Chapter 21 Alexander
Thursday
“Well, the good news is that your wrist isn’t broken, Christopher,” the doctor says.
I let out a sigh of relief. The bones of my right hand stare back at me from the X-ray screen. I shouldn’t have tried to land a gnarly varial flip earlier—I’m such an idiot.
“Christopher?” The doctor’s hand on my shoulder brings my attention from the X-ray screen back to him. I nod, remembering Christopher put me down under his name rather than mine, so as not to draw any attention to myself.
“The bad news is, it looks like you’ve sprained it.
Quite significantly. There’s some pretty severe ligament damage.
There will be a looseness in your wrist joint you’ll need to be careful of, and you may experience a loss of function,” the doctor says matter-of-factly.
He turns to the cupboard, putting down the clipboard, and removes some items.
Everything sounds more serious here in London, or is it just the accent?
In California I was in the hospital so often with cuts and bruises, a sprained this, a torn that—either from surfing or skateboarding—that the doctors and nurses knew me on a first-name basis. Here it seems extremely clinical.
“You’re going to need to rest your wrist for at least three to five weeks. Ice it regularly with a cool pack and keep it wrapped up with this bandage.” He unravels the bandage, applying it to my wrist.
Three to five weeks?
They’re gonna kill me.
The knot in my stomach tightens as the doctor pulls the bandage tight, securing it with the safety clip. A throbbing pulse intensifies in my wrist. But the pain is nothing compared to the tongue-lashing I’m bound to receive from Paul for being so reckless.
The only relief is that Christopher is standing beside me.
The fear in his eyes earlier from when he came over to help me up from my fall is still tattooed in my head.
The rush to the car, driving at lightning speed to the hospital.
The wait to be seen, almost as excruciating as the pain itself.
Thankfully, no one here has recognized me.
I guess in a large part that’s because the majority of people back in the waiting area were senior citizens.
“I’m going to write you a prescription for some anti-inflammatory tablets,” the doctor says, retrieving his clipboard and removing the pen. “Other than that, you’re good to go.”
“Thanks doc, appreciate your help.”
His pen hovers above the prescription, his brows furrowing at me.
Christopher’s eyes widen as I turn to face him.
Damn.
I slipped back into my own accent. I managed to keep up my British accent the whole time and fell at the last hurdle.
What an idiot.
“Come on, let’s get you out of here,” Christopher says, cutting through the awkward silence. He offers me a hand to slide off the bed as the doctor completes the prescription and hands it to me.
“Thank you for all your help,” Christopher says, turning to the door.
He opens it, motioning me forward, as I slide the prescription into the pocket of my hoodie and pull the hood back up over my head.
I tighten the drawstrings. Not to hide myself from being recognized, but because the embarrassment is making my whole face blush.
We’ve barely taken ten steps out of the room when a loud voice echoes down the hallway.
“Clear the corridor!” a paramedic shouts.
An emergency unit flies toward us with a stretcher on wheels. A person lies motionless on a gurney in a neck brace, blood splattered across his clothing. Christopher and I jump sideways, backs against the wall, as they charge past us and into the emergency unit.
A sharp pain hits my chest. Like an arrow through my heart.
Was this what happened to Samuel? To that bicyclist?
Did the paramedics rush them in to save them?
Were they even conscious when they arrived at the hospital?
The nausea churns in my empty stomach, the guilt from both incidents all-consuming.
The flashbacks alternate in my mind, overlapping and merging into one. My chest tightens as I struggle for air. I’d thought my PTSD symptoms were behind me.
I am trying to focus on the five senses exercise when I turn and notice Christopher, who is crouched down on the floor. His hands are on either side of his head and he’s hyperventilating.
“Chris? What’s wrong?”
I immediately shove my thoughts of Samuel and the bicyclist aside.
His breaths come fast and shallow, the color drained from his face. I grab his hands and instantly regret it. Pain shoots up my arm, but I refuse to let go.
“Follow my breath,” I say, bending down in front of him and locking my gaze onto his.
Our chests start to rise and fall in unison, one deep breath following another. Christopher’s dilated pupils start to shrink, the hazel irises appearing once more.
“I need to get out of here,” he says, jumping up and marching toward the exit.
I take a moment to reconcile that he’s left, but I know better than to call out his name and draw attention to myself. By the time I make it outside and to the car park, I’ve fallen fifty yards behind him.
Christopher is already getting in the car and starts the engine as I speed up to get in beside him.
By the time we pull out of the car park and stop at the third set of traffic lights, I’ve tried and failed several times to find a way to speak to Christopher.
The sound of Jay Z and Linkin Park’s Numb/Encore, the only rap song I can tolerate thanks to its hybrid nature, offers a distraction from the silent tension.
Finally, I take a deep breath and turn to face Christopher.
“What happened back there?”
Christopher’s eyes are locked on the road ahead, his hands gripping the wheel tightly.
“That’s where I found out my dad was dead.” His tone is void of any emotion.
“Baby, I’m so sorry.” I reach across to rest my hand on his lap. He flinches as I set it down, and I see a wall go up.
Fuck.
I’ve been so lost in my own needs since I fell that I didn’t stop to think about Christopher, other than noticing the terror in his eyes and feeling gratitude to him for taking command and looking after me.
I’m so selfish. So absorbed in my own shit.
“It’s okay, we’re out of there now,” I say, removing my hand from his leg as we drive down the road. Christopher remains silent as the radio starts to play SWV’s Right Here. But I don’t feel we’re out of whatever this is. It feels like this is gonna be right here for a while.
“So, are you guys in a relationship?” the mousy blond guy asks, waving his finger between Christopher and I. We’re sitting on the couch, opposite of Daniel and Kelly on their bed.
“Daniel!” Kelly shouts, whacking him in the bicep.
For a petite woman, she seems to pack quite the punch. Daniel grabs his arm and cowers into the pillow before lifting himself back up again.
“Sorry about Daniel. He was born with his foot in his mouth.” Kelly shakes her head and rolls her eyes. Daniel goes to lift his foot up, before reconsidering when Kelly cuts him a look.
“It’s a good question, Daniel. What are we?” I ask, turning to Christopher.
His mood has softened since we arrived back at his sister’s apartment, but there’s still some tension between us. The sound of traffic below comes through the window, the only noise filling the lingering silence in the room. Everyone’s attention is on Christopher.
“We’re at that stage between fun fling and future therapy session,” he says. His sarcasm is delivered with such coldness that it sends a shiver down my spine.
Does he really think that? What’s the in-between stage? A relationship?
Kelly cuts Christopher a menacing stare.
I must be wearing my emotions all over my face, because Daniel leans forward on the bed and looks directly at me.
“Trust me, you’ll grow used to the Foster humor. They use it to deny their feelings. This one took two years to break down.” He points his thumb at Kelly.
“Three,” Christopher and Kelly say in unison.
A smile appears across both their faces as Daniel shakes his head.
“So, what do you do for a living, Alex?” Daniel takes the opportunity to change the topic, seeming to sense my growing discomfort as I tug on the drawstrings of the hoodie.
I can’t tell if he’s bluffing, or if he hasn’t put two and two together. Does he not realize that the plaque I gave Kelly last night, which is resting against the chest of drawers behind the bed, is me?
“Daniel, you can drop the pretense,” Kelly says, noticing the direction of my gaze.
“What pretense?” Daniel looks back and forth between us, his hands raised.
Christopher looks pissed, but I’m actually enjoying this interaction. I lean back on the couch to soak it all in. It’s been a while since I’ve been solely surrounded by people my own age. Everyone on my team is at least ten years older than me, bar Lucy.
Kelly nods her head backward to the plaque. Daniel cranes his head to look before turning back to face Kelly.
“I thought I was meant to pretend I didn’t know who he was. That he’s not the guy Christopher’s been banging on about.”
“I give up,” Kelly says, lowering her head into her hands.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I say to Daniel, turning to look at Christopher.
Redness is forming in his cheeks.
“Not cool, Daniel, not cool.” His eyes are locked on Daniel’s in a stare so deadly I’m surprised he’s not already buried six feet under.
Maybe Christopher does think about me as much as I think about him. And maybe Daniel’s right. That Christopher’s humor is a deflection from allowing his true feelings to show. I feel the fear that’s been with me since we left the hospital fade away.
The smell of the barbeque, set out on the rooftop, drifts in through the kitchen window and lingers in my nostrils, making my stomach grumble.
“I don’t know about you guys, but I could murder some food,” I say, slapping my legs and immediately regretting it. I try to shake away the pain from my hand. This whole wrist injury is going to take some getting used to.
“Me too,” Daniel says, jumping up from the bed. “I’ll grab the meat from the fridge.”