So, yeah. His macho bullshit is pissing me off.
I advised Darla that she’d probably be better off slipping him a Mickey, and she didn’t sayno, exactly. She did say it wouldn’t be in line with the patient-led care that she prefers to give. I asked her if she really thought Luca was going to lead anything but a revolution against having to stay in bed.
She told me we’d figure out the pain meds once we were settled in Boston.
Hillview House, when we finally get to it, is so different now that I get a sense of vertigo trying to figure out where I am in relation to whatwasversus what’s therenow. There’s a new entrance from the street that opens outunderneaththe house, and I have no idea how much it cost to turn what was the lower-level panic room into a low-ceilinged underground garage instead, with a whole fleet of vehicles lined up like a car showroom, but whatever it cost was worth it; it means Luca doesn’t have to pretend to be strong getting out of the van.
He still does, of course, because Tara rushes down to meet us, her faithful hound Conor at her side. But Luca doesn’t want to appear weak, and refuses any help getting out of the vehicle, glaring even at me when I try to offer him an arm. I eventually insist.
Darla gives me this glance of exasperation when she comes out of the van behind Luca, and I make a mental note to remind her later that Luca is a stubborn asshole and whatever happened during the drive here was only the tip of the iceberg.
When I turn around from helping Luca out of the van, I find myself with a mouthful of red hair that somehow smells like sunshine and rain together, and Tara is hugging me so tightly I can barely breathe.
“It’s so good to have you here!” she exclaims, once she’s allowed me to take breath again.
“It’th good to be here,” I say, spitting out her hair.
“Does Luca need help with his wheelchair?” she asks, looking past me with a bright, welcoming smile. I cringe, hoping he hasn’t heard. “You can take the elevator over there up to the fifth floor where your rooms are—in fact, the elevator goes all the way up to the top now, since the renovations.”
“I do not need help,” comes Luca’s glacial reply. “And I am perfectly capable of walking.”
“Walkingslowly,” I amend, turning around to pin him in place with a glare.
He pretends not to hear, and keeps his eyes on Tara.
“I don’t want to hug you in case I hurt you,” Tara says, oblivious to his coolness, “but please consider yourself hugged. Hard.”
“Can confirm strength of hug,” I say lightly, and then turn to Conor. “Good to see you again, man.”
His easy smile matches Tara’s in warmth. “And you. All of you.” I don’t hear any change of inflection in his voice as he sees Sophia hop out from where she was riding shotgun with Carlucci, but his eyes do widen a little. “Please, come up into the house and get settled.”
I take a swift glance at Luca, who is pale, his jaw clenched. “Gio—take up the luggage, will you? Teo and Sophia can help, and Tara will show you which room. Darla, maybe Conor can give you a tour of the lower floor. Luca and I will take a second to have a look at the new garage.”
It’s as flimsy an excuse as any, but it gets everyone out of the way. I hear Teo introducing Sophia on the way up the stairs, and Tara’s delighted interest. Then I turn back to Luca.
“You are making this harder oneveryonewhen you don’t take your fucking pain meds or let people help you.”
“I’m fine,” he growls.
“Yeah, the way you’re clawing yourself up against the van there is real convincing.” I go over to him and slip my shoulder under his arm. “Come on,” I say. “If you’re not going to use the wheelchair and you’re not going to use the crutches, then you’ll have to lean on me.”
He stays there, struggling to stay upright against the van and looking down at me, fury in his eyes. But I know he’s really just angry at himself, at his own body for betraying him.
“Well?” I challenge him. “What’s it going to be?”
“I’ll take the fucking wheelchair,” he mutters sullenly, and I pull it over from where Darla set it up on the other side of the van.
“No one here is going to think any less of you, you know,” I say as he collapses into it with a bitten-off yelp. “In fact, they’re allamazedby you. You took all those bullets and you’re still kicking.”
He doesn’t reply, but I do see a hint of the old cocky satisfaction resurfacing in his eyes. My job stroking his ego done, I wheel him over to the elevator.
* * *
As expected,Luca immediately starts objecting to the single bed squeezed in alongside the usual four-poster king in our bedroom. It’s the same room we stayed in last time we were here, and Tara has even thoughtfully put a plastic stool with rubber feet into the shower, so Luca can sit on it instead of stand, although I keep that nugget of information to myself for now.
“I didnotleave the hospital to not sleep in the same damn bed as my husband,” he snaps at me, when I try to point out the benefit of separate beds.
“Honey, it’s been really hard for you to sleep with us sharing a bed. And besides, we’ll only start wanting to fool around,” I remind him patiently.
