He maneuvers so he can sit on the edge of the bed. “I do, and I don’t. Don’t touch without asking is a given—consent and personal space is important whether I have a piece of my body missing or not. I don’t want to talk about it in public. I’m fine making jokes about it, but I generally don’t like other people making my accident or the resulting amputation the punchline.”
My face falls. “Oh my God, you couldn’t have stopped me just now?” My face is on fire. Talk about putting a foot in it… I jumped in with both feet. “Shit. I’m sorry, Robert. I didn’t…” I’m totally nailing this quietly supportive thing aren’t I?
He blushes, rubbing a hand around his neck. “I guess that’d be different if we’re in a real relationship, right? You’d poke fun at me in ways other people aren’t allowed. I’ll work on that one.”
I hold up my hand. “No. I don’t want to push you anywhere you’re not comfortable, even for the sake of our fake relationship. I can hold that boundary, easily.” My face heats again, and I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “It helps that I’m terrified to even talk about it in case I hurt your feelings or offend you. I don’t know what came over me just now.”
He grins. “Aye, but a fiver says there’ll come a time where I do something monumentally stupid, and you want to take the mickey out of me. My friend Sully does it all the time whether I do something dumb or not.”
I push his shoulder. “Nooooo. Not you. Sure, there’s nothing you could do that makes me want to give you a good ribbing.” I return his grin, not missing that this is one of the few instances where he’s given me a crumb about his personal life.
“At least I’m self-aware, right?” He taps his chin. “Don’t try to help me take my leg off or put it on.” He holds up a finger. “It’s a deeply personal act, and a symbol of my independence, I guess. It took me so long to figure out how to function that having that taken away from me, even if it comes from a place of kindness…”
“No need to explain.” I wave his pained words away with a hand. “I won’t touch it unless you tell me it’s okay to. And on that point, I’m sorry again that I picked it up this morning. I should have asked instead of assumed.”
He nods. “Thank you. It was fine but thank you anyway.” He holds up another finger. “No staring when it’s off. You haven’t yet, or at least I haven’t caught you staring yet, but I’m not a spectacle.”
“Says the man who can’t take his eyes off me.” I flex my brows, challenging him.
“That’s different. You’re gorgeous. I’m staring like a man who knows he’s out of his depth, not like I’ve paid for a ticket to the circus.”
The elation and warmth of his compliment is pricked like a burst balloon when he finishes his sentence. I can’t believe people stare at him like he’s a—know what? I actually can. People can be real cunts.
A pang of empathy spreads through my chest. He might be a shark in the journalistic world, but he’s still a human being. And I can’t imagine how hard his life must have been when he lost his leg, never mind that the world is not generally designed to accommodate disabilities.
If this conversation carries on much longer, I’m in real danger of not being so fucking angry at him, so I dig my nails into my palms and remind myself he’s actually a prick.
“If I say I’m done for the day, I need to be done. I’m not so great about knowing my limits. My sister Emma tells me I’m a stubborn fucker. But when I do recognize that I’ve had enough, whether it’s because I’m tired or sore, I don’t need you to guilt-trip me. I need you to either be done too or be okay with me being done.”
My mouth hangs open, so he leans forward to close it. “Yes, I’ve had people guilt-trip me because I had to tap out of plans.” He’s blushing like he’s embarrassed to talk about it. “I’m getting better about not wanting to please people or not wanting them to like me.” He shakes his head. “Sounds so pathetic. But sometimes, I’m a mere mortal and will push myself past where I should, just to please someone else.”
That tips me over the edge. I want to physically hurt whoever made this man feel like he couldn’t just stand up and say he’s going home. No matter the reason. Fucking hell. If my sisters or friends made me feel bad for leaving, regardless of my “why,” they wouldn’t be in my circle anymore.
It’s a quick record scratch, I admit. A handbrake turn, from spitting nails at him earlier to wanting to murder people in his honor, but I can’t imagine the misery that people need to be living with to be arseholes on such a dismissive and thoughtless level.
He points to another of his fingers. “If I’m in pain, I’ll tell you. Please don’t hover or constantly check on me.”
“Oh.” I clap my hands in exclamation. “That one’s easy, I’m sooooo bad at looking after things. My friends won’t even buy me flowers anymore—I kill things.” I gasp. “I mean, not like pets or kids. But I’m not generally someone who fusses over people.” I shrug. “Probably comes from playing rugby. Broken nose? Back on the pitch. Broken finger? Back on the pitch.”
His eyes are wide as he pinches the bridge of his nose.
“What?”
He shakes his head.
“Whaaaat?”
Another shake as my stomach dips. “Oooooh noooooo. You’re a plant person, aren’t you?”
He nods. “I’m never, ever letting you near them.” He sounds truly horrified.
“Not being funny, but that’s the smartest thing you’ve said all day. They’ll all die if you do.”
He gasps.
“Thatmuch of a plant person, eh?”
A slow nod. “They all have names.”
