Chapter 11
‘You’re up?’ I say, taken aback to see him answer the door. Having never stood face to face with Cian, I hadn’t realised how tall he was, even when slightly slouched over the crutches.
‘I can finally stand without the sensation of surgical screws bursting through my flesh.’
The mental image sends a shudder up the backs of my own legs.
‘How you doing?’ he asks.
‘Good,’ I answer, as he offers me a slow smile. Less alone, I think, as I follow him into the house.
‘Is she back here to drink all my wine?’ Brendan teases as we go into the living room. ‘Only joking. I’m happy someone’s here to babysit, I can go out now.’
‘Wow, thanks,’ Cian says as he’s pulled into a bear hug. As big and sturdy as Cian appears, he’s also missing a working leg, so I’m shocked to see him being handled so roughly. ‘Okay, Dad,’ he deadpans, ‘thanks for the hug. You can go to the pub now.’
Brendan kisses him on the side of the head, then lets go. ‘I have missed you this week. The house has been so quiet. I could almost hear my own thoughts at one point.’
I must be staring because Brendan turns to me and opens his arms. ‘Zoe, do you also need a hug?’
I’m not in the habit of accepting hugs from anyone, but watching their easy affection makes me crave one.
Cian answers for me. ‘No, she does not want a hug.’
‘Your loss,’ Brendan says as I step away before I can throw myself into his arms. ‘See you two later.’
Cian pulls on a baseball cap, and we make our way to the garden.
He lowers himself onto a chair and allows the crutches to fall on the ground in front.
I hover close, ready to offer help. ‘What are you doing?’ he says.
‘Sit down.’ His eyes are dark under the peak of the cap and it’s almost too intense when I sit directly opposite.
He nods at the bag on my lap. ‘What’s that? ’
‘I bought too many and I remember you said you liked samosas.’
He breaks into a fake cry as I put them on the table between us. ‘You read my mind.’
‘They’re from yesterday,’ I warn. ‘From Vasantha’s.’
‘Best samosa in the area. Though their curries are very average. I need to stop eating like this.’
‘Says the man with fifty KitKats in his desk drawer.’
As he slides forward, his shorts ride up to an almost obscene point. ‘I’m currently in a regime where I spend ninety per cent of my day sitting, so I could do with watching what I eat.’
‘Well no, you’re not about to waste away.’
Cian’s mouth drops open. ‘I’m practically immobile,’ he whines. ‘Of course I’m going to put on weight. All my hard-won muscle is slowly turning to fat.’ He grapples with an impractically small tub of chilli sauce.
‘I meant the opposite,’ I say, laughing gawkily, because of all the things to misunderstand. ‘Like your thighs are huge. Did you use to spend all your time squatting?’
The tub bursts open and covers his hands in sauce. ‘Ah shit.’ He sucks it off. ‘Can you imagine if I said that to a woman? Made a comment to some random female colleague about her body?’
I ignore the dig, then ask primly, ‘Do you not have any longer shorts?’
‘It’s hot,’ he bites back.
‘It’s not that hot,’ I say, looking him up and down.
‘This is activewear, Zoe. My dad was forcing me to do assisted sit-ups earlier.’ Cian shuffles the hems of his shorts down.
‘Sounds like a lot of fun.’
‘It was. I feel great.’ He points a greasy triangle at me. ‘Exercise is good for you.’
‘I’ve heard. And I’m very happy for those who enjoy it. By all means, do your sit-ups and squats.’
‘Yeah. You gonna join in?’
‘I’ll happily watch.’ I laugh.
He turns away and I wonder if I’ve taken it too far. ‘Wow,’ he says between mouthfuls, ‘HR are going to be hearing from me about you.’
I take a samosa then put it back down. ‘I don’t like exercise, it’s boring. My mum is always trying to get me into yoga.’
‘My sister loves yoga. She’s constantly posting photos of herself doing yoga out in Dubai.
’ He makes a face of mild revulsion. ‘Yoga’s not real exercise, just a bunch of people in expensive leggings breathing deeply.
Do something, anything. I don’t know . .
.’ He rolls his eyes up in thought. ‘At least run. Everyone takes up running at some point.’
‘Why do I need to exercise? Are you saying I need to work on my figure?’
I might as well have said, get your fill, because that’s exactly what he does, his eyes lighting up each part of my body as he checks me over.
He catches himself and shifts his focus to the parasol above our heads, which he fusses with till we’re both out of the sun’s glare.
Then he lets his head fall back and closes his eyes.
Now I look. I look at his face and neck, his shoulders and chest. It’s been so long since I felt even the vaguest attraction to anyone. It’s disorientating.
‘Exercise is good for your mental well-being.’ He flicks his eyes open. ‘The world’s best anti-depressant.’
This is the least sexy topic in the world, which is great, because I need to clean my thoughts up. ‘You sound like our boss.’
Cian groans. ‘I’ve spent way too many hours of my life filling out those questionnaires on my mental health. As if Jimmy cares about any of us. Can you please pass me another samosa?’
‘I’m fed up with people going on about mental health,’ I say while handing him another.
‘When something bad happens, everyone becomes an expert. And while you’re trying to get through one day at a time, they’re all obsessively trying to get you to talk about your feelings and practise mindful breathwork.
’ Cian is now staring at me as if . . . what?
His expressions are so difficult to decipher.
‘Sorry,’ I say. ‘I didn’t mean to get too deep. ’
He waits, like I’m going to say something else, but I’m done. I like hanging out with him and I don’t want it to be about this. ‘I love summer, though this is possibly too much sun,’ I offer, hoping it’ll excuse my outburst.
Cian reaches up to wind the parasol again, putting me fully in the shade, and I curse myself for killing the vibe. ‘When I felt shit after my accident, my aunt bought me a big pile of wellness colouring books.’
It’s not what I expected him to say.
‘She saw something about them on daytime TV.’ He laughs. ‘She was convinced it would stop me from getting down. It’s almost like she’d forgotten how stressful colouring in was as a kid.’
‘Colouring in is not stressful.’
‘It is,’ he shouts, because I’m realising Cian is someone who shouts his laughter. ‘All those tiny lines.’ He mimics using a pencil. ‘And how are you meant to know what colours go together?’
‘Is that why you wear so much black?’
‘Do I?’ He glances down at himself, as if surprised to find he’s not wearing neon pink and green. ‘I hate trying to be creative. It’s tedious. Shit. If you ever can’t sleep, colouring in a bunch of daisies will do it.’
‘I might have to try it. This weather is keeping me up all night.’
‘Perhaps you need a better sleep routine.’
‘Now that, I do have. I need to be wrapped up tightly in my cover, completely restricted, like a burrito.’ I pull my arms close to demonstrate. ‘It needs to be pitch black, completely silent, and I hate anyone else being there.’
Cian’s mouth quirks up. ‘You can only sleep alone? Sounds like something that might not work forever.’
‘I don’t care,’ I say while cuddling myself. I’ve always hated those men who want to sleep over, though luckily apart from a long-term boyfriend a few years back, it’s not a problem I run into too often. ‘You should try it.’
‘No need. When I’m not in this situation I can sleep anywhere, with anyone.’
‘Cian Walsh!’ I gasp.
‘I didn’t mean it like that.’ He shakes his head. ‘I’m happy sleeping on sofas, in cars, hotels, the park.’
‘In public? Are you one of those psychos who fall asleep on buses?’
He stares at me and a pillar of heat shoots through my stomach. ‘What?’ I say eventually, feeling my face warm.
‘My dad really likes you.’
His dad? Why are we talking about Brendan now? ‘Of course he does, parents love me.’
‘He’s been bitching about me having my friends over all the time, yet when I said you were coming, he was pleased.’ At this, Cian makes another face I can’t interpret.
‘Do you have a girlfriend?’ I ask.
It strikes me that this is a question I should have asked before.
‘I did,’ he says. ‘We broke up in January.’
January. Right, so over six months ago. ‘Okay,’ I say slowly, sensing there’s more.
‘I was with her since I was twenty-three, so it’s um, still a bit weird.’
‘How old are you?’
‘Thirty-two.’
‘You were with the same person for almost a decade?’ The shock makes itself known in my tone. ‘What happened?’
He throws the samosa back in the bag.
‘That was nosy. You don’t have to tell me anything.’ Though I’m desperate to know. Almost ten years with one person. My longest relationship was three years and even that was full of breaks. ‘That’s a long time. You must really enjoy being single after that?’
He scoffs. ‘After being flat-out depressed for months, I started dating. Thought I’d enjoy sleeping around, but trying to forge a connection on those apps is fucking diabolical.
Plus, there’re all these rules and language I don’t get, like breadcrumbing and benching and throupling and why are you laughing? ’
‘I’m not.’ I put the back of my hand over my mouth.
He bats down his own half-smile. ‘I’m trying to tell you my woes here, Zoe.’
‘I’m trying to work out what role you would play in a throuple.’
‘Shut up.’ He laughs along with me. ‘Anyway, nothing stops you sleeping around like a kneecap split in three.’
‘Hopefully you’ll recover soon and then you can get back to being slutty.’
‘Slutty?’ His grimace is tinged with a slight blush. ‘Judge away. Because as much as I like being with a woman, I’d have to be held at gunpoint to do anything other than sleep with one ever again.’
‘Okay there, misogynist.’
He shrugs one shoulder and keeps his eyes down.