Chapter 23
LUKE
Neil’s discharged from the hospital the following day.
I bring him back to my place, armed with slings, painkillers, and antibiotics.
My first job is to help him undress and fix a polythene bag over his arm.
Though he insists he can manage on his own, the sound he makes when he finally steps under the hot jets of the shower is way more sexual than the preceding clinical and practical undressing, minutes before, warrants.
“Oh God, this is heaven,” he moans as I walk away. “This isn’t washing, rash whisperer. This is fucking spiritual.”
The clothes he wore the night of his unplanned hospital admission almost march themselves to the washing machine.
After putting them on a hot cycle, I retreat to the kitchen and set about preparing dinner for two.
I barely know Neil’s favourite foods, and yet here we are, diving into a level of intimacy that usually comes after far more than a handful of dates.
He’s keeping one hand free, for me to hold, I remind myself as a hint of anxiety creeps in.
We’re going to water and grow whatever it was we started.
Neil wants me. I have a text on my phone from Alaric insisting that Neil loves me.
That he slurred the words to him in hospital and it wasn’t simply the drugs talking.
I flick my wristband hard. Neil wants me—loves me, maybe—and I can and will live up to the challenge.
By the time he’s showered, I’ve cooked, hung the washing to dry, and laid out a few of his belongings from his bag, anarchically packed by Alaric as they waited for the ambulance.
I update the gang on Neil’s progress and hopefully answer enough of Alaric and Ez’s questions to satisfy them for a few hours.
Neil’s managed to pull on a pair of loose trackie bottoms and grapple a baggy T-shirt over his head. I wrestle with his purple Velcro sling, so it sits comfortably around his neck.
“This got unromantic fast,” he murmurs as I fiddle with the knot. I laugh.
“I’ve already cut up your sausages. Do you want some more painkillers now, or are you saving them for bedtime?”
On cue, he yawns. “Bedtime. I’m zonked enough.”
I find something oddly pleasurable about the mundane business of taking care of someone else.
I’ve never had an opportunity before, outside of work.
With no time pressures, no documenting, no polite detachment, I can fuss over him to my heart’s content and bask in his gratitude.
It’s in the little things, reminding Neil to take his antibiotics, refilling his water, plumping up the cushions, elevating his arm to a more restful position.
Neil’s a surprisingly docile patient, partly because his mind is elsewhere—on the shitshow he needs to sort with Ezra, and the ever present coming to terms with his vision loss and how to prepare for his future.
He sleeps away the best part of the first twenty-four hours, mostly on the sofa, but also in my bed.
Given that we barely explored that side of things before I disappeared for a few weeks, I’ve no idea if I’m meant to tuck him in or tempt him.
For sure, we established we both want more, but right now, I’m playing nurse, Neil’s playing patient, and neither of us have said a word about visiting hours.
If we leave it too long, the empty space between his side of the bed and mine is going to feel like a wound that won’t heal.
“Something’s worrying you, rash whisperer,” he says after a few minutes. “You were like, Mr Bossy in the kitchen and stood over me whilst I took my painkillers. What’s changed?”
I resist reaching for my beads. “I’m anxious about, you know, where we’re at.”
His good hand fumbles for mine under the covers. “You never have to feel anxious around me. Not ever.”
What is it I told myself? Feel a feeling, touch a hand, lick a wall.
I take the plunge and kiss him. Only gently, but on the lips, as he’s all snuggled up on his pillows and as white as the sheet he’s lying on.
“Sorry,” I say, not sorry at all. Actually, I’m rather pleased with myself. “I needed that.”
He offers me a wan smile, faltering under the weight of the pain. “I needed it too. I’d like to give you more, but—” He winces as he adjusts his arm. “Now the local anaesthetic has worn off, it hurts like hell. I don’t think I can.”
“I’ll sleep in the spare room if you prefer.”
Neil grasps my hand tighter. “No way. Kiss me again. It helps with the pain.”
So I do. I stroke his ear and his cheek and sift my fingers through his hair until he’s gently snoring.
He doesn’t snore all night. Three hours in and I’m passing him more painkillers, rearranging his pillows, and encouraging him to down a glass of water.
Unromantic? It’s the most romantic thing there is.
“When all this is sorted, whatever the outcome, can I take you out on that date I promised you? Pick up where we left off? I mean, my plaster cast friend here is going to have to come along as a chaperone, but we can work around her.”
Taking his water glass to refill it, I probably smile too fast. Perhaps there is a space for me, after all. It feels nice the way he’s asking—sweet, flirty, a little anxious. As if Neil—confident, sexually assured Neil—is a teeny bit worried I might not say yes.
Am I allowed to be thrilled? The last couple of days have solidified our friendship, for sure, but the beginnings of our foray into anything more physical than a few kisses were kyboshed when my brain chemicals fell out of whack.
They’re back in balance now. I feel great; being needed suits me.
I’m good at it. So…what the hell am I dithering and second-guessing myself for?
Neil. Love. Happy.
“I’d like that. Thank you.”