And he does. By the time I approach Mamma, Chloe and Radia, we’ve even picked up our pace to a gentle jog. I force out a smile for my mother and wink at Radia and Chloe who look a peculiar mix of concerned and impressed.
Ten seconds later, we cross the finish line.
Two seconds later, I collapse to the ground and everything goes black.
I was right all along. This run, this triathlon really did kill me.
But that isn’t my last thought. My last thought is,Giles.
*****
When I wake up again, I’m in a hospital bed. I know this from the smell. Cleaning products, instant coffee and the slightly acidic sweet smell of illness. I recognise it immediately from when Papa was brought in after his aneurysm.
As my eyes adjust to the bright light, I hear a muffled cacophony of background noise – mumbled conversations, the occasional beep, the soft slaps of shoes walking on lino – and so I know I’m not in a private room.
It takes another beat for me to realise I’m also not alone. That there is a hand in my hand and because I don’t feel like I can lift my head up enough to see who it is, I squeeze it to try and determine if it’s who I want it to be.
“Baby?” I barely whisper.
“Marcello?” Giles’ face with his chiselled jaw, perfect moustache and ocean eyes pops into view above me. His brow is creased with worry andthere are grey semi-circles under his eyes, but he still looks so damn handsome.
“What happened?” I ask. My voice is rough and dry, and my throat aches a little from the effort of those two simple words.
“You had to have an emergency appendectomy.”
“A what?”
“Your appendix burst.” Giles brings a hand to my face and smooths hair away from my face. “So they had to remove it.”
I stare at him while I absorb this information. I’m still not sure my brain has a hold on it when I say. “See, I told you the triathlon would kill me.”
His smile is warm but small. “It didn’t kill you. It was just very bad timing. But,” he draws in a breath, “at least it didn’t happen in the swimming or bike rounds. You still got to finish your first triathlon.”
“Hmm.” I try to smile but it feels like a lot of work. “I’ve always had a problem being late for things.”
His soft chuckle is music to my ears. “How are you feeling?”
“Like I’ve been hit by a truck and said truck then reversed back over my battered body.”
“I’m sorry.” He combs my hair again and I can’t imagine it’s been washed so it must be sweaty and dirty and messy.
“No,I'msorry,” I say and I wish I could move, take him in my arms and hold him. “Were you terrified?”
He gives me a brief but real smile. “I was a little alarmed, yes. But you very conveniently collapsed in front of an emergency medical team who were ready to whisk you away in an ambulance when you didn't come round immediately. That helped.”
“I'm considerate like that,” I half-croak, half-joke. “But did it... Did it set off your counting?”
“I've had a few moments over the last eight or so hours, but I'm still here. More importantly, so are you. And you're going to be okay.”
“Where’s Mamma?”
“I sent her home. She was exhausted. She was here most of the night but she really needed to sleep. I said I’d call when you woke up.” He moves to pull his phone out of his trouser pocket.
“Wait,” I say a little louder but as a result, with a lot more rasp.
“What? Do you need a nurse?”
“No, no,” I shake my head, “I want to ask you something.”
