Mark blinks, something dazed about his expression. He lifts his gaze to meet mine. “Do you want me to stop?”
“What are you doing?” I repeat.
“Massaging your stomach,” he answers.
“But it’s my leg that’s sore,” I say.
Mark looks disappointed as he withdraws his hand. I am, too. I’m also pretty stiff in my underwear. I try to sit up—
Mark pushes me down, hand back in place on my stomach,abovethe hoodie once more. “Stay down,” he tells me, his voice gruff. “You’ll dislodge the ice-pack.”
I’m conscious of my heavy breathing. “Put on the TV, then,” I tell him.
The rest of Mark’s treatment is gentle, caring, and arousing. He puts the blindfold back on me when he applies the cream, puts on a fresh sleeve, and then helps me sit up.
Mark kneels between my legs. He adjusts the sleeve that’s been in place for five minutes now.
“Can I have your number?” Mark asks, toying with the edge of the fabric.
I nod.
“Where’s your phone?” he asks.
“Table, maybe?” Currently blindfolded, I can’t see for myself.
Mark retrieves it and in seconds he’d added a new number and his phone is ringing. “That’s myactualnumber on your phone. Don’t bother with the ones from the group chats,” he tells me. “Now then, you’re okay to get to bed without the prosthetic, right? It’s not carrying weight anyway.”
I don’t answer.
Mark’s hand on my thigh tightens. “You need to give your leg a chance to heal.”
“I won’t put it on,” I say.
His silence says he doesn’t believe me, but short of demanding to spend the night in the apartment, there’s nothing he can do about it. I run my palm over the couch until my fingers find the soft fleece of the throw blanket. I pull it onto my lap before snagging off the scarf blindfold.
“Goodnight, Mark,” I say, before he suggests anything else that I might find convincing.
He eyes me at length and I stare back, not giving an inch.
Mark folds with a sigh. “I’ll lock the door from the outside and put the key through the letterbox so you don’t have to get up. I’d prefer if you didn’t put the prosthetic back on, but I understand if you need to.” He pauses. “I also understand that it’s not up to me.” He shares with me an abashed grin—one I instinctively mirror. “I’m sorry if I’m overbearing. And I’m sorry about lunch. I didn’t mean for you to feel uncomfortable.”
I wonder about Mark’s attentiveness. Is this sympathy? Pity?
“Goodnight, Kyle.” Mark stands. He goes, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I reach for the prosthetic and eye it. After a long few minutes, I decide. I snag the controller from the coffee table and hit the button that turns off the lights in the apartment.
And then I pause.
I swallow, and I hit the button again, turning them back on.
My stump on display, I go about my night routine with the crutches. And when I finally get into bed, I’m proud of myself.
Chapter Six
I’m in line for a roll in the cafeteria when the girl behind me kicks the crutch from under my arm. Instinctively, I put my leg out to catch my weight. It doesn’t hold. I crash into the guy in front of me. The pain that shoots up my leg is so overwhelming I don’t even yelp—my breath just goes from me in awhoosh.
I catch myself on the guy in front—he grunts, but he’s big and doesn’t fall—as an array of high-pitched ‘sorrys!’ gush from a girl behind me.
Trembling, I orientate myself and get my weight back on the crutches. I focus on that and not everyone’s gazes. The receding pain leaves me misty-eyed, and I blink several times as I control my breathing. I tell the girl behind me it’s okay, she didn’t do it on purpose, as the guy in front of me turns. “Sorry,” I tell him. “I…”
