“You need to tell Ezra about your eyes, Neil,” he says when he pulls away. “And our other friends.”
“I know.”
Even now, with the all-encompassing pain of my arm, my RP sits heavy in the back of my mind. It never goes away. I’ve been running through conversations in my head with Ez about it for months.
I blow out a breath. “I don’t think I’m strong enough for a visually impaired, blind, life. And definitely not strong enough to run a business. If I still have a business. Think of the adjustments I’ll have to make.”
“Yes, you are.” Luke squeezes my hand hard. “Look at the changes you’ve made already. Your flat could be an educational template for how to design a living space for people with visual impairment. How difficult would it be to transpose features of that onto the new bar design? Have you met Ez? He loves a bloody challenge!”
“I suppose.” Whether Ez still loves his business partner remains to be seen. The problem is me. It’s always been me. How I let go of this fragile secret without shattering myself.
“And I bet your liaison chap, Derek, has a million great ideas and resources.”
“Huh.” I think I need some more morphine.
“You’ve got me too,” he tags on, before I have a chance to articulate further. That’s much more like it.
“Listen,” Luke carries on. “I haven’t been totally honest with you about my mental health. But it’s bad. That’s why I only work two days a week, and some weeks I don’t manage that. My sick leave record is literally that, a hospital record; I’m on first name terms with the staff down in the Occupational Health office. I shan’t ever have a string of fancy qualifications after my name, like Alaric. I shan’t ever lead an emergency team at night, like Isaac. The only reason the hospital doesn’t find a spurious reason to sack me is because decent dermatologists are hard to come by, and when I’m actually well enough to turn up, I’m a safe pair of hands.”
“Don’t do yourself down. Alaric says you’re amazing, and he doesn’t say that about hardly anyone.”
“Whatever. The point is, I’m carrying on regardless. I get up and swim and pay my bills and water my plants. I cook nice meals and hang out with my friends. And even though I’m not magical and magnificent, the wheels of life continue to turn. Believe it or not, sometimes I even really enjoy it. Like when I went on a date to the cinema with a man who’s losing his sight,and he fed me Maltesers and kissed me in a way I didn’t know existed and makes me feel beautiful even though under this hoodie, I’m actually pretty fucking ordinary.”
He puts a finger to my lips before I can contradict him. “So if a chronically depressed and anxious guy like me can do it, then so can someone who’s only partially sighted like you. And who cares if not everyone thinks you’re magical and magnificent? They’re dickheads.”
Ordinary. He thinks he’s ordinary. Yet here he is, standing in the middle of all my chaos, smiling at me like it’s part of his normal fucking landscape, and finding the courage to deliver the finest pep talk ever. Then calmly throwing his lot in with mine and quietly undoing my sense of what ordinary ever meant.
CHAPTER 23
LUKE
Neil’s discharged from the hospital the following day. I bring him back to my place, armed with slings, painkillers, and antibiotics. My first job is to help him undress and fix a polythene bag over his arm. Though he insists he can manage on his own, the sound he makes when he finally steps under the hot jets of the shower is way more sexual than the preceding clinical and practical undressing, minutes before, warrants.
“Oh God, this is heaven,” he moans as I walk away. “This isn’t washing, rash whisperer. This is fucking spiritual.”
The clothes he wore the night of his unplanned hospital admission almost march themselves to the washing machine. After putting them on a hot cycle, I retreat to the kitchen and set about preparing dinner for two. I barely know Neil’s favourite foods, and yet here we are, diving into a level of intimacy that usually comes after far more than a handful of dates.
He’s keeping one hand free, for me to hold, I remind myself as a hint of anxiety creeps in. We’re going to water and grow whatever it was we started. Neil wants me. I have a text on my phone from Alaric insisting that Neil loves me. That he slurredthe words to him in hospital and it wasn’t simply the drugs talking. I flick my wristband hard. Neil wants me—loves me, maybe—and I can and will live up to the challenge.
By the time he’s showered, I’ve cooked, hung the washing to dry, and laid out a few of his belongings from his bag, anarchically packed by Alaric as they waited for the ambulance. I update the gang on Neil’s progress and hopefully answer enough of Alaric and Ez’s questions to satisfy them for a few hours.
Neil’s managed to pull on a pair of loose trackie bottoms and grapple a baggy T-shirt over his head. I wrestle with his purple Velcro sling, so it sits comfortably around his neck.
“This got unromantic fast,” he murmurs as I fiddle with the knot. I laugh.
“I’ve already cut up your sausages. Do you want some more painkillers now, or are you saving them for bedtime?”
On cue, he yawns. “Bedtime. I’m zonked enough.”
I find something oddly pleasurable about the mundane business of taking care of someone else. I’ve never had an opportunity before, outside of work. With no time pressures, no documenting, no polite detachment, I can fuss over him to my heart’s content and bask in his gratitude. It’s in the little things, reminding Neil to take his antibiotics, refilling his water, plumping up the cushions, elevating his arm to a more restful position. Neil’s a surprisingly docile patient, partly because his mind is elsewhere—on the shitshow he needs to sort with Ezra, and the ever present coming to terms with his vision loss and how to prepare for his future.
He sleeps away the best part of the first twenty-four hours, mostly on the sofa, but also in my bed. Given that we barely explored that side of things before I disappeared for a few weeks, I’ve no idea if I’m meant to tuck him in or tempt him. For sure, we established we both want more, but right now, I’m playing nurse, Neil’s playing patient, and neither of us have said a wordabout visiting hours. If we leave it too long, the empty space between his side of the bed and mine is going to feel like a wound that won’t heal.
“Something’s worrying you, rash whisperer,” he says after a few minutes. “You were like, Mr Bossy in the kitchen and stood over me whilst I took my painkillers. What’s changed?”
I resist reaching for my beads. “I’m anxious about, you know, where we’re at.”
His good hand fumbles for mine under the covers. “You never have to feel anxious around me. Not ever.”
