In the Long Run

The key to a good story is how you tell it. Shoulders straight, chin up, confident smile. I don’t hesitate as I drop into an empty seat at the Clamshell, my local pub. Night has stolen the last wisps of red and orange from the sky and the beach in front of me is an inky blackness. My smile doesn’t falter, not even as the conversation between the two men at the table halts.

‘Can we help you?’ the man I’ve just sat next to asks. His face is all strong lines and sharp angles but it’s his navy eyes that catch my attention. They’re almost as dark as the shadows underneath them. Is he weary? Or maybe he’s wary? A strange woman grinning like she’s about to be crowned the next Miss Australia did just plonk herself down next to him.

Dial it down, Gen.

‘Is everything okay?’ the guy sitting across the table asks, making no move to drink the pint of beer he’s holding. I should’ve sat next to him. My gut says he’ll be easier to convince to play along. So does the hint of humour in his tone and the easy grin he’s sporting. He’s older than Navy Eyes, I’d guess. Are they brothers? They both have the same short haircuts and fit physiques.

‘What are your names?’ I ask.

‘I’m Brody. This is Knox,’ the cheerful one says. ‘And you are?’

‘Genevieve Halliday, but you can call me Gen.’ Because my brain is otherwise occupied, my body returns to its current default setting of acting like this is a meeting with prospective bookkeeping clients. I offer my hand to Brody and then Knox. When our palms touch, a shiver dances along my skin. It’s adrenaline, I tell myself, but a whisper of something tugs at Knox’s lips. It could be a smile. Or a grimace.

‘Well, Gen, need a drink?’ Brody pushes the menu across the table.

I already know it inside out. ‘Maybe.’ I twist around, my gaze scanning the honey-coloured tables and rattan chairs for the man I’m avoiding.

I could’ve ordered Uber Eats but my favourite Indian restaurant is only two blocks from my flat. And since my Garmin’s not afraid to call me unproductive on any day that ends in a ‘y’ despite my workout schedule, I walked. I should’ve expected Brand to be waiting outside. What started off as blowing up my phone last week asking for another chance has progressed into cornering me for daily conversations where I try to avoid revealing that I’ve had more chemistry with bags of flour. No guy wants to hear that you only went out with them because they seemed like the least offensive option. And that you kept seeing them because you were sick of taking risks and getting it wrong. That for a second you wondered if maybe you could settle for less.

But like everything else, I was wrong about that too and now I’m living with the consequences of my choices . . . again.

I’d hightailed it to the Clamshell before Brand had even finished saying my name, hoping the public setting would stop him from following me. Knox and Brody are just extra back-up.

The door to the dining room opens and I hold my breath, crossing my fingers underneath the table. A group of men in rugby shirts and those terrible quasi-mullet haircuts that make them look like a villain from an old ’90s cartoon enter. My slow, controlled exhale does nothing to stop my racing heart.

‘What’s going on?’ Knox’s gaze swivels between my face and the door.

‘Can you lean forward?’ I ask him. The guy’s so big, all shoulders and biceps and muscular forearms. He definitely understands the difference between all the protein powders on the market and doesn’t just buy what’s cheap and/or as close to real chocolate as it can be. But most importantly, if Knox moves, Brand won’t be able to see me if he comes inside.

‘Why?’

As I open my mouth to respond, Brand Bolton opens the door and strides in like he owns the place. If we were at Ric’s, the restaurant on the other side of the road with equally spectacular views over Port Phillip Bay, that would be true. Or kind of true. Brand’s father is the owner. If my family were as affluent as the Boltons, I’d probably strut around too.

‘Damn it,’ I whisper.

Knox frowns, his eyes zeroing in on Brand. ‘Do you know him?’ he asks with an authoritative inflection that has parts of me waking up and momentarily forgetting why I rushed in here like I was doing a sprints time trial. Who knew that pounding the pavement each morning isn’t just good for my physical and mental health? It’s also handy for dodging the man who apparently is just that into me, even if it makes no sense.

‘Is that . . .’ Brody raises his eyebrows. He places his beer back on the table and crosses his arms.

‘Mmhmm,’ Knox replies and it’s impressive how much disdain he can infuse into a word with only two different letters in it. At least these two don’t seem to be part of Brand’s fan club. My ridiculous, hastily cobbled-together plan might work.

I sigh. ‘He’s my ex. He wants “to talk”.’

‘And you don’t?’ Knox’s voice has deepened even further.

‘No.’ I want to go back in time and stop myself from making yet another dating-related mistake. Although this one is significantly smaller than the disaster that was my last real relationship. That’s got to count for something, right? Even if it does nothing to appease the guilt that still hangs heavily around my shoulders.

Brand pauses in the middle of the room, blocking the path of a server laden with a large tray of drinks. When he sees me, his lips twist into the smile that everyone thinks is charming. The one Mum still thinks would look excellent on her grandchildren. Note to self: no more agreeing to set-ups to keep her off my back. Just because my life looks different to how hers did at the same age doesn’t make me a loser. There’s no shame in being single at thirty – or, in my case, almost thirty.

‘Shoot,’ I mutter as Brand moves towards us. Desperate times call for desperate measures. ‘Do me a favour and put your arm around me, please, Knox,’ I beg, cringing inwardly and outwardly because I have what’s called a ‘loud face’. It’s the opposite of a poker face and very, very unhelpful, especially in situations like this.

‘Huh?’ Knox leans away from me.

‘What are we thinking here? You guys just started dating? We’re meeting the friends for drinks?’ Brody asks.

So they’re not brothers. I’d ask more but Brand is laser focused on me. Unease crawls over my skin.

‘This is a bad . . . She’s . . . Yeti,’ Knox says, and I baulk. Men are the worst. I might not look my best right now, but I used my good dry shampoo to try to tame my shoulder-length waves after my run earlier. Excuse me for not being able to pull off the artfully windswept aesthetic that all the women on social media have going on. That doesn’t make me a yeti.

Brody must see my face, because he jumps in. ‘Hold on. I’m Yeti. He’s not being a dick. My last name’s Bigfott. Brody Bigfott. Yeti’s a nickname. It’s an Australian Army thing.’

I retract my claws.

‘You should do it,’ Knox says to Brody, his cheeks scarlet as he turns back to me. ‘Yeti’s better at all this than I am.’

Oh, damn. Is Knox shy? Or – even better – humble? Because that’s like catnip to me. Or it used to be before I realised I couldn’t trust my instincts.

‘Shut up, Forty, you’ll be fine. Look at it this way: your crappy day’s officially looking up,’ Brody says.