot to foot. She jerke
d her chin up in challenge. “You’re not even trying.”
He was trying to do the right thing and that wasn’t chasing after her. It wasn’t being beside her, being close enough to brush against her, have her voice in his ear and her smile made for him.
She took off again. If he let her go, she’d understand. He looked out at the horizon. It didn’t matter if she understood. He’d walked away from the privilege of being known. But with Foley, he craved it. For tonight, just for tonight, if she gave it, he’d take it.
He let one more wave break over his shins. She’d put distance between them. He’d need to work to catch her. He kicked off with a long stride, pounding the wet sand, his footprints stamping deep, hers already filled with water and dissolving. She was running hard, as if she knew the only reason he’d let himself be with her was if he had to work to win that prize.
He pulled his arms in tighter, eased his centre of balance forward and he gained on her. In a few seconds she’d hear him coming, it was all the warning she’d have. If this was a different life, he’d sweep her into his arms, bring them both to an easy rest, take her remaining breath as his own in a kiss to stagger them both. But easy wasn’t allowed either, because it’d once been too effortless and others had paid the price for his choices.
She laughed, tossing her head when he raced up behind her. Now beside her, he could see the sweat sheen on her arms and chest. She didn’t let up her pace and they raced along together, pounding the shoreline. A mum pulled her toddling kid out of their path. An older woman stepped back, smiling at them to give them their speed, a fisherman held off his cast till they passed in front of him. They were the wind and the sea and every element of life pulsing in between.
The rock pile at the end of the beach loomed and they both slowed, strides shortening, energy reined back, lungs grasping. Foley stopped first and he blasted past her then turned back. She was bent forward, holding her thighs, her back curved to drag in her next breath. Sweat dripped off her chin.
He walked back towards her, pushing his damp hair off his face. Now that he’d caught her, he didn’t know what he was supposed to do. How this friends who met to run on the beach together thing was supposed to work, what she’d expect from him that he couldn’t deliver.
She looked up, her face red. “That was brilliant.” She dragged a breath in and smiled and she was glorious. “If you made me work like that every day, I’d be the fittest I’ve ever been.”
She had no idea what it’d cost him to be standing here with her. What it might cost her.
She straightened up. “Let’s go back, but not so full-on or I might throw up an organ.” She spun about and started out again, at a more reasonable pace. This at least he could do. He jogged up alongside her.
“You’re one fit dude, Drum. You can tell by looking, but now I know it’s not all for show.”
He frowned, disturbed by that in ways he couldn’t identify.
“That was a friendly observation. Don’t get all tense with me.”
He grunted a response, then realised he’d yet to say a word to her. “You’re fit. You don’t need me.”
“My world is not going to collapse if you don’t run with me, but I like it. Tell me that wasn’t fun for you and we don’t have to do it again.”
He couldn’t tell her that. He felt so disconcerted, so out of himself, he was worried that if he looked behind him he’d have left no divots in the sand to prove he existed.
