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“I know, Dad. I know.” My eyes sting with tired tears again and with a final hug, I turn and start to put my plan for the day into action.
“Happy Valentine’s Day,” I screech, my best, bravest voice in place. I’m carrying a bunch of giant, red heart balloons; those foil ones that take off into the sky given half a chance.
“Ah, you remembered.” Freddy sounds sleepy, but he pushes himself back using his arms so he can sit up straighter.
“Like I’m going to forget,” I gabber excitedly, trying to lift the atmosphere in his unbearably quiet room. “How are you feeling, handsome?” I lean down and sweep my lips across his, the sensation of their touch sending a spark through me. Leaning back, I examine his face. His eyes are still shadowed where a lack of sleep and physical exertion have left their weary mark, and he has a fair stubble across his jaw, which looks downright gorgeous. “You shouldn’t be allowed to sit looking like this in the hospital. You’re going to put all the nurses off their work.” I rub my hand across his cheek, making a satisfactory scratching sound. Unable to resist, I place my lips against his again, this time for longer, searching for more.
“It’s you that looks gorgeous.” The ocean blues sweep over me when he breaks our kiss, admiration in their glance. “I miss you, Amber French.”
Chuckling, I shake my head. What he means is he misses being alone with me, and underneath that is his worry the accident may have broken more than just the use of his legs.
‘Bah, you’re glad to be in here, escaping my endless advances.”
He laughs, his eyes starting to light up. “So I haven’t done much for Valentine’s, you know. I’ve been a tad busy, lots of work on, no time for girly shit like Valentine’s.”
I laugh. “Girly shit? What is girly shit exactly?”
“This?” He slides a small flat package towards me.
“You bought me a gift? I just got you some hideous balloons!”
“Open it,” he urges. I rip the paper off, letting it fall to the sterilised floor. Inside is a picture frame holding a pencil sketch of Freddy and I the night we danced in his dad’s garage.
“How did you do this?” I gush. My hands give a small shake as I take in every detail of the picture. I can recall all too clearly every moment he’s captured, the pressure of his palm in the base of my spine and the rush of blood to the surface of my skin when his fingertips brushed along the sensitised surface. That was the night he told me he thought I was heavenly, the most romantic thing I’d ever heard. The night he gave me his mother’s locket, the night he told me maybe he was in love with me.
“It’s just in case I don’t get to dance with you again, just so you never forget.”
Tears well up and roll their way down my cheeks. “I’m never going to forget dancing that bad.” I laugh through my snotty tears.
“What are you implying?”
‘Your dancing is truly terrible.”
“How rude.” He grins and uses gentle fingers to wipe tears away from my face. “I’m sorry this isn’t the Valentine’s I was hoping to have with you, Amber French.”
“Well, it’s not all down to you, and a good thing too.” I pretend to be stern but can’t keep it up long. “Come on, Freddy, you can’t lay about like a lazy bastard all day long.” I tug his hand using a firm grip and encourage him to sit up straighter.
“Lazy bastard? Your words wound me,” he teases, allowing me to manhandle him without any resistance.
Finally, when he’s sitting upright, I lean in and kiss him on the mouth, firm, sure, and confident. “Trust me, Freddy?”
The dark blues hold mine.“Yes.”
“Good. We are going for a ride.”
Now, I’ve seen the nurses do this many times, so I’m sure I can do it, but nerves make me apprehensive. I don’t want to hurt him. That would defeat the purpose of the day.
I lift his legs a couple of inches from the mattress and swing them to the side of the bed, guiding them around so when I’m finished, his feet are dangling over the edge. He’s heavier than I was expecting, and my respect for the nurses who do this twice a day triples instantly.
I glance up at Freddy, trying not to show my exertion, which involves some serious heavy breathing. He’s biting his lip, a look of annoyance across his face. Well, that won’t do.
“Seriously, Fred, you’re a heavy bugger. I think you need to go on a diet.” He laughs, the loudest I’ve heard in weeks. “Actually,” I continue, “you’re gonna have to do some of this yourself, I’m worried about my back.”
Gradually, he shifts his way to the end of the mattress, pushing himself up on his palms and swinging his hips with every go. Then he looks at me expectantly. “What now, Miss Organise It?”
Shit, the wheelchair!
I dash for the chair. I probably should have got this first.What a dick.
