The Rest of Forever (Completed)

Part 4

I crawl out of bed on Sunday with even more reluctance than usual. I've never liked getting up in the dark. I shower and pull on my jogging gear, dressing as slowly as a man awaiting sentence. My peers have already judged me and found me wanting.

The park's empty when I arrive, the grass crisp and white with a late frost, my breath billowing in clouds around me as I stamp my feet and rub my numbed hands together at the gate, waiting. I know already this is futile, that he's not coming, that this time I never will see him again. I can't say I blame him.

The palest duck egg blue tints the sky like a wash as I accept the inevitable and begin my lonely circuit of the park. I used to enjoy running: the sense of freedom, the pleasurable pull of healthy muscles as they warm and work, endorphins kicking in as my body relaxes and leaves my mind free to wander. These days I try to keep my mind occupied at all times.

I fall into a rhythm, lulled by my even breaths and the regular slap slap of my trainers on the asphalt path. I nod at an elderly dog walker, skirting a wide arc around his yappy little Jack Russell. He nods back, sensing a kindred spirit. If only he knew.

I put my head down and carry on, wishing I'd brought my iPod—something to distract me. I try singing in my head but I forget the words to every song I start, my mind returning, as it has for the last twenty waking hours and several of the eight sleeping ones, to Paul: his face, his eyes, his lips. Especially his lips.

A rhythmic slap behind me heralds another jogger and I shift slightly on the path to give him room to get by unobstructed. He approaches quickly and draws level, but it takes me a minute to realise that he's not overtaking. I look up and glance across, almost stumbling when I see my best friend flash me a dazzling grin and speed up. I accept the challenge in a heartbeat, increasing my pace to keep level with him, laughing as he speeds up again. In seconds we're in a race, both running flat out around the long circuit which leads back to the main gates.

My muscles begin to protest at the furious pace we're setting but somehow I know it's important I win this, and Paul's not cutting me any slack. The icy air stings my face, rasping uncomfortably in my throat as I gasp for breath. Lactic acid builds in my calves as I put my head down, racing flat out, but I ride the burn and refuse to stop. We're neck and neck coming around the last corner and I put on a last desperate burst of speed, using my extra couple of inches in height to overtake him. He puts his head down, arms pumping wildly at his sides, but he's already giving his all and my fingers close around the numbingly cold metal of the gates a full ten seconds before his.

We glance at each other's flushed faces and laugh before doubling over to catch our breath. My legs are shaking as I lean my hands on my knees. Every breath is like a shard of ice in my throat and sweat cools rapidly on my flanks.

"I didn't think you'd come," I admit.

He shakes his head, incredulous at himself. "I wasn't going to. I wasn't sure you'd be here, either."

We straighten up and look at each other. He gives me a lopsided grin that melts my heart, a small puddle of heat in my otherwise frozen body. His deep eyes soften as they look at me, and I know that everything I want is painted across my face. I can't hide it anymore. I want him so badly my bones ache with it.

"We need to talk," he says, and I know exactly what's coming next.

Resigned to my fate, I nod slowly, head bowed. I don't want to look at him when I hear him say he doesn't love me.

"Not here, yeah?" He rubs his reddened fingers together. It's cold, but that feels grimly appropriate. Maybe when he's finished flaying me open and tearing my heart out I can pack it in the frozen earth to preserve it.

He leads me out of the park and down the street away from our homes. There's a little café, greasy window fogged with humidity inside. A bell over the door tinkles as we walk in. We order coffee and grab a table in the corner, pushing the laminated menus aside, hands nestled around matching cups. A thin wisp of steam rises from my drink and my blotchy fingers redden and purple as I clasp the hot ceramic, the heat stinging my skin.

I listen in silence as he stops squirming and gives me the speech he's probably been preparing since I kissed him. Curt's been good to him; they've been together almost a year; he's got a life and he's happy with it.

"Do you love him?" I ask, masochist to the end. "Do you love him like you loved me?"

"That wasn't love, it was a fantasy. I think I loved the idea of you: of us. What we could be."

I call him on the lie.

"Do you love me?" he challenges, turning the tables. "Are you even capable of love, do you even know what it means?" He glares at me, nostrils flaring.

Am I capable of love? The words wound, but I can't say they're unjustified. I know what I was like back then, and I haven't exactly gone out of my way to convince him I've changed. I've been too busy hiding behind the man I used to be.

Still, it hurts.

The pain that lanced through me at his words must have shown on my face because instantly he softens, a small notch dimpling his smooth brow and his eyes smudging at the corners. "Shit," he breathes softly. "That bad, huh?"

I drop my gaze, focusing instead on my trembling hands. I anchor them around my cup with clawed fingers, but don't dare lift it to my lips. My vision blurs and I blink rapidly, desperately trying to hide from the intensity of those beautiful bronze eyes. I don't know how to do this, I've never had to hide before. Now all I want to do is run away as fast as I can, tend my wounds in private. I wish I could take it all back but it's too late for that now, Pandora's Box is open and what spilled out was me: my guts, my soul, my bloody, aching heart.

"Please," I beg, my lips barely moving as I choke out that tiny, needy word. "It hurts."

He leans across the table and grips my hand, almost unsettling the cup. I grip back, our knuckles white-on-red. I stare at our clasped fingers, wondering if the gesture is significant.

"I know," he sobs, before dropping my hand, standing, and fleeing.

*****

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