“That would be amazing, Mrs F,” Pen says, making me smirk.
She’s the only one who can get away with calling Mum Franny or Mrs F. Mum loves it.
When she’s gone, Pen steps closer.
“How are you doing?” she asks.
“I’m okay,” I lie.
Pen pulls a face, and I grin.
“Okay, in that I’m bored out of my ever-loving mind,” I tell her truthfully, patting the sofa beside me.
Pen takes a seat.
“What did the specialist say?”
“That the operation was a success. The pins will hold the ankle bone in place, and with physio, I should be back in the water within six months.”
Pen’s hand comes out and squeezes my forearm.
“I’m sorry,” she says
“For what? I’m the idiot who misjudged the kerb and came off his bike.”
I expected to be devastated when they initially told me the prognosis, but instead, I felt nothing. Years of training gone in an instant. I’ll miss the trials for the Olympics, that dream has ended. But then, life has taken a different turn, one I’m excited about. Pen and I have almost completed our business plan for Frazer Dawson Cyber Security so life is far from over.
“Here, I brought you something,” Pen says, handing me a gift bag. “A little something to stop you moping around.”
I pull a box out of the bag and stare at it.
“What the hell is this?”
Pen laughs.
“Paint by numbers.”
I look at her like she’s lost her mind.
“What the?—”
Pen shrugs.
“You’ve been moping around since you broke your ankle. You’ve done all your assignments in record time. You hate reading. Our business plan is almost complete. I thought this might be something you could do while sitting. It doesn’t involve any brainpower and is actually good for your mental health, according to the woman in the shop. And god only knows, you could do with some help in that department.”
She jumps out of the way as I lob a cushion in her direction.
I look down at the set in my hand.
What the fuck! I’m a swimmer and a computer programmer, not an artist.
Pen raises an eyebrow. A look of disdain must be written all over my face.
“The box contains everything you need. The picture, the paint, the brushes. Remove that look from your face. If you don’t like it, then give it to Harper or throw it away. But don’t knock it until you’ve tried it. Who knows, maybe there’s a budding artist hidden inside that enormous exterior of yours.”
I realise I’ve hurt her feelings. She’s only trying to help. It’s true. I’ve been like a bear with a sore head since my accident. Not because of what it means but more because I’m like a caged animal, unable to do anything for myself, confined to the sofa or my bed.
“Fine—I’m sorry. Thank you. It was kind of you to think of me.”
