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He runs inelegantly.
It's the first thing she notices about him. His arms flop about, his stride is inconsistent, his shoulders sway, his hair swings about. It is so inefficient and yet he will match or exceed her pace without ever seeming to tire. He seems limitless in energy and capacity.
It is the first thing she hates about him: the sour bite of jealousy against her tongue whenever he flies by like an ungainly bird.
-
She runs like she's not supposed to take up space.
It's the first thing he notices about her. Her steps are even. Her arms are rhythmic, perfectly in time with her stride. Every motion she makes feels small and intentional. It is so efficient that it makes him sad. She seems so confined within her own self.
What is she running for? Doesn't she want to feel free?
-
The second thing she hates about him is he's the only one around when, in the course of her ordinary stride, her knee pops. She staggers off the path and has to catch herself against a tree.
“Whoa,” he says, from right behind her. He’d been several paces back, she’d checked, he would have had to sprint to be this close, this fast. “Whoa, hey, careful–” He’s reaching for her like she would prefer to be steadied by him instead of the tree.
She grits her teeth and teeters away from his reaching fingers. To his credit, at least, he snatches his hands back. “I’m fine,” she hisses. She experimentally puts her foot down, but no, it's not weight bearing yet. Fuck.
“Oh, yeah, totally,” he says. “But you also just blew your knee out so maybe I can help anyway.”
“It's just a patellar dislocation,” she says, still working on bundling up all the pain currently screaming at her and shoving it far away where it won't bother her. She's normally faster at this stage of the process.
He rolls his eyes. “Okay, sure. Just a patellar dislocation. Look, my name's Ryland. Can I just– escort you to a chair or something?”
“Please leave me be,” she says. She puts her foot down. It won't take her whole weight yet, but she can apply some pressure without feeling like she'll buckle under her own weight. A quick hopping step gets her further away from him, which is nice. It gives her enough space to prop her back against the tree trunk and reach down. Her knee is nice to her, this time, and it pops back into place with only a minimal amount of force.
“But– do you, like, at least have a brace or something?”
She snorts something between laughter and dismay and doesn't care that it sounds cruel. “What do you even know about injuries? You’ve never suffered worse than a medial collateral ligament sprain.”
He blinks, and she has the somewhat insane thought that he looks like an owl. He actually runs while wearing glasses, too. Not even sport appropriate sun wear.
“Your stride,” she says, as if she owes him any explanation at all, “it's too ugly to be something you developed intentionally.”
He keeps blinking.
“Will you just go away?”
“Right. Okay. Yes. I’ll–sorry for bothering you.” He spins and sprints off. Finally.
She collapses back against the tree and exhales with long, even counts until the world feels a bit steadier.
-
He runs like he's chasing something. He puts his head down and grits his teeth and just flies.
-
She runs like clockwork. She’ll stretch each aching muscle, build up to an even, steady pace, do everything by the book. She has to. She can't do anything else.
-
The thing is, she likes her route. The park isn't large, but its paths are gentler than cobble or concrete. His cavalier form may irk her, but this is her space. She does not want to yield it. And he's there, reliably, at 5am every morning, already flying through the day like it personally offends him and only speed will see him through.
So it's noticeable when she doesn't see him for a morning, and then another morning, and then a third. The third thing she hates about him is the small furrow she can feel within her brow on the fourth day in a row that he’s not there. It shouldn't matter to her. He is a nuisance: his haphazard stride, his easy congeniality.
There's other regulars out in the early mist of the morning. The teenage track star, staying in summer shape. The older gentleman who jogs five kilometers every other day. Others she recognizes but not well enough to have a sense of their routines. Would she have noticed if the track star disappeared at the end of summer? Would she have noticed if the elder ever ran his last?
He's back on the fifth day, slumped in on himself. He seems less sure of his footing, even as he circles the park spewing fury at his every step. There are three more days of this hellbent, full force racing before he vanishes again.
She tries not to wonder what has gone wrong. She tries very, very hard not to miss him.
-
He runs like the world owes him something.
-
She runs like she's already paid the price.
-
“Hey,” he says, casually appearing next to her amid the throng of runners. 119 is pinned unevenly on the back of his shirt. She has not seen him in weeks. “Can I run with you?” Nervousness and audacity war in his face. “If it's not a bother, that is?”
Then the horn blows and the pack of runners move and she doesn't protest when he slots smoothly beside her. It's not until kilometer four, when the pack has spread out considerably, that she says, “where have you been?” It seems nicer to start with that than with her estimate (kilometer twenty-five) that she thinks he’ll collapse on.
“Thesis defense.” His arms are still way too wild for this sort of running. “It's Dr. Ryland now.”
“Move your arms less,” she snaps. “This isn't a sprint.”
He looks down, he looks over at her. The grin on his face is lopsided and no, she doesn't know that, she wasn't looking at him, she was focusing on running the race, that is all– “Somehow, I don't think changing my form in the middle of a marathon is really that good an idea.”
“And you thought running a marathon was?”
He shrugs. “I wanted to find out if I could.”
His breathing starts to hitch at kilometer eighteen. He keeps pace with her, even as his head starts to bob. She's not even setting a particularly fast pace: she's not setting the slowest pace, that might have been a blow too strong for her pride to take. But it's slow enough that if he’d trained properly, he shouldn't be struggling so. He isn't handicapped by his very bones.
At kilometer twenty-one, she says, “you haven't done this before.”
“You have?” He says, breathless.
Technically, no, she has not. The vast distances she has traveled were under her own power, but for the most part were not over paved city streets. But she has trained. Her willpower is stronger than her very bones. She's studied. She knows her body. She knows this, for all that it's never happened before. “Not this, specifically. You should walk for awhile, Dr. Ryland.”
She turns to him just in time to see a brilliant smile flashed at her. She turns away.
-
He walks for awhile, because he feels the weight of this endeavor pressing tight against his lungs.
-
She runs her planned, practiced, dedicated pace.
-
The course loops over on itself thrice, and she does not see him again. She finishes precisely on pace, precisely as exhausted as she budgeted to be. She finds a quiet spot, out of the way, but still in view of the finish line, and works methodically through her stretching routine. She drinks electrolytes. She eats something light and tasteless and does not recall it at all. She stretches again. She decides she's just searching for reasons to delay.
She dials a number she knows by heart. “3:50.01.”
“Fucking hell, you did not.” It's nice to hear his voice.
“3:50.01. You said under 4.”
“Two years ago,” he says. “Look, congratulations, you did a magnificent thing. But, c’mon, the smartest thing you can do for yourself is know when to retire. Tell me you're not going to be spending over a month stuck in disaster recovery mode because you met a facetious milestone offered to you when you could not physically walk.”
“Carl,” she says, and she absolutely hates the way it sounds like she's begging. “Please. I can compete again. I know I can.”
“You made me watch you implode twice,” he says, cold, “I won't do it again.”
“Coach, please.”
“Congratulations,” he says, flat and empty, “on completing your marathon.” He hangs up.
She dials him again and he does not pick up. Perhaps she should have anticipated that. Her hands shake too badly for her to dial him again. Not just her hands. She looks skyward and inhales for an even count, exhales for an odd count. Add one, repeat. Add one, repeat. She reaches eleven, twelve, before finding enough steadiness to slot her phone back into its holster. At twenty, twenty-one, she starts subtracting one each breath.
It is an odd sensation to stand there, utterly bereft, still somehow amidst the glee and accomplishment of the finish line. It's been long enough that people are trotting in, awash with the gratitude of even just finishing. She watches them, unseeing, until he stumbles across the finish line, head down, chest heaving, still ungainly but also oh, so incredibly accomplished. Dr. Ryland, last name unknown, who successfully completed a marathon for its own sake. He looks so incredibly happy and also in danger of immediately keeling over.
Hot, desperate rage burns within her. Unnoticed, she turns away from the finish line and walks away. Her pace is measured, even, controlled.
For all the good that did her.
-
He runs for the fun of it, curious and comfortable. He experiments with going slower, for longer. He experiments with the motion of his arms. He experiments with hydration methods. He buys more appropriate shoes. He keeps a constant eye out, but doesn't see what he is looking for.
-
She wallows. Everything hurts for three days, and then most things hurt for another few weeks. There's a day she can't manage to leverage herself out of bed. Her physical therapist frowns and communicates ‘I told you so' in a measured, professional way. So she wallows.
-
It's a good day. She's awake and out of bed at her normal time. She puts on leggings and a tank top. She ties her running shoes on. She goes outside. She walks to the park. Bile rises quickly in her throat. She stands stock still, unable to take another step.
She sees him: a loping, still uneven gait, but with steadier, calmer arms. His head does not bob around so much. She sees the moment he notices her. He pulls to an abrupt stop, wheels, and then sprints over to her. He is not out of breath when he comes to a stop, several paces away from her. “Hey,” he says, voice full. “Hey, are you okay?”
It's not fair that this stranger, whom she doesn't know at all, has been the most consistent thing in her life for nearly a year, besides pain. Does he even know her name? It's not fair that he's so full of energy and capacity and he doesn't even know how to use it. It's not fair that her bones and tendons and ligaments are all crying for her to stop, and she doesn't fucking know how. “No,” she says, barely audibly. “No, I’m not okay.” And then she sobs and buries her face in her hands.
“Whoa, hey, okay now. Uh– um– I’m sorry.” He's still hovering several steps away. “Uh– can I hug you? Or, like, touch your shoulder? I don't– you didn't like being touched– oh, gosh.”
She can't possibly embarrass herself further. Without removing her hands from her face, she takes three long steps towards him and collapses against his chest.
“Got it,” he says. “Uh. Okay. I’m going to hug you? Is this okay?” He wraps his arms loosely around her, barely making any contact, and this, more than anything, might be what shatters her. This stranger who does not know her name, but is no stranger at all. He's catalogued, remembered, just how resistant she is to being touched. And even now, as she quite literally sags against him, he is gentle and intentional and tells her everything he is going to do with his hands before he does it.
And this. This is a good day.
-
He runs because he can.
-
She walks, jaw taut, because she must. Maybe she'll work her way back up to running at some point.
-
It's a bad day, but she still forces herself outside. It's too hot for her to feel this cold, but her bones feel hollow to the very depth of her being. She pulls a warm hat down over her ears and clutches a winter coat tight around her shoulders as she takes the short walk to the park.
He's waiting for her in the pre-dawn light. The year is marching away from her. Another year away from competition. Another year she is fading into nothing. He bounces from foot to foot as she approaches.
“Swings today?” He asks, as soon as she's close.
“Bench,” she says, shivering.
“Okay,” he says. “Wait. No, I’ll meet you there. What's your coffee order?”
She blinks at him. She tries to remember the last time she drank caffeine. “Uh–”
“Tea? Hot cocoa?” When she does not respond, he rolls his eyes, runs a hand through his hair, and says, “Okay, I’ll surprise you, but you're not allowed to complain.” Then he’s off like a shot: long and lean and wild and fast.
It is the first time she allows herself to acknowledge just how magnificent he is in motion. She watches him until he swings around a corner and disappears. She exhales, counts to twenty, and hobbles over to the bench. The night is starting to cling to itself longer and longer each day. Still, the sun rises and chases it away. She lets herself sit in that surety, waiting.
How odd it is, she thinks, that she sits and waits for him with the same surety she holds for the sun. He will return. He’ll probably have some aggressively caffeinated, sickly sweet concoction that she won't drink but will enjoy mocking him about. She's wondering what shade of red she’ll be able to get his cheeks to stain when he arrives at the bench in a flurry.
“Hot water with lemon, my liege,” he says, holding out a to-go cup. “I went with the most boring possible option. If you want my raspberry white mocha with extra whipped cream, we can trade but–”
She accepts the hot water with trembling fingers. Once again, he does not even glance at the shortened stumps of her left hand. He is either the world's least observant man, or its most. She takes a small sip. “What do you think I am?” she says, before thinking through each word. It's a senseless question, really.
In profile, she sees his brow furrow. He does not look at her right away. “I think you're cold,” he says, after a long pause. “Have you been cold for awhile now?”
Her breath catches. She stares down at the to-go cup clutched in both her hands. Her right hand is long and slender, still perfectly crafted and capable. Her left hand is… serviceable. It has been years since the amputation. She'd figured out how to compete again after that surgery. She's got all of a thumb and index finger, which are the important ones anyway. “Yes,” she says.
-
He walks, because he completed one goal and stumbled into another. And, really, it's not like he just walks. He skips. He gambols. He darts away and returns with some new thing to see or think about or know. He orbits, a planet caught in the gravity of a newly found sun.
-
She manages a slow jog on some days. Her favorite days are the ones she reaches out to find his hand extended, easy to clasp. She sets pace and he matches it, without question.
-
On the third day in a row he doesn't show, she feels like she might collapse in on herself. She doesn't have his number. Why doesn't she have his number? She wanders around the park, mostly aimless, occasionally tripping over her own feet.
Her phone buzzes and for a half a second, she thinks he might be calling to explain where the fuck he is, but he doesn't have her number. Besides, the caller ID flashes Amastan Carl. She almost doesn't pick up. It's been… a month…? since the marathon and her subsequent collapse. She's barely back to square one.
“Coach,” she says, into her phone. Her voice cracks.
“How's recovery coming?”
She's standing in the middle of the park, the sun throwing long morning shadows all around her, trembling. She wants to throw up. She wants to hide. She wants to delay any acknowledgement that she is well truly done with a professional, competitive career. She wants Ryland Grace, doctor of microbiology, to show up where he belongs so she doesn't have to confront this on her own. Dishonesty never helped her, even with herself. “I am doing better than I could be,” she says. Each word tastes like ash. “I won't be able to come back.”
She feels more than hears Carl’s long, relieved exhale. “Okay. Hey, I’m really proud of you, you know? You have always given absolutely everything you had to offer. You–”
She stops listening to him entirely, because she catches sight of Ryland racing towards her. Something within her unclenches and then clenches again. She's momentarily so absolutely mad at him, but then, no, he’s– he’s hunched and his head is down and he's not paying any attention to the form she's been drilling into him. His hair is unkempt. His glasses are askew. He's wearing the same clothes as she last saw him in. “Amastan,” she says, interrupting, breathless, “I must go.”
She hangs up just in time for him to skid to a stop in front of her. His eyes are wild and scared and wet. His arms are caught wide, open, like he was reaching to hug her but stopped because he never touches her without her permission, even when– God, he looks fucking disastrous.
She steps into his space and reaches both arms up and around his neck.
“Please,” he says, watery.
“Go ahead,” she says. His arms close around her shoulders. His hands grip into the fabric of her coat. His forehead falls against her ear. She runs one of her hands up and into the hair at the base of his neck. It is long, like it usually is, but also noticeably unwashed. “Tell me,” she says, breathless.
He shakes against her. She pets the back of his neck, unsure of what to do. His grip tightens, loosens, changes positions, tightens again. “Will you… will you come meet my mother?”
-
He walks unevenly, listing side to side. His eyes dart around, uneasy. He shies away from loud noises. He swallows too often.
-
She walks as evenly as she can manage without letting go of his hand.
-
“This is my mom,” he says, just a bit too quiet. “Fallon Grace.” The woman in the hospital bed is pale. She's too small. An IV is hooked into her left arm. Her eyes track the two of them easily. “Mom, this is my–” he looks at her and she can see the panic rising in his face. She has never told him her name. How odd it is that he has become absolutely essential to her, and yet she has been so selfish with something so basic and easy. “This is my– this is–um–”
She steps forward a little more, crowding into his space at the same time as she drops his hand in order to reach out and rest her hand against the dry skin of the hand on the hospital bed. “I’m Eva Stratt,” she says, even and secure and as comfortable as she can manage. “It's an honor to meet you.” She can feel him reach out, slowly, giving her enough time to lean away, and still he doesn't even really touch her. Three of his fingers cling to the bottom edge of her coat. Something about the slight tug feels revelatory.
“You run,” says the woman, her voice shaky. “He says you run like a river. Steady. Even. Sometimes rushing."
His fingers twist in her coat.
“A poet, my son,” she says, “when he talks about you. His cells. The stars.”
She keeps her gaze on his mother. “He is magnificent. He runs like the wind: free and eager and boundless.”
“You will take care of him?”
It takes her several tries to swallow the rising lump in her throat. She can barely take care of herself. But the three fingers have become his entire fist, clenched, and he's shaking like he's trying and failing to hold back tears. His knuckles are pressed into her hip, almost accidentally. “I’ll try,” she says, breath caught.
“Eva,” Ryland says, the first time he ever says her name. “Eva.”
She has been cold and closed off. She has been so utterly selfish with herself. How dare she. “It's not– it's not running. Actually. I ski. I skied. I was really, really good at it.”
“Ski,” Fallon says. “Ski.” She sounds listless, trilling, birdlike.
“I fell, almost three years ago,” she says. “Fractured three vertebrae and both my left tibia and fibula. So I skied, past tense.”
“Cells,” Fallon says. “Beautiful little cells. Dyed so many pretty colors. I didn't go to college, you know. But Ryland– Ryland– my Dr. Ryland. Pretty boy. Poet boy. Star boy. Love you. Love you. Love you.”
-
He waits, because there's nothing else to do.
-
She waits and ignores her ex-coach’s many calls.
-
In the aftermath, he follows her. She switches which side of her he stands on. If he’s on her left, he can still cling to her coat. She can curl her index finger over the curve of his elbow at an almost natural angle, and still have her right hand free for doing things. She manages.
“Eva,” he says, in a quiet moment. “Eva. You’ve done this before?”
“Yes,” she says. Both of her parents are gone.
“I’m sorry.”
She reaches up her right hand and strokes his absolutely gross hair back from his temple. “Thank you.”
“Eva.”
“Yes, Ryland?”
“Eva.”
“Yes.”
“Eva.”
She pulls her hand away. Someone enters the room with more paperwork, more decisions. Eventually, she wrests him free from the hospital and–
“Where do you live?”
He doesn't respond.
“Ryland? Can you tell me where you live?”
Her coat twists and tugs, which has become a remarkably familiar sensation in the last few hours. She exhales. “Okay. Come on now.” She takes him to her quiet, empty little apartment. She sits him down at her table and pulls together a quick, simple omelette. He eats mechanically. His eyes are unfocused. She's pretty sure it's the first thing he's eaten in roughly thirty-six hours.
She turns the shower on, sets a gentle temperature, and leaves him in the bathroom. She washes the frying pan, his plate. She eats a handful of nuts and puts a quick casserole in the oven for when he wants something heartier. She sits at the kitchen table and listens to the sound of water cascading and cascading and cascading.
Eventually, he emerges, wrapped tight in an old, worn robe. He can't meet her gaze. He can't actually really focus on anything right now.
“Can you sleep?” She asks. His eyes flick to her, and then away. It's starting to make her skin prickle. She's been touched so much today. She's been seen by so many people. Pretty boy. Poet boy. Star boy. Wild boy. She reaches out and interlocks her left index finger into two of his. “We’ll go together.”
He notices, later, the stiffness in her arm. Her jaw. He lets go of her immediately. He rolls away.
Maybe, if she were normal, it would feel like a rejection. It's not. It's absolutely not. It is a gift. “Thank you,” she whispers, into the shared dark. “I’m still right here.”
-
He runs, and the mid-morning sun dries the tears cascading down his face.
-
She stretches. She rolls her shoulders. She touches her toes. She extends and retracts her knees. She works her way through her entire body, and nothing screams at her in overwhelming protest. She watches him fly.
-
By the time she's ready, her entire voicemail is full of funeral arrangements and worried messages from Carl. She can't quite manage to call him back, so she shows up at the gym instead. She's in plain clothes: slacks and a sleek sweater still a little too heavy for this late in the summer. The sleeves are long enough to hang down over both her hands. It is an indulgence she rarely allows herself.
She slips into to the familiar scents and sounds of the place and does not flinch. Even in the off season, the place is busy. Amastan Carl had always made for a rather unlikely coach, but an undeniably effective one. His teams know how to win. She had known how to win.
Annie spots her first. The younger woman abruptly hops off a treadmill that squeals in protest as it grinds to an immediate stop. The noise of it focuses the whole gym’s attention on Annie, and then on Annie's destination.
“Eva,” Annie says, breathless, before crashing into her with a too tight hug.
Her relay team were always free with their affection. She refuses to shy away from the attention. She hugs Annie back, not quite as tight, until it's too much and she pulls away.
“Missed you,” Annie says, low and quiet and teary. “Oh, Olesya’s going to be so mad she's not here today.”
“Coach is–?”
“Office. Are you coming back?”
Eva looks down at her hands, covered. She looks up at Annie: sturdy, strong, indestructible Annie. She swallows and shakes her head.
Annie pouts, but nods. “Don't leave without saying goodbye,” she says, in an undertone. She shifts, like she wants to say more, and then retreats across the gym and hops back on the treadmill.
She circles the outside of the gym, resolute. She knocks on the office door. She steps in. “Coach,” she says, all in a rush. “I’m here to tender my official resignation.” Sort of, mostly. It's not like she's been active for years. She's just never really said it out loud before. “And ask a favor.”
His understanding face is focused on her. “How can I help?”
“My–” she stops, still unsure of just how to describe Dr. Ryland Grace. Reluctant, accidental running buddy turned half of her soul? “A friend of mine lost his mother recently. Her funeral is on Saturday, if you might be able to come.” It's selfish, but she wants him there. Sometimes that's hers.
His eyes flash with something like surprise. “River,” he says, “ongoing.” It's an aside. Mostly under his breath. “Yeah, sure. Send me the details.”
She nods, grateful.
“And Stratt? If and when you ever want to coach, there will be a spot for you. Oleysa could use some dedicated attention.”
“Still overextending?”
“Still overextending.”
-
He runs, morning of, to try and out run it.
-
She meanders through the park, morning of, with a watchful, wary eye.
-
Amastan Carl arrives at the funeral home before anyone else. The first thing he does is pull Ryland Grace into an enveloping, all-encompassing hug.
“Carl,” Ryland says, sobbing. “Carl. Carl. I miss her so much.”
“I know, buddy. I know.”
She feels a chill spreading out and settling in her hands. She doesn't understand. Her head buzzes with static. Why–? She comes back in to Ryland saying “--Eva Stratt. Eva, this is Carl, no last name. My best friend.”
“Hey, so, Ry, you know,” her coach says, casually and far too free with his words, “that Olympic team I had that did so well?”
Ryland looks at him, confused.
She thinks she might vomit. “Carl,” she says, her voice clipped, “I don't understand.”
“I didn't know,” Carl says, “until you came by the gym.”
Her hands are shaking. “It's Amastan Carl,” she says, to Ryland. “Amastan. Carl is his last name.”
“What?” Ryland says, clearly befuddled.
“Excuse me,” she says, spins on her heel, and runs away.
He finds her, because of course he does, in the second stall of the little bathroom at the funeral home. She wipes the back of hand across her mouth, which doesn't make anything better. She tries to smooth her hair out of her eyes, but that doesn't help either.
He doesn't touch her. He doesn't even come all that close. He places a bottle of water on the tile between them. He waits her out.
“When did you meet him?” She says.
“Almost three years ago,” Ryland says. He’s not looking at her. “He was the drunkest I’ve ever seen someone be and decided to make that my problem.”
“He doesn't drink,” she says.
“He does when his favorite superstar is in the hospital with a shattered spine.” His voice quavers. “He did when you were in the hospital with a shattered spine. Gosh, Eva, I heard so much about you. I didn't know you were…” he trails off, grasping, “you.” He takes out his phone.
It occurs to her, a moment too late, what he’s doing. “No,” she says, lunging forward. “Don't.” She's at an awkward angle: scuttling across the bathroom tile, utterly ungracefully. And yet, she's still too slow.
His eyes widen, his face blanches, his fingers loosen. His phone falls into her hands and she shoves it away. It clatters against the tile and away from them. The first result in a search for Eva Stratt, the first image, is an overexposed shot of her left hand, three fingers startlingly black. It's what she's known for, after all. Winning with only seven fully functional fingers.
She freezes, hovering over him, suddenly aggressively aware of all of the ways she is not touching him. Her hands are suspended between them, but his eyes - his beautiful, deep, blue eyes - are fixed on her face. Star boy, she thinks, with these endless, bountiful eyes.
“May I?” He says, ever so quiet. “Please?”
She's not entirely sure what he's asking, but she nods.
Slowly, giving her all the chances in the world to run away, he reaches up and folds her left hand in his. His thumb rubs gently across the knuckles where her hand ends and her fingers begin. Her index finger twitches. His thumb smooths across her knuckles again. He brings her hand to his face and presses a kiss against her palm.
She closes her eyes. She's trembling.
“Your hand,” he says, “is so warm.”
-
He sits still. Too still. He gets through the ceremony with a shaky, acharacteristic calm.
-
She fidgets. She sits next to Carl and lists back and forth. She chews at the fingernails on her left hand. Her eyes dart back and forth. She cannot pull herself together.
-
Carl doesn't leave after the ceremony ends, after the burial. He sits with them outside for a long, long time. “Okay, buddy,” he says, eventually, “on your feet.”
He’s softer with Ryland than she's ever seen him before, as he leverages him to his feet and turns him away from the gravesite. Ryland looks small beside him: all his long limbs shorter and leaner than Carl’s. She trails after them, a few uneasy steps behind.
They end up at her apartment, because Ryland literally balks when Carl stops in front of what is presumably his building. It's not far from hers, which she may have assumed given their shared vicinity to their park. It's just Carl’s never been in her space before. Her throat feels all sharp and scratchy as she steps out from behind him and leads the way to her apartment.
Ryland shakes Carl off him and disappears into her bathroom. That leaves her standing there, rubbed raw, absolutely exhausted, staring at her once coach. He's seen her at her worst and at her best. She can't figure out how to break the silence.
“You're good for him,” Carl says. “He's happier.”
His mom just died, so, no, he’s not. But also, yes. He is. He's doing far, far better than he could be. It takes a moment for her to determine that the sour void building within her tastes like jealousy. Why does Carl know anything about him? He's hers, now. Poet boy. Star boy. He's been the first thing that has been good and also has been hers since before her fall. But of course, of course he lives outside their morning runs. This doctor of microbiology, who’s wasting his time with a washed up, broken down–
“Hey,” Carl says. “Stratt, snap out of it.”
She blinks up at him.
He stares down at her: part thundercloud, part down pillow. He says something quiet and aside in Tamazight, too quiet and fast for her to figure out the translation. “You both are going to make me bodily force you into therapy, huh?”
“I’ve been to therapy,” she says.
“Yeah. And you're going back. Because you finally acknowledged that you can't go back to something that was your entire identity. Is still your entire identity. And you did that in the midst of your new boyfriend having a crisis, so it's not like he's on stable ground to catch you right now. I will not let you break my bro, just as I will not let him break you.”
“He's not–”
“He totally is,” Carl says, with a smirk. “Like, super, duper is.”
Ryland jolts out of the bathroom, hair soaked, half wrapped in a towel, clearly not . “Wait, wait– hang on– Carl, it was your gold medalist who fell. That would mean–” his gaze fixes on her. It's alight with eagerness for the first time in days.
“Do you want to bite it?” She asks.
“Oh my gosh, can I?”
“I’ll get it out of the safe.”
“Yeah,” Carl repeats, with an eye roll. “He super, duper, absolutely is.”
“I’ll lock you in the safe,” she hisses, stepping past him.
-
He goes to therapy willingly, cheerfully, and spends each hour grieving his mother and laying aside past absences and loneliness and fears.
-
She goes to therapy with her shoulders hunched and forces herself to unwind bit by aching bit.
-
They're in the park, walking side by side, not holding hands, when he says, “I want to know everything about you. Will you let me?”
Her face flushes. “I’m not that interesting.”
“You are,” he says. He's on her left. He's almost always on her left, now. “I think you always will be.”
The thing is, they're both essentially unemployed. He just completed a degree and has yet to land somewhere. They haven't necessarily talked about it, not really, but she knows he has a few months of flexibility and freedom before needing to find somewhere to settle. She's a reluctantly retired elite athlete with no idea what to do with herself. And he wants to know her. She could just let him. They could just go.
She twists her hand out to him and he folds it into his own. His grip is warm and loose: never too tight, never possessive, never capable of restraining her if she wants to break away. Just there. “Would you like to go skiing?” Something deep within her cracks and springs free.
They go north: not to the trails of her childhood, but a cross country designed for hobbyists and tourists. Beginners. She scowls at rented equipment but deems it serviceable. She watches him take the brief introductory class with other guests who have never skied before. “Excellent,” she says, when he finishes and awkwardly slides his way over to her. “Forget everything you just learned.”
“Yeah,” he says, "I thought you might say that.”
She teaches him over again and then takes him out on short, easy trips on well manicured trails. They do not go for distance. They do not go for hours. But they go. They accumulate sore muscles and stiff joints and blustery, enthusiastic grins.
He learns that she likes to read technical journals about agriculture and aeroplanes.
She learns that his phone contacts list is an absolute nightmare. “I know who everyone is,” he says, “see–” and points to bestie mr. bestperson. “That’s Carl.”
“Yeah,” she complains, “but reprehensible asshole?”
He rolls his eyes. “A lecturer I had.”
“And you know, for sure, that that lecturer is reprehensible asshole and not repugnant asshole?”
“Yeah. Obviously. Repugnant asshole was worse.”
She finds herself a heartbeat later, just a little further down the alphabet. River, ongoing. She stares at it for a very long time.
He learns she cannot eat shellfish.
She learns he can wiggle his ears.
She kisses him for the first time under a Scots pine. It's a quick, awkward thing. They're still on skis. She kisses him for the second time in their room. His hands float in space beside her head.
“May I?” He murmurs, against her lips.
“Yes,” she breathes.
His hands cup her face. He kisses her. She thinks she might drown in him. A wave of sensation wells up and crashes over her. His touch. His scent. It's all so much. She pulls back. His wide, beautiful eyes track her every movement. His hands fall to his sides. There's no judgment, no reproach, no… he looks at her in absolute wonder.
“Ryland,” she says, the structure of his name now so familiar against her tongue. “I don't– I’ve never–”
He waits her out, ever so patient. The full force of his tremendous focus is on her.
“I don't know how to date,” she says. “I don't– you were– the first person I’ve ever even kissed. I don't know what I'm doing. I don't–” she inhales. “I don't want to let you down.”
“Right now,” he says, “do you feel safe? Comfortable?”
She nods.
“You're… Eva, you're magnificent. You can't let me down. Not unless you force yourself into feeling unsafe. Uncomfortable. Unhappy. Do what you want to do.”
“You’ll tell me,” she says, “if it's ever something you don't want to do?”
“Yes.”
-
He becomes practically elegant on skis.
-
She's serviceable on skis. They're familiar. She gets recognized twice, both times by young girls clearly at home on their own skis. She signs two autographs and stands for two pictures and thanks her lucky stars it's no more than that.
-
On the last day of the trip, her kneecap pops out of place as she walks up a flight of stairs. She catches herself against the railing. He’s right behind her. She can practically feel him vibrate as he forces himself to stay back. She indulges a few long, slow breaths and then nods at him.
He surges up the last step between them and worms his head beneath her arm. He wraps an arm around her waist. He's too tall to use as a crutch, but together, they hobble back to their room.
“Just a patellar dislocation?” He says. His breath is hot against her ear.
“Not my first,” she says. “Probably not my last.”
He winces at that and the force of it shudders through her. She limps to one of the chairs. He untangles himself as she folds down onto the chair. She breathes through her mouth as she feels the edges of her kneecap. She waits until he steps away before pressing against herself. She forces her leg up, slowly, until the patella clicks back into place. She counts her inhales and exhales, even and odd, add one each time. Odd and even.
Ryland hands her her knee brace, packed sensibly among her things. “I don't have to ask this time.”
She looks up at him, unashamed of the pain visible in her face. “Was I right? About you never really being injured?” She can't quite get the brace on tight enough.
He kneels. He nudges her hands away. His hands are ever so gentle as he chinches the straps of the brace firmly around her calf and thigh. He looks up at her through an unruly fringe of hair, sheepish. “I had to have my appendix removed when I was nine.”
“All this health,” she says, managing the lightness required for a joke, “and you spent it on cells.”
“In space,” he reminds her. “Cells, in space.”
“Tell me about your research.”
His cheeks brush a beautiful soft pink. “I already–”
“I know.” She brushes the hair on his forehead smooth. “I want to hear it again.”
“Will you lie down first?”
She does. He lies down beside her, on his side. She can feel his gaze fixed upon her face. “Start with the stars.”
She counts her steady, even breaths as he starts with the stars. He deconstructs them into elements. He talks about vacuums and the absolutely magnificent set of circumstances that result in matter clinging together with such force and intention that the result allows for there to be stuff instead of emptiness. He talks about what can be observed. He talks about what cannot yet be observed.
Poet boy. Star boy.
It's not the first thing she loves about him: these words that gallop together to convey incredible understanding, this imagination that holds what is and is not known so perfectly in balance, this easy enthusiastic love for the whole wide world around him. She does love all those things about him. It's just his stupid glasses are dangling from one ear and it's so aggressively, delightfully, wonderfully, ridiculously, the first thing she loves about him.
“I’m sorry,” she says, interrupting. “I must.” She reaches out and repositions his glasses on his face. She pats his cheek. “Continue.”
And, remarkably, he does. She thinks she's looking forward to listening to him talk for forever.
-
He runs. She runs.
-
Together, they run.