Chapter 20
But he refuses to move from my side and the next thing I know, my brother is dashing toward us, rolling up sleeves like he’s about to perform some kind of procedure, even though his only medical training comes from watching the early seasons of Grey’s Anatomy.
‘What happened?’ Jeff gasps.
‘I’m fine,’ I say again.
‘Really?’
‘Yes,’ I hiss. We all glare at my ankle.
‘That’s going to be a watermelon,’ Jeff declares.
Then, without warning, Sam scoots down and slips an arm around my waist. ‘Come on, let’s get you up.’
My body responds to his touch with a flare of panic and heat. My skin breaks out in goosepimples and my heart begins crashing in my chest. As I get to my feet, Jeff takes this as his cue to go to the other side to support me.
But it’s like trying to perform a three-legged race – nothing is coordinated or in tandem – and when it becomes clear my brother is not helping, he backs off, widening his eyes meaningfully at me, then Sam, as he does.
Ever since that day of the court mix-up, Jeff has been demanding to know all the detail about how we met and what exactly happened between us.
I’ve told him the answer is absolutely nothing, which is essentially true.
Even if I have omitted a couple of minor details, such as an earth-shattering kiss and the fact that I pined after him for an entire summer.
‘What else can I do?’ Jeff asks, clearly hating the idea of not being useful.
‘Just stop everyone looking,’ I hiss, limping towards the clubhouse, as the heat of Sam’s hand on my torso feels like it’s burning into my skin.
‘NOTHING TO SEE HERE!’ Jeff announces, encouraging anyone who hadn’t witnessed the drama to now stop and stare.
As I hobble up the clubhouse steps, Sam seems to tighten his grip a little to support me. A full body flush starts somewhere in my sternum and ends up tingling in my fingertips, my toes, and setting alight parts of my anatomy I’d assumed were long dead.
‘Do we need the first-aid box?’ Nora says, bounding up the steps, opening the door for us. I keep my head down, worried that if she sees my face she’ll work out the bewildering way my treacherous body is reacting to being this close to him.
‘Could be useful,’ Sam replies.
When we get inside, he helps me to sit on the bench as Nora brings the medical kit and some ice. After a brief discussion about whether I need to go to hospital, someone else pops in to ask Nora for the scores.
‘You should just go and finish up, Nora,’ Sam suggests. ‘I’ll look after Jules.’
‘Are you sure?’ Her eyes meet mine.
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say, uncertainly.
And so we find ourselves alone. Me, Sam and my ankle, which, as I stretch out my leg on the bench, I now realise is an odd shape.
‘It’s not going to be a watermelon,’ he says, apparently reading my thoughts.
‘Really?’
‘A grapefruit at most.’
My knee doesn’t look good either. A bloodied mess, albeit a superficial one.
I sigh. ‘They were a new pair of leggings too. From Lululemon.’
He looks up and suppresses a smile. ‘Hate it when that happens.’ I let out a little laugh. ‘Mind if I take a look at this?’
I swallow whatever stone it is that seems to have lodged in my throat. ‘Go ahead.’
He examines the ankle from above first and I say a silent prayer of thanks that I shaved my legs last night.
‘Any numbness?’ he asks.
‘No.’
‘Can you wiggle your toes?’
I do as instructed and think I might be trembling. ‘Yeah.’
‘Is it tender . . . here?’ He gently touches the bone and looks up to my face, to see my reaction. As my eyes meet his, something erupts behind my breastbone.
I shake my head mutely.
‘It’s more . . . here,’ I say, pointing to the top.
At that, he slides his palms down the sides of my trainers and his warm fingers graze my skin. I am transfixed by his hands and how beautiful they are, even after all these years.
I move hesitantly and, although it hurts, the pain is not unbearable. I’m already thinking the ankle can’t be broken.
This is nothing like the one other bone I fractured, my elbow, which I broke in the early 2000s, when I was wearing a fashionable but frankly dangerous combination of wide-leg pants and stiletto heels. Still, what do I know? Maybe I have a high pain threshold.
‘Are you able to roll these up?’ he says, taking his hands away.
I slowly bend my leg and roll the leggings all the way up and over my knee. There is an angry graze on the skin. Blood everywhere. I’m never going to hear the end of this from Gavin.
Sam turns away to root through the first-aid kit and then, when he doesn’t find anything he’s happy with, goes to the sink and turns on the tap.
Outside, people are still in the party spirit.
The games are over now, the Prosecco is in full flow.
There’s a barbecue lit and a few of the kids, not yet worn out, are bouncing a ball back and forth over the net.
Sam returns with some kitchen roll and warm water.
He places them on the table and sits next to me again, before dipping a wad into the bowl and squeezing out the excess.
He gently holds it against my knee. There’s a sharp sting, followed by a disconcerting wave of pleasure.
Fireflies begin to flutter somewhere in my belly.
These feelings are insane. I don’t understand what’s going on at all.
But as he begins to bathe my wound, dipping his makeshift cloth in the water and returning it to my skin, air seems to be suspended in my chest. Each time he gently presses it against me, there’s an odd shift of energy.
The throbbing pain in my ankle is no longer the dominant force.
Instead, all my focus is on the goosebumps travelling along my leg.
‘For what it’s worth, I don’t think this is broken,’ he says, glancing up.
‘Can you tell?’
‘Well, you should still get an X-ray. Orthopaedics isn’t my speciality.’
And then, I can’t resist. ‘I heard you were a plastic surgeon?’
‘That’s right,’ he says distractedly, tearing off a new piece of towel and dipping it in the water.
‘So . . . which bits do you do?’
He gently smooths it over my skin and looks up at me. ‘Which bits?’
‘You know,’ I shrug. ‘Hair transplants? Nose jobs? Eye lifts? I’m asking for a friend, obviously.’
He lets out a laugh. ‘None of those are really my area, I’m afraid. I’m in reconstructive surgery. Bone and skin grafts, tissue expansion surgery, that kind of thing.’
‘Oh. I see.’ I feel slightly silly now. ‘And here I was thinking you spent all day creating beautiful cleavages.’
A hint of amusement appears at his lips. ‘I’m sorry to disappoint you.’
‘Never done a boob job?’
‘Never. A few noses in my time though,’ he says, before looking up. ‘So how long have you been in retail?’
‘Oh, forever. I started at M&S years ago. That was where I met my husband.’
He smiles. ‘What’s his name?’
My lips part momentarily as I realise he clearly only caught half the story. Or maybe that’s all I’d given.
‘Ed,’ I say, softly. ‘He . . . was called Ed.’
Sam blinks, puts down his towel and looks up at me. ‘Was?’
‘He died. Five years ago.’
He’s still for a moment, taking this in. ‘Oh, Jules. I’m so sorry to hear that.’
The door opens. It’s Liam.
‘Hi partner!’ I smile, but immediately realise he looks upset.
‘Hey, buddy, what’s up?’ Sam asks.
Liam raises his gaze to me.
‘I’m really sorry if I hurt you,’ he mumbles, his lip trembling, apparently convinced he’s done something very wrong.
‘Oh, you don’t need to worry!’ I reassure him brightly. ‘It was just an accident.’
But tears are brimming in his eyes now. Sam stands up and walks over, rubbing his arm reassuringly. Liam wipes his eyes, clearly embarrassed.
‘Sorry,’ he mutters.
‘Hey,’ Sam says gently. ‘It’s okay to cry, buddy. Crying just means you feel.’
Liam sniffs again and looks over at me. ‘Are you going to be okay?’
But by now, all I can think about is how it felt when Sam touched my skin, as if he ignited something inside me that now feels like a bonfire. I force a smile as I look back at Liam.
‘Absolutely,’ I say, sounding strangulated. ‘I’m going to be just fine.’