“I’m fine here,” Blake said.
The nurse nodded, understanding. She adjusted Andre’s IV, checked the monitor, and left as quietly as she had come.
Blake leaned forward, pressing his lips to Andre’s knuckles. “I’m not going anywhere,” he whispered into the dark. “Not ever again.”
He closed his eyes, his head resting against the edge of the mattress, Andre’s hand still clasped in his, and waited for morning.
Chapter twenty-four
The Long Road
The news of the accident had broken while Andre was still in surgery.
By the time he was discharged from St. Thomas’ Hospital four days later, the pavement outside the bakery in South Kensington had become an impromptu shrine. Fans, well-wishers, and people who simply remembered the magic of his Wimbledon run had left hundreds of bouquets of flowers, handwritten cards, and a massive, colorful mountain of stuffed animals.
Pierre had to clear a path just so Blake could get Andre through the front door.
Jasper Winters had called three times while Andre was in surgery. Phoebe had texted Blake a single message:
We are here. Whatever you need.
The morning after Andre was discharged, a delivery arrived — not flowers, but a stack of art books and a handwritten note in Phoebe's sharp, slanted script:
For when you're bored. These are for looking, not doing. Rest and recover. Love Phoebe and Jasper
Now, the flat in South Kensington had been transformed.
The coffee table in the living room was pushed against the wall to make room for a physical therapy mat. The kitchen counters were cluttered with pill bottles, ice packs, and resistance bands. The air smelled faintly of arnica cream and the lavender shortbread Claire brought up every afternoon.
It had been six weeks since the accident.
Andre was sitting on the sofa, his right arm resting on a pillow. The heavy plaster cast had been removed a week ago, replaced by a rigid, custom-molded splint that left his fingers exposed.
His hand looked terrible. The skin was pale and waxy, the knuckles swollen, a jagged, angry red scar running down the back of his hand where the surgeons had inserted the pins.
He was staring at a small, blue rubber therapy ball resting on his palm.
“Squeeze,” Blake said gently, sitting on the coffee table opposite him.
Andre closed his eyes, his jaw tightening. He tried to close his fingers around the ball.
The movement was agonizingly slow, the tendons in his wrist straining against the scar tissue. He managed to compress the ball a fraction of an inch before the pain became too sharp, and his fingers spasmed, dropping the ball onto the floor.
Andre let out a harsh, frustrated breath, leaning his head back against the sofa.
“It is useless.”
“It’s not useless,” Blake said, picking the ball up and placing it back in Andre’s palm. “You got further today than you did yesterday. The swelling is going down.”
“I cannot even hold a fork, Blake. How am I supposed to hold a brush?”
“One day at a time,” Blake said, his voice steady in the face of Andre’s despair. “Try again.”
Andre tried again. He failed again.
With a sudden, violent surge of frustration, Andre grabbed the ball with his left hand and threw it across the room. It bounced off the wall, knocking a framed photograph askew, and rolled under the armchair.
“I am done,” Andre snapped, his voice thick with unshed tears. “I am done for today.”
