Mark sits opposite me with an equally stacked plate of food. He sets our mugs of coffee in the middle of the counter with milk and sugar, and he digs into the meal with as much enthusiasm as I did. I sip the coffee and continue eating, managing a few more sizeable bites before my stomach is too full. I lean back, cradling the coffee as I digest the food.
Chris eyes my plate and then gives me a pointed stare.
“I ate as much as I can, Chris,” I say, rolling my eyes.
“Have you been eating smaller portions since the accident?” Chris asks.
“That wasn’t a small portion. Mark isn’t even…” I pause. Mark’s plate is clear. “I’ve been eating fine.”
Not only does Chris give me a doubtful look, but Mark’s expression mirrors the sentiment.
“I’ve been eating fine,” I repeat, giving Chris a meaningful look. “You saw the fridge and the meals, right? I lost weight because I burn more calories compensating for my leg.”
I can see in Chris’s eyes the rebuff.Yes, so you should be eating more to make up for that. Easy to say, hard to do when I don’t have an appetite most days.
“I talked to your recovery specialist,” Chris says.
I groan, leaning away from him. “Chris—”
“He was able to schedule you for a meeting today. He said you haven’t been to any of your appointments for eight weeks.”
“That’s because college started. I haven’t had time,” I reply. It’s not an answer that Chris is giving anyweight at all. “And I stopped going because it was the same thing every week. How am I getting along with the prosthetic? Is everything going okay? Anything new? And the answer is always, fine, fine, nothing new.”
“He said you didn’t go in for the proper measurements for the replacement prosthetic.”
“They had the mould from the last one.”
“They remeasure at 6 months for changes. You were at five months. He said even though he insisted—”
“I get it. I have an appointment later today,” I interrupt. “Happy?”
Vexed, I get up and dig out a tub to dump the uneaten food from my plate into. I turn my back on Chris and focus on taking calm breaths. That hadn’t been irritation just now; it had been my temper sparking. Appointments meant showing my recovery specialist how I take off my prosthetic. Looking at my stump and discussing it in great detail. I’d almost gotten sick during a few appointments trying to stomach it all. And funny enough, I can’t just blindfold myself for those meetings. Because if I show that level of disconnect from my leg and prosthetic then the therapy—which is already not really optional—goes to must-be-enforced. The only reason I was allowed my prosthetic without doing the therapy was because the insurance company made sure of it.
“Hey.” Mark presses his hand against my back.
I flinch away. Reflexively, I smack his hand off me. “Don’t touchme.” There’s nothing in my tone but jagged shrapnel.
Mark withdraws, eyes wide in surprise. The surprise gives way to hurt, and then uncertainty. He steps back, palms up. “Hands to myself,” he says in a controlled tone.
My jaw is rigid with tension, and it refuses to unclench. Refuses to unwind enough to let me apologise. To say I didn’t mean it, that I was just thinking about having to go to the appointment and look at my stump. About being forced to inspect it with the specialist and having to pretend that everything’s okay or risk getting forced into moreappointments where I’ll have to talk about it more and more and more.
“You can leave now,” Chris springs. He moves to stand between me and Mark, and I don’t have to see his face to know it’s a threatening expression etched into his face.
Mark looks between Chris and me, and he sighs, apparently at a loss. He rubs the back of his neck, tension creeping into his shoulders. “Text me later, Kyle. Okay?” Frustration weaves through his words. He’s probably expecting me to step in and tell Chris he can’t kick Mark out of myapartment. I should do that. And apologise. And I should probably be going to therapy so that I don’t do things like take out the fact that I’m down to one leg on Mark.
Chris walks Mark out. I’m so worked up I throw the breakfast—plate and all—into the bin. Chris must have just emptied it out, because the plate falls right to the bottom and shatters. I go to my room before Chris is back, and come up short to see that my bed is sheetless. I’m even more annoyed, but I know if I try to dress the bed now, I’ll end up ripping the sheets in frustration.
I climb into the undressed bed, not bothering to take off the prosthetic.
Chapter Eighteen
Chris leaves me alone for a few hours. At lunch, he knocks at the door. I don’t answer, and he opens it a crack. “Kyle?”
“What?”
“Lunch is ready.”
“Not hungry.”
