My Adventure With Dean
Chapter One
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I have checked my bag three times. And then my other bag. And then the other one. Danny would have laughed, if it weren't for the fact that Danny isn't coming with me any more.
Running shoes; race number; safety pins. Apparently they have big boxes of safety pins at these events, but - just this once - I'd like to be completely prepared. If only to make up for the fact that the person who talked me into doing a marathon called me yesterday morning and told me...'nothing to worry about...I'm okay...but I can't come'.
I'm not angry. I don't think Danny chose to fall down the steps of the train station. The selfish part of me wishes she'd left it a week later, though.
Running has been great for me. Like a lot of guys in their 30s, I found that eating cake and wearing slim fit jeans had become mutually exclusive, and so decided to do something about it. I hadn't expected that it would give me the confidence it has provided - a sense of groundedness in my own body, of more control over life. Things that had been absent for a while. Since the split with Carl. Actually, if we're being real, since I met him.
But I won't think about Carl now. I'm anxious enough already. This time tomorrow, I will hopefully have completed my first marathon. Not with Danny, as planned, but alone.
Or, not entirely alone. I'll have 6,000 strangers with me. And I'll have moral support. As we speak, Danny's husband (and my friend) Dean is bundling my luggage into the back of his car, smiling broadly, warmly at me. I breathe deeply, and I climb into the car.
'You'll do great. I have faith in you'. And that smile again. The one that always helps me feel relaxed.
I feel somewhat awkward, despite our friendship. He has been very supportive of me and Danny, as we've come to embrace early morning runs, weight-lifting and protein shakes. Underneath it, though, I know there's a sense of loss. In the early years of their relationship, it was Dean who did all of these things.
Not all that long ago, Dean got up early, went to the gym, played soccer, until a particularly nasty collision on the field sent him one way and his foot the other. He can walk just fine now, and even run a short distance. But he won't be going 26 miles any time soon. And, when I've spoken to him recently, I've had a sense that he's struggling to find a niche for himself. I wouldn't say there was tension between him and Danny - there's still an obvious closeness there - but they seem to be doing more and more separately, and when I ask Danny about it she just changes the subject.
I've known Danny since we were 20. I never really had that many male friends. So often, the question of sex or attraction can make things a little bit clumsy, or uncertain. Friendships with women have just been easier. So, when Danny told me several years ago that she'd met this guy, I remember feeling concerned. I thought of partners - hers and mine - who had disliked our friendship, tried to undermine it. I was pleased, relieved, when Dean and I got along.
Some thought they seemed an unlikely couple: her 6 foot stature; outwardly gregarious nature; love of late nights, and storytelling, and him - three years younger than us both, maybe 5 foot 9, quieter, calm; an appreciation for simpler things - gardening, walking. But when you saw them together in those early days they made sense. One of the first things I noticed was that he listened when people spoke - really listened, asked questions in a way that made you feel like you mattered. If I'm entirely frank, this came after I noticed the blue eyes, and the curl of the dark blonde eyelashes. Maybe the broad chest too. But I tried not to think about that too much.
Apparently they met at the meditation group me and Danny had started attending before I met Carl. After I met him, I did a lot less for a while. And it ended up that most of my friendships were with straight couples. There was less of an inquisition involved. So, while my world shrank around Carl, Danny and Dean were my link to a reality where people could be safe together, and value and attend to one another.
I wasn't surprised that Dean was going to come to the race with us, and support us. Their daughter, Emily, was going to visit her aunt, and the three of us were looking forward to a trip to Yorkshire, a stay in a hotel, some switching off time, and the small matter of a gruelling physical event in the middle. He had insisted on driving, against my protestation, pointing out that we might actually want to rest afterwards. When Danny dropped out, I'd planned to find my own way there, but she had been quite insistent. Apparently, she would be fine, Emily's aunt (Dean's sister) would come to them, and she had a nice night of painkillers and Prosecco planned. No, she wouldn't need Dean there. No, he wouldn't be worried about her - in fact, he was more worried about me, doing this on my own, knowing how anxious I'd be. As the conversation continued I noticed she became terse, an impatient tone in her voice, and ended the phone call a little abruptly by telling me he'd be here at 4 o'clock today, to pick me up.
I heard Dean at the front door. I'm guessing he knew to come in: that if he didn't I'd end up running around the house for things I don't need, checking doors and windows that I knew, on some level, were closed.
'Come in, Dean, it's open!' As I ransacked the kitchen cupboards, stuffing energy bars, gels, chocolate into my rucksack, I could hear him pull up one of the kitchen stools and I turned to find him half-sitting, half-leaning on it, a gently concerned look on his face.
'You okay, Nick?'
'Yeah, it's just that I want to make sure I've got all this stuff in, and I'm not sure what I'm going to need and what I won't need, and I knew I should have got a bigger bag because there isn't enough room in this and -'
I broke off, seeing a smile just hovvering at the corners of his lips, and getting a sense of how I sounded to him.
'Can I do anything to help, Nick? A check of the bag? A cup of tea? A hug?'.
I took a deep breath, let it out slowly. Remembering the words of the Calm App and parroting them, allowing myself a wry grin: 'Thank you, Dean. I will now re-wire my brain by choosing a different response. Let's have a cup of tea, and then get out of here before I find something else to start stressing about.'
'Sounds like a great idea to me'. I flicked the kettle switch, feeling the gentle yet firm contact of his palm against my back, taking the rucksack from my hand 'It's okay. This is going to be fun. We'll have a good time.' He put his arm around my shoulder. Suddenly conscious of the fact that I was 3 inches taller, I nevertheless leant into him, letting him take some of my weight, resting on him, feeling his reassuring words, his presence.
'Yeah, yeah, we'll have fun.'
And now, we're heading out of the city. I can feel my shoulders start to unclench a little as the familiar landmarks slip past, and we make our way onto the motorway. We make casual talk about race conditions (scattered showers). He tells me that the hotel were fine about cancelling one of the rooms, and replacing the double with a twin. We'll probably get there about 7 or 8, which should give time to grab something to eat and an early night.
I make a joke about grabbing a beer. He talks about an article written by someone who did the Boston Marathon with a hangover. I watch his lips move. He has dark blond stubble that frames his mouth. His hands are slightly bigger than mine. I can see the hairs that curl up the length of his arms, and grow lightly on the backs of his hands. Occasionally, when I look at them, I get the urge to reach out to his arm and stroke it. But I will never do this. He makes me feel warm, and safe. But he is squarely off-limits. Perhaps that is why he makes me feel as safe as he does.
He's talking about Emily's birthday, and I ask him about his own birthday, in a couple of weeks, the start of May.
He goes quiet, in a way which I find hard to read, and then tells me he doesn't have any plans. For some time, we sit in silence, and I let my gaze drift to the patches of wild flowers that are starting to grow along the motorway embankment. He asks me if I'd like to listen to any music and I say yes, whatever he'd enjoy, and he puts on some electro-pop, knowing this will appeal to me. We mention work. I need a change, he needs a change. Perhaps we can start our own business. He can grow plants, and I'll talk to them. We laugh. We're halfway to York and we haven't mentioned Danny. This would be odd in any circumstance, and is particularly odd given that, without her, we wouldn't be making this trip at all. At one point, I start to frame the question, but something tells me not to. That instinct they've both always encouraged me to trust.
I look at him, from time to time. He catches me, and doesn't seem to mind. He never has. He smiles back. He is wearing a red and black check shirt, soft material. It brings out his lighter features and dark blond hair. He has pushed the sleeves up slightly, as he likes to do. I watch his arm move as he changes gear. I can see the metallic wristband of his watch, its round face, the arm hairs curling against it. I draw my attention away, flip down the mirror, look at my own face - dark brown hair. I'm told I look younger than my 37 years. I've changed a little from the guy who reluctantly pulled on a pair of running shoes and loose jogging bottoms just over 18 months ago. I had been post-relationship, out of shape, tired... I really wasn't taking care of myself. I still find things like getting a haircut or buying a new item of clothing provide a thrill of excitement, as if there's something forbidden about them. I'm wearing my favourite dark green shirt. I'm told the colour suits me. Interesting that I've chosen to wear it today.
Dean started working out again as me and Danny started running. His upper arms are growing, slowly. His shirt creases on his bicep as he turns the wheel. I can see a tuft of chest hair sticking out of the neck of his shirt, I bring my attention back to small talk.
'So, what will you do tomorrow, while you've got six hours to kill?'
He laughs, at my false modesty: 'six hours? You planning on walking?... I'll find a good spot on the course, and cheer the runners as they go past. And I'll watch for you on the way out, and on the way back. It'll be fun.'
He's using the word 'fun' a lot. Doesn't sound like much fun to me, but I find myself picturing him, standing there, looking for me, and I feel a swelling in my chest, and a tear in the corner of my eye. I wipe it away before he sees it, knowing he has seen it anyway.
As he parks the car, I go into the hotel and become involved in a discussion with the receptionist. Her name is Olivia. Olivia tells me that, yes, they have record of a cancellation, but nothing about changing the room to a twin. Yes, she can try and see if there's another room available but couldn't we just...? No, she can't always predict what will be available because...
As this continues I'm aware of Dean approaching, standing just behind me, letting me talk. For a moment, I feel his hand press gently against my bottom. It must have been a mistake.
Olivia goes away to speak to someone behind a screen, and Dean looks at me:
'You know, Nick, I'd be okay if we just shared...'
The image I've been pushing away returns to the centre of my mind. I'm not really used to sharing a bed, and a bit concerned about disturbed sleep the night beforehand. I think of him snoring. I think of me snoring. I think of the knowledge that he'll be there, in the bed, next to me.
Olivia returns. Yes, they can change the room, but this will mean that the booking needs to be cancelled and placed once again. Olivia tells me that When we booked it, we benefitted from an online discount, and an advance discount, which means that the room will now cost £150 more over the three nights we're staying than it would otherwise have done. Olivia needs a decision now so we can go ahead.
I stare at her. I feel alternately angry, anxious, ashamed of making a fuss, and overwhelmed. I don't say anything for a while. My mind goes blank. Eventually, I turn, and I look at Dean.
He touches my back, in a way that Olivia clearly notices and, from her slightly raised eyebrow, construes as intimate: 'we'll keep the double, thank you.' I notice how slowly and decisively he speaks. His voice, already deeper and more measured than mine, seems, to my mind, to carry a sense of authority. 'Olivia, I'd like you to speak to the manager and convey that we're unhappy, and ask if there's anything she can do to make up for this.'
Olivia flushes, and mutters that she'll see what she can do, shoving the key cards to the room across the desk at us. Dean has picked up my large bag before I can protest, leaving me with my running kit and my rucksack. He appears to have packed everything he needs into a small suitcase.
As we enter the lift, I'm aware of my heart racing again, seemingly the aftermath of my encounter with bureaucracy. I notice my reddended face in the lift mirror. Dean puts his suitcase behind us, stands next to me, putting his arms around me on both sides, squeezing tight, lifting just a little so I'm up on tiptoe - 'YOU'RE DOING A MARATHON, NICK! AND IF YOU CAN COPE WITH OLIVIA, YOU CAN COPE WITH THAT!'.
The levity shocks me out of the rumination, and brings a grin to my face: 'YEAH! BRING IT ON!' He lets go, puts me down, but keeps his arm around my lower back. I notice I'm still reddened, but think that, now, the cause is different.
We get to room 323. It's bigger than expected. There's a TV, one big armchair, a view of the hills. There are also twin beds, as ordered initially, and not the double bed we'd been threatened with. I notice that, far from being pleased by this, I'm extremely disappointed.
I start to throw my clothes into draws, laying out my race kit on the bed. I'm so absorbed in this that I jump slightly when Dean comes up behind me, standing with his chest against my back, putting an arm around my waist from either side, and leaning around to see my display. He squeezes me to him briefly, gives my shoulder an affectionate, friendly kiss, and says 'Come on, you've got carb-loading to do before bedtime.'
As he lets go, I think of a number of things that, right now, would be more appealing than eating pasta. But I grab my coat, quickly eye the bulge in his jeans as he turns around, and head to the door.