Total pages in book: 86
Estimated words: 104138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 104138 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 521(@200wpm)___ 417(@250wpm)___ 347(@300wpm)
“I irritate you?” I smirk at him.
Palming my cheek, he stares straight into my eyes. “Like you wouldn’t believe.”
“I’m glad you know how it feels.” I peck his lips with mine, then spin on my heels and run. “Come on, slow coach! We haven’t got all day!”
We run for just over an hour, competition remaining in place the entire time. I won. Did I cheat? Absolutely. But I still won. It’s not my fault he didn’t have the initiative to trip me over first. We go back to my flat, because it’s closer, and shower and change separately. James isn’t ready to be intimate with me yet, and I know that’s because he’s paranoid about his scars. Honestly, I’m not ready either. The next time I’m with James in that way, I want to spend the whole night holding him, loving him.
With two hours to go before he needs to be back at the hospital, we go out for dinner. Nothing fancy, just pizza and conversation without eyes boring into the back of heads. It’s nice. Normal. I don’t want it to end, but of course it has to.
Saying goodbye at the hospital later feels even harder than usual, but I have to hold onto the fact that what we shared today will soon be every day. Peter is waiting for James when we reach reception, no doubt to discuss James’ day and how he feels about being in the ‘real’ world. I can only hope he feels as exhilarated as I do, and that it will put him that one step closer to coming home for good.
“See you tomorrow,” I say, releasing his hand slowly, brushing his fingers until they disappear.
Love you, he mouths silently, before turning his back and following Peter down the hall.
Love you, too.
**********
One week later…
James is coming home today, and I set off to pick him up in his Mercedes, because mine is in the garage, finally. I’ve never driven anything so fancy before and I find myself driving like an eighty-year-old, terrified I’m going to break it. My insurance would only cover third party damage and I’m guessing if I’ve had to save for almost a month to get my crapheap fixed, I’d have to sell my soul to repair this car.
James is waiting outside, along with his therapist, when I arrive and as I pull up in his car, his eyes widen a little.
“Eager to leave, eh?” I call after winding the passenger window down.
“No,” Peter cuts in. “We’re eager to get rid of him.”
James tosses his holdall into the back seat before sliding in next to me and, reaching over, squeezing my knee. My gaze lingers on his hand and all I can think about is him touching me with it, skin on skin. I can’t wait to feel him again, not sexually, just close.
“You’ll need to see your GP this week to arrange repeat prescriptions,” Peter says, holding onto the roof while he bends to the window, passing James a white paper bag containing his medications. “They’ll have a letter from Dr Calder on record, so they’ll be expecting you.” His eyebrows wiggle as if to tell James to not even think about ignoring his instruction.
“Your outpatients appointment card is in there, too,” he continues. “And so is my number if you need anything, anything before then.”
“Got it,” James agrees. “Thank you.”
“No need to thank me. My wages do that.” Peter winks. “Now go on. Get the hell outta here.”
And then he’s free. He’s coming home. I’m not foolish enough to think he’s better. In fact, according to Peter, he’ll never be better…but he can manage his illness. He can enjoy life. He can be happy. And if he falls? I’ll be right there to catch him.
For most of our journey back to his apartment, James stares out of the window, his expression contemplative. It must be strange, heading back to normality after being held hostage, in a sense, for just over a month. I can’t pretend to understand so I stay quiet, letting James lead the conversation when, and if, he wants to.
He’s with me. That’s all that matters.
When we reach his front door I pause, twisting the key in the lock. “Don’t freak out. I’ll have it tidied in no time.”
James raises an eyebrow, oblivious to the scene he’s about to walk into. He keeps his homes pristine and orderly, like show-houses, and so when he walks inside and his eyes meet clothes on the floor, dirty dishes piled high in the sink, and crumbs scattered all over his centrepiece rug, his mouth falls open.
“I was going to do it this morning, but Mike wouldn’t give me the morning off,” I say, scurrying around the living room and picking up the dirty washing. Mike didn’t actually need me. He could’ve asked anyone with a brain cell and two fingers to send out blanket rejection letters to literary agents. As usual, he was being an awkward arse, knowing I can’t afford to take the chance of undergoing a disciplinary after my recent absence. Twat.
Clothes in a pile by the washing machine, I start running the hot tap, ready to clean three days worth of pots.
Creeping up behind me, James reaches out and shuts off the tap. “Leave it. The mess will still be here after.”
I lift a dubious eyebrow, my pulse quickening. “After what?”
“After I’ve held you for a little while.”
My heart melts in my chest as I take his proffered hand. He leads me to the bedroom and crawls, fully clothed, onto the mattress. I join him, lying on my side so we’re facing each other, draping my arm over his waist. “You’re here,” I whisper my thoughts aloud, rubbing small circles on his back. “I’ve waited so long for this moment. This bed is too big for one person.”
“You stayed here the entire time?”
“Beats being at home with the loved-up lesbians. Seriously, I thought one woman nagging me about the toilet seat was bad enough.”
“Sounds like things are getting serious with Lucy.”