Now that the announcement about his and Issy’s split had been made, he could only guess at the crap that was being written about him.No doubt the media had dredged up a few photos of him looking glum and depressed, maybe even a few of him in a wheelchair or on crutches.The speculation as to the real reason they’d broken up would be rife and going viral.
Not that anyone would know about Hunter.
They’d all blame the accident for their split, not the fact that squeaky-clean pop princess Isabella had fallen in love with a married man.A super-famous married man.
Everyone would be focusing on Dan and his beingchangedas the real reason for their split.
They wouldn’t be far wrong, either.When the cast on his leg and the bandages around his shoulder had come off, the look in Isabella’s eyes wasn’t quite repulsion, nor quite disgust.But more like,Fuck, I’m trapped.He’d hated her politeness, her disappointment, and he’d hated himself even more for pushing her away with his mood swings.None of it had been easy for her either.Had he expected too much from her?
“If talking about your accident helped, then maybe you should do it more often?”
Dragged out of his thoughts, Dan glanced across at Libby, who was patiently waiting for Karim to drop another stone into his pushchair.
“A problem shared is a problem halved,” she continued.“Talking is good therapy.”
“So I’ve been told.”He’d spoken to a few therapists after his injuries.Or rather,they’dtried to speak tohim.
“Maybe if you talked more publicly about your accident and how you feel,” Libby said, “maybe it could help other people in the same situation.”
“Yeah, my agent, Suzanne, said the same thing a few months ago.She tried to coax me into giving a few interviews, but I knew it was only because the press was offering a lot of money.”
“And…um…you didn’t take the offer?”
“No, of course I didn’t.Just the thought of speaking to those obnoxious journalists makes me want to punch a wall.They don’t care about me or about helping other people.They only care about money.”
Libby’s brow creased.“Well, not all journalists are like that…”
“They make a living out of other people’s misery,” Dan continued.All the violation he’d experienced came flooding back.“Two weeks after I came out of my coma, a photo of my leg, all mangled, still in stitches, hit the internet.A journo paid a hospital porter ten grand to take it.It’s disgusting.”
Libby chewed on her lip.“I guess you can still talk to other people, though—if you wanted to.Someone who’s not like those reporters you keep mentioning.Someone who’s more like a friend.”
Dan shrugged.“Maybe.”
But what was there to say, anyway?He’d woken from a coma.Discovered he could no longer do the one thing he was born to do.Lost his career, the full use of his left leg,andhis fiancée.
Where were the words to describe how that felt?
Mostly, he didn’t even want to think about it.
And at the end of the day, it was nobody else’s business but his.
Theharborwaslittlemore than a couple of concrete walls, about twenty meters wide.With no boats moored, Dan swam gently across, back and forth, warming up his body.Libby and Karim played at the water’s edge, counting pebbles as they made a little stone tower.
Man, she had patience.
And how did she do everything on her own?
Dan’s only experiences of parenting were his nieces and nephews—which he handed back to his sisters and their partners afterwards.After losing Dad, he’d looked after Femi and Gabi during Mum’s bad days.But his sisters hadn’t been little then, like Karim.They’d dressed themselves for school, so all he’d had to do was make their lunch and check that they’d brushed their teeth.
Floating closer to Libby, Dan asked, “How old was Karim when you started to travel?”
“Twelve months.”
“What made you do it?”
“My parents, mainly.”
“That’s great they’re so supportive.”
