“Then I’ll show him in.”
“Super.”
Five minutes later Michael stands at the end of my bed, an older, slimmer version of me in looks only—he’s a much nicer person. “Hey. How are you doing?”
I roll my eyes. Regret it. “Fucking marvellous, mate. How are you?”
A ghost of a smile threatens his earnest expression. “You haven’t lost your sense of humour then.”
“Never had one.”
“If you say so.” Michael ventures closer and hovers by the chair the hot doctor sat in. “When is your surgery scheduled?”
“How do you know about that?”
“I spoke with your doctor a few days ago. I’m your next of kin, Aidan, and you’ve been out of it for days.”
Days. Huh. I peer over Michael’s shoulder. Maybe that explains my newfound obsession with the stranger across the aisle.
“Aidan?”
“What?”
Michael sighs. “Look, we need to talk about what’s going to happen when you get out of here. The doctor told me you could be on crutches for months, and that’s banking on you only needing one operation.”
“What difference does any of that make to you?”
“A hell of a lot if you’re going to need a place to stay and people to look after you. We’re happy to have you live with us for a while, but it’s going to take some shifting around.”
I force myself to focus entirely on Michael and the fuckwittery spilling from his mouth. “Have you lost your bloody mind? I’m not moving in with you.”
“Aidan, you have to—”
“I don’t have to do anything. I’ve got a place of my own. Shitty ground floor bedsit, remember? I can live there even if they cut the damn leg off.”
“Oh yeah? And what if you fall or need something you can’t reach? Who’s going to be there for you?”
“No one, but I’m used to that, eh?”
“That’s not fair.”
Of course it’s not fair. Michael lives thirty miles away with a young family to care for. I’m not his responsibility. Never have been. And yet here we are. Again. Me in the shit and Michael believing it’s on him to fix everything.
I dig deep for my least unpleasant facial expression. “Look, I appreciate the offer, but it’s not necessary. I’ll be fine in my place, and if I’m not, we can have this conversation all over again, okay?”
“It’s not okay, Aidan. None of this is. You know the truck driver who hit you failed the breath test? The idiot was out-of-his-mind drunk.”
“Lucky him.”
“You’re not angry?”
“I’m not anything, mate. I’m stuck in this bed for the foreseeable, and all I want to do is get some decent kip. You think you can help me with that by fucking off?”
“You’re an arsehole.”
“Yup.”
Michael leaves. I listen to his footsteps fade and knock my fist on my temple,hard. It doesn’t hurt as much as I need it to, and for once the fire in my leg is manageable enough for me to think clearly.
