“No roommates?”
“No.”
Mark approaches with two steaming mugs of tea. He hands me one and sits next to me. I shift in discomfort, wishing he’d sat on the other side. He glances around the room, his gaze hovering on the books laid out on the coffee table in front of us. Textbooks stacked on textbooks, copies and scribbled notes galore. It’s the only mess in the apartment. Mark moves on from that; to the impeccable state of the rest of the room.
“You’re tidy,” Mark says, a note of surprise in his voice.
“I guess.”
“Tea okay?”
I sip it. “It’s good.”
We lapse into silence. Mark seems content with it. I, however, squirm. I have Mark one-on-one; it seems a waste to spend it in silence. “Are you tidy?” I ask.
“Very.”
I snort at the surety in his answer. But I knew that already; from the way he keeps himself neat, clothes always without wrinkles, to the state of his car—anyone could tell you he likes things orderly.
His mouth moves, a half-smile forming.
“You live with Eddie, right?”
Mark doesn’t ask how I know that. He nods.
“Is Eddie tidy?”
“No,” Mark says grimly.
I smile into my cup as I take another sip. Casually, Mark sets his hand on my thigh. He rests it a few centimetres above my knee. I go rigid.
“Kyle,” Mark taps my thigh with his thumb. “I heard a snap, and I’m certain that you broke your ankle. I can’t leave in good conscience without seeing for myself how bad it is.”
I breathe hard through my nose, staring at Mark’s hand. He doesn’t move it any closer to an uncomfortable spot, but I’m still having a hard time dealing. I don’t even look at my leg. I avert my gaze, usually doing everything I need to in the dark before turning on the lights, and it’s hard to have someone’s hand so close. If I had gone to that therapist, they would probably tell me I’m in denial.
I release a shuddering breath. “I didn’t break my ankle, Mark.”
“You were in a lot of pain. And you knew instantly that your leg couldn’t take weight, so I know you’re just saying that to get rid of me.” Mark leans forward, placing his cup onto the coffee table. “I need to see, because if it’s broken, I’m driving you to the hospital, and if it’s not? I can get ice on it and wrap it for you.”
I meet Mark’s eyes. I see the intensity and emotion there.
I hand him my cup; he places it on the coffee table. I lean forward and stare down at my sneakers until I grapple my mental state into a semblance of calm. It wasn’t like I could pretend, anyway, and that wasn’t what I’d consciously set out to do. The hiding was mostly from myself.
“I’m fine,” I repeat. I reach down and fold up my trouser leg with trembling fingers. The heaters have warmed up the space, and I have Mark’s coat on, but I still go cold as the first fold reveals the gleaming stainless steel. Fold two, fold three, fold four.
My prosthetic is on full display. The only hidden part is what my shoe conceals.
I lean back, glancing first at Mark’s slack hand on my thigh, and then at his expression. It’s frozen. He glances from the prosthetic to my face. Swallows.
“I told you,” I say.
Mark’s dark eyes return to the prosthetic. I tip back my head, staring at the ceiling. He can look; I’m still averse to it.
“I was wrong about your ankle,” Mark admits. “But I was right about that snap.” He squeezes my thigh. “Can I lift your leg? Will that hurt?”
I’m still looking at the ceiling. “It’s fine.”
Mark cups the back of my knee and guides my leg up. I grunt—he freezes.
