‘You gave me that, Kade. When you kissed me that night outside Amber’s party, you looked at me like nobody ever looked at me. It’s like you saw me. I would have done anything for you. And then you took it away from me. People lie to protect their image: that’s what you taught me. I don’t trust anything except sex, because your body never lied to my body. When a guy wants to fuck me, that’s the only time I know I am lovable.’
My cheeks burn. My body has slowly crumpled in on itself as I’ve copped the brunt of his anger.
‘Do you have anything to say for yourself, or are you just gonna sit there like a dickhead?’ Zeke adds. ‘You hurt me more than anyone has ever hurt me, Kade.’
‘I never wanted to hurt you,’ I say at once. ‘Never ever. I’m sorry, man. It’s my fault you’re in hospital. If I’d been nice to you, our lives woulda been so different.’
‘Ourlives?’
Did I fuck up? Was that a Freudian slip? My mind was imagining a world where I never made Zeke leave my hotel room that night. What if I’d spooned him and kept him warm all night? What if we’d come out and got married and everything worked out?
‘You act like I broke things off for no reason,’ I say, in a weak but honest defence. ‘But you know the reason. Footy. I couldn’t do it, man. Not in the AFL. You know it’s true.’
‘I get what comes with a pro sports career, Kade,’ Zeke says, exasperated. ‘You don’t think I would’ve understood? We could have talked it over. Even if it ended, it wouldn’t have hurt as much as being ghosted!’
‘Well, fine then, I’ll say it like you want!’ I snap back, loud. ‘I only broke it off with you cos of footy. Not cos I ever stopped liking you. Okay?’
Zeke’s mouth falls open slightly.
While what I said is still hanging in the air like smoke, the blue curtain splits open, and an Indian nurse comes in wheeling a metal trolley with medical shit on it. Her name badge saysPooja.
‘Time for your obs,’ Pooja says to Zeke. Her cheery tone doesn’t mix with the smoke in the room. ‘Everything okay in here?’
‘Yeah, not bad,’ Zeke says. ‘I’m getting a bit hungry, though.’
Pooja does a bunch of obs on Zeke. ‘I’m afraid the doctor doesn’t want you eating yet. I can get you on a glucose drip; give me a moment. And you can have some juice.’
‘A drip and a juice it is,’ Zeke says wearily. He looks so tired and his skin is still grey.
‘Apple or orange?’
‘Orange, please.’
Pooja bustles out of the cubicle and me and Zeke don’t talk while she’s gone. She comes back, places a cardboard cup of juice on the table and hooks up a bag of clear liquid on a metal stand. She plugs the drip into a plastic tube that’s been wedged into the crook of Zeke’s elbow, a cannula or a catheter or whatever they call it.
Pooja promises more test results soon, then leaves.
Zeke grunts.
‘What’s wrong?’ I ask.
He jerks his head at the orange juice on the table, then at the drip in his arm. ‘I can’t move with this thing in me,’ he says. ‘I can’t reach the juice.’
I pick up the cup of juice and hold it to his lips. Zeke looks up at me, his eyes lingering on mine, then he opens his mouth and I tilt the cup to give him a mouthful.
‘More,’ he says, when I stop.
I feed him more juice until he’s had enough, then I put the cup back on the table. He’s dribbled orange juice down the side of his mouth, so I grab a tissue and wipe it clean for him.
‘Thank you,’ Zeke says.
‘Look, do you want me to get out of here?’ I ask. ‘Is it weird that I’m still here?’
Zeke stares at me, his eyes pained. ‘Does it feel weird to you to still be here?’
I swallow. ‘No. I wanna make sure you’re okay. I don’t mind staying.’
Zeke smiles weakly, then closes his eyes. ‘Then stay,’ he says. ‘Stay with me.’
