Nineteen Letters, page 21
“You’re not leaving, are you?”
“That’s exactly what I’m doing.”
“Sit down and finish your dinner. They haven’t even noticed we’re here.”
“I’ve suddenly lost my appetite,” he grumbles, reaching for his jacket. “I’m sorry, man, but I just can’t be near her anymore.”
He doesn’t even wait for me to stand before he stalks towards the exit. I quickly place my cutlery down and take a swig of my beer before following him out. My eyes are focused on Jemma as I pass. I’m glad she appears to be having a nice time tonight.
I smile when Jemma laughs at something Rachel says, but it’s wiped from my face when I see the bartender’s flirtatious grin as he places a glass of red wine in front of her.
My thoughts revert back to the first time she drank wine, not long after she moved in with Rachel. It was a Friday night and Lucas and I were hanging out at the girls’ apartment. Back then, the four of us did everything together. Jemma and Rachel consumed two and a half bottles between them. It wasn’t a pretty sight, and it resulted in me holding Jemma’s hair back while she hugged the toilet bowl for the rest of the evening.
I’d love to go over and say hello to the girls—and give the bartender the message to back off—but I need to find out what the hell is going on with my best mate.
“Lucas wait up,” I call out as I step out into the crisp air. He doesn’t stop, so I jog to catch up to him. “What’s got into you tonight?”
“Leave me alone,” he grumbles.
“Talk to me.” I reach for his elbow, pulling him to a stop. I’m not letting this go until I get to the bottom of it. In all the years we’ve been friends, I’ve never seen him act like this. “What’s going on with you two?”
He tugs his arm out of my grip, spinning around to face me. “It’s just … Ugh!” He runs his hands roughly through his hair in frustration. “I can’t be around her anymore.”
Without another word he turns again, heading towards his car.
“Hey,” I say, following him. “Talk to me.”
“There’s nothing to say.”
“Lucas, don’t do this.” He takes a few more steps before grinding to a halt.
“Do what?”
“Don’t shut me out.”
This time when he turns to face me, I’m taken aback to find him on the verge of tears. “What do you want me to tell you? That I’m madly in love with her, and she doesn’t feel the same way about me? That she played me? That she ripped my fucking heart out and stomped on it like a cold-hearted bitch? Is that what you want me to say?”
His revelation floors me. “If that’s the truth, then yes.”
I can already tell by the look on his face that it is. I stand there dumbfounded, at a loss for words. It’s true what they say: there’s a fine line between love and hate. I’ve never seen him so angry.
Chapter 24
Jemma
“Are you awake, honey?” Christine asks, softly knocking on my door.
“Yes. Come in.”
I’ve been awake for a while, but just lazing around in bed. It was after one in the morning when the taxi dropped me off. I had such a good night with Rachel—she’s fun, and I’ve become very fond of her.
She hugged me so tightly last night and told me how much she’d missed me.
“How was your night out?” Christine asks, placing a cup of coffee on my bedside table.
“I had a great time.”
“I’m glad. You two always had fun together.”
“Rachel told me last night she’s going back to New York,” I say, sitting up and reaching for my coffee.
“Really, when?”
“In a few days. She said she had some things to sort out. I’m not sure when she’ll be back.”
Christine sits down on the edge of my bed. “I knew it would only be a matter of time. She loves her job in New York.”
“I know. I’m going to miss her.”
“She’ll come back. She always does.”
I smile, trying to mask my true feelings. The thought of her leaving makes me sad; I’ve become accustomed to having her around.
“We’ll make her a special dinner before she leaves,” Christine suggests.
“That’ll be nice, she’d like that.”
Christine places her hand briefly on my knee and smiles, before standing. “This came for you earlier.” Excitement bubbles inside me as she holds up a letter, along with a pink sports bag. “Braxton dropped it off, as well as this bag.”
“What’s in the bag?” I ask, reaching for it.
“Your running gear.”
“I run?”
“You used to. You loved it. You even did it competitively for a while when you were younger.” She stands and walks towards my desk and returns with three medals. “You won these when you were in high school.” I’d noticed them hanging on a hook below the shelf that houses a few trophies and ornaments when I first came to live here, but I’ve never inspected them closely.
I take them out of her hand and study them. One has an inscription engraved on the back: Jemma Robinson—2005 cross-country state champion.
“You were so fast. You could have made a career out of running if you’d wanted to.”
“Why didn’t I?”
“You ran for fun. The competitive side was something that never interested you.”
“So I just gave up?” I unzip the sports bag and see that she was right: it contains shorts, tights, singlets and a pair of brightly coloured sneakers.
“You gave up competing, but you still ran every day, right up until the accident.”
“Wow.” There’s still so much of me I don’t know.
She stands and walks towards the door. “Read your letter, and when you’re ready, come downstairs and I’ll make you some breakfast.”
Letter nine …
Dearest Jemma,
The twelfth of February 2005. It was a Saturday and the day of the cross-country state championships. I’d always known you were a fast runner; you beat me in races when we were kids, and you won most of the events at all the school sports carnivals. Long-distance events were your favourite, but you never pursued athletics outside of school until one teacher suggested that you enter a local cross-country event. It took a bit of persuasion from me and your parents, but you eventually filled out the forms and started training for it.
You ran a few kilometres every morning and afternoon. On the weekends, your father would drop us at the beach so you could run along the sand. It was soft and a great way to strengthen your legs.
You ended up winning both the local and regional events, and even broke the state record previously held by a girl by the name of Natasha Wilkinson. You’d never competed against her before, but would be up against her in the state championships.
We were all up early that morning and travelled the long distance to the event. Your parents and grandparents took their seats in the grandstand, and I was sitting on the fence by the grassed area while you warmed up.
You were stretching when a blonde girl approached. You immediately smiled—nothing unusual, you were friendly to everybody—and didn’t hesitate in extending your hand to her. She didn’t take it. I couldn’t hear what she was saying from where I sat, but by the look on your face, I could tell it wasn’t good.
Jumping down off the fence, I headed towards you both. But when she saw me approaching, she pivoted and walked away.
“What was that all about?” I asked.
“That was Natasha Wilkinson,” you answered, with an eye roll.
“Who?”
“The girl who held the state record. Well, she did, until I broke it.” I could tell by the scowl on your face that she had made you angry. “She told me to watch my back, and that she hoped I like the taste of dust because I’d be eating hers shortly.”
“What?”
“I know, right?”
You went back to your stretches and appeared undeterred by what she’d said. I, on the other hand, was furious. I scanned the area, looking to see what direction she’d headed in.
“She better not do anything to you during the race.”
“I’m not scared of her. She’s just trying to put me off my game. Little does she know her words spur me on … I’ll take great pleasure in beating her now.”
You were always so driven, so I didn’t doubt it for a second, but I still had an uneasy feeling in my gut.
When the contestants were called to the starting line, I took my place with your family in the grandstand. You’d swear I was the one about to compete, judging by the butterflies in my stomach.
We had a great view of the start and finish lines from where we sat, but for the rest of the race, you would be out of sight. It was a four-kilometre open-air course that comprised hills, valleys and flat terrain, with a variety of surfaces including grass, dirt and gravel.
Nasty Natasha, as we eventually dubbed her, was giving you the evil eye as you all stood in a diagonal line, waiting for the starter to sound his pistol. I saw you glance at her briefly, and a proud smile burst onto my face when you gave her a cheeky wink. You didn’t seem to be threatened by her at all.
The next twenty minutes were an agonising wait for us all, and when the first cheers were heard, we knew that someone had entered the stadium and we all jumped to our feet.
I was so proud when I saw you powering to the line. Nasty Natasha was a good five-to-ten metres behind you, with tears streaming down her face.
“She’s in the lead, Stephen!” your mother squealed with excitement as she jumped up and down.
“Go, Jem!” I called out.
“Go, Jem-Jem! Go, you good thing!” I heard Pa scream a few seconds later.
“That’s my granddaughter,” Ma said proudly, turning to tell the people behind us.
We all hugged each other when you finally crossed the line, and I’m pretty sure he’ll never admit to this, but I swear there were tears in your father’s eyes.
You were bent over with your hands on your knees as you tried to catch your breath, and Natasha had collapsed onto the ground in a sobbing mess.
A few minutes later, I watched in awe as you approached her and offered your hand. Again she refused to take it, but this time she took it a step further by slapping your hand away. I heard a few people in the crowd gasp, including your mother and Ma.
On our drive home later that day, we stopped off at a nice restaurant for a celebratory dinner. Ma and Pa didn’t join us because they had a long drive back to the farm.
I remember watching you as we sat at a table in the small Italian restaurant you’d chosen. You’d been quiet since we left the track. Your eyes kept moving between your parents and me as you ate. The look on your face was so humbling. The three of us were beaming, still riding the high of your win. But your joy seemed to come from somewhere else—from seeing the people you loved happy. I knew you well, and it made me wonder if you were doing this more for our benefit than your own. You’d only agreed to compete because we practically begged you.
A month later, the Australian championships were held interstate. Your mother hated flying, so we left a few days earlier and drove the twelve-hour trip with your parents.
First, second and third place from each state’s championship, qualified to compete in this event, so that meant Nasty Natasha would be there.
When it was time for the race to start, I went through all the emotions I had previously. And like the previous event, we all jumped to our feet when the first runner entered the stadium for the last leg of the race. But this time it wasn’t you in the lead. It was a girl I hadn’t seen before, neck and neck with Natasha.
I didn’t see who crossed the line first. My focus was on the tunnel they had emerged from moments before. Competitor after competitor appeared, but there was still no sign of you.
“Where is she?” I heard your mother say. I couldn’t answer that, but I felt uneasy. I was about to go in search of you when you suddenly appeared. You were limping, with blood trickling down your leg and one of your running shoes clutched tightly in your hand. I had a gut feeling that Nasty Natasha was behind this.
The entire crowd stood and cheered you on as you hobbled to the line. Unlike Natasha, no tears were streaming down your face, but I could tell you were devastated, and my heart hurt for you.
After the first-aid officer cleaned you up, an official came and spoke with you. As I suspected, Natasha was behind it. Two other runners had witnessed her push you down into a small ravine.
She won the race in a photo finish, but later that day she was disqualified and stripped of her medal. She also had to face a judiciary a few weeks later, and was suspended from competing for a year.
It made me proud to learn that the officials tried to pull you from the race because of your injuries, but you refused. You wanted to finish what you started. I loved how you always fought for what you wanted, and despite the odds, you never gave up.
That night as we lay in bed at the hotel, you whispered into the darkness. “Braxton, are you awake?”
We were in single beds, and your parents were sharing a double bed just a few metres away.
“Yeah, I’m awake,” I whispered back.
I rolled onto my side to face you, and you did the same. I couldn’t see your face, but I could make out your silhouette in the moonlight that was shining through the window.
“I don’t want to do this anymore.”
“Do what?” I asked.
“Compete. I still want to run, I love it, but only for fun.”
“Don’t let Natasha’s actions turn you off doing something you love.”
“That’s just it. I love the running part, but the competing not so much.”
“In my heart, I suspected that,” I confessed.
“Because you get me, Brax. Nobody knows me like you do.”
Your words made me smile. “You can still run without competing.”
“Did you hear Mum and Dad on the drive back to the hotel?” You sighed before continuing. “They kept saying how next year I’ll show them. Next year will be my year.”
“Yeah, I heard them.”
“I’m worried I’ll disappoint them, but I don’t want to compete next year.”
“Just tell them the truth, Jem, they’ll understand. We can tell them together if you like.”
“I’m so glad I have you on my side,” you said, stretching your hand out towards me. I reached for you, interlacing my fingers with yours.
“Always.”
“Night, Brax.”
“Night, Jem.”
Our fingers remained entwined as we both fell asleep.
What we had is far too beautiful to be forgotten.
Yours always,
Braxton
The running gear Braxton sent over now makes sense. I can’t help but wonder: is he trying to share a memory, or rekindle my passion? Either way, he has me thinking that if I loved to run so much before the accident, maybe it’s something I should get back into. It’s not like I have much else to do. I could run through the neighbourhood or on the beach.
Although I still have a slight limp when I walk, I’ve been doing small sprints on the treadmill during my rehab sessions, to help strengthen my legs. Maybe I could try running on the beach next time I’m there. I should probably check with my physiotherapist first.
I smile when I see the tiny running-shoe charm at the bottom of the envelope. I look down at the memory bracelet on my wrist. It’s so full of memories of my past, but there’s still room for many more.
I don’t want these letters to ever stop.
“You’re up early,” Christine says, coming into the kitchen and rubbing her eyes.
“I’m sorry if I woke you. I was just writing you a note.”
She eyes me up and down, and I see a smile form on her face. “You’re going for a run?”
“I am.” I originally put on the shorts, but the horrible red scars on my leg were visible, so I opted for the three-quarter tights instead. “There’s a bus due in fifteen minutes.”
“A bus?”
“Yes, I want to run on the beach.”
“That was always your favourite place. It’s still dark outside, are you going to be okay?”
“The sun should come up by the time I arrive.”
“It’s times like this I wish I had a driver’s licence,” she says. “I wondered about that. Why don’t you?”
“I’m a shocking driver.” She laughs, shaking her head. “There wasn’t much need for a car growing up in the country. I’d ride my horse everywhere.”
“You had a horse as well?”
“Yes, her name was Frostie,” she says, her smile widening. “I loved that horse. My father bought her for me one Christmas.”
I release a contented sigh. “Pa sounds like he was a good man.”
“He was.”
“It still doesn’t explain why you’re a bad driver. If you’ve never driven, how would you know?”
“Your dad thought it would be a good idea for me to have my licence when we found out I was expecting you. I had a few lessons, but I was dreadful. Nobody wanted to get in the car with me. Even the instructor your father hired to teach me quit after the first lesson.”
“Oh my god,” I say, giggling. “You must’ve been bad.”
“Well, the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree, I’m afraid: you weren’t much better when you first got behind the wheel.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. You’re lucky your father has the patience of a saint, otherwise, you may never have got your licence either.”
As I head out the front door my smile fades as a thought occurs: was my poor driving the reason I had my accident? Nobody has ever told me what happened that day.
The sun is rising by the time I arrive at the beach. I pause as soon as my feet hit the sand, inhaling the fresh salty air.
I set off down the beach at a slow pace—even though I have done this a thousand times before, it’s a new sensation and it takes a bit of getting used to. A few minutes in, I can already feel the muscles in my legs burning. My heart is racing and my breathing laboured, but I feel wonderful. My eyes are focused on Braxton’s house as I draw nearer, and I feel the sting of disappointment when I don’t see him sitting on the back deck.
