Chapter Eighteen

Chris leaves me alone for a few hours. At lunch, he knocks at the door. I don't answer, and he opens it a crack. "Kyle?"

"What?"

"Lunch is ready."

"Not hungry."

Chris exhales. "You can't skip it," he says. "You've lost enough weight as it is. Come on. Your appointment is in an hour."

Dread knots my stomach. I draw in a shallow breath and clench the pillow in my grasp. I try to control my emotions. I've gotten through several appointments. They're not the big deal I'm making them out to be. It's only because I've skipped so many of them that attending one now feels like this looming threat.

I glance at Chris. "Either I skip lunch or I skip the appointment. You choose." I glare at him defiantly from the bed, but I know from his expression that I'm not going to win.

"You're doing both."

I roll around, showing him my back. I hear him waiting by the door, and then his footsteps approach.

The bed dips down. We sit in silence until Chris releases another long exhale. "I'm sorry."

I don't have a "you should be" reply ready. Has Chris done anything that I can reasonably be angry with him about? Making me food? Yeah, not solid grounds for throwing a temper tantrum. Booking me into appointments I've been skipping for weeks? Real bad guy move…

"You kicked Mark out before I could apologise."

"You didn't look like you wanted to apologise."

"Because you upset me!"

Chris stills. "I did? Kyle, this isn't like skipping a class. Recovery programs are designed the way they are for a reason. Even if you find it annoying, they wouldn't have weekly check-ups if they didn't serve a purpose."

"I know they serve a purpose." They were there for the transition period from stump to prosthetic to make sure everything goes smoothly.

"And you skipped them for two months anyway. I'm sorry if you find them annoying. And I'm sorry if you think I'm the bad guy for making you go to them, but I am making you go. Whether you throw attitude my way or not." Chris stands up. "Lunch is ready. Come eat."

He walks away and leaves the door wide open behind him. Bastard.

I grumble, getting out of bed to shut it. I retrieve my phone from the bedside table and, doing as Mark asked, compose a message. I keep it simple, sending sorry before I have the chance to overthink. My phone rings in my hand soon after and I hesitate, then hold it to my ear. "I didn't mean to snap. I'm sorry."

It had been so lovely, so good, right up till that moment.

" The appointment, right ?"

"I'm sorry."

" I know, Kyle. You got like that when you fell before and got hurt. Can I do anything? You can't—I guess you can't keep your eyes closed the whole time. "

"Not unless I want to be in there three times a week. No."

" You… " Mark sounds hesitant. " You've gotten better about it. More comfortable. At least, that's what it seems like to me. "

Have I? I guess I have. I mean, yeah, I had moments where I pushed through, thanks to Mark's encouragement, for the sake of healing. And this morning I hadn't worn the prosthetic at all during our activities, and it hadn't bothered me. And my eyes were open for the shower. "While you're distracting me."

" Want me to come distract you for the appointment? "

I snort, falling back onto the sheets. Amusement cracks my black mood. "Yeah. I'm sure they wouldn't mind me riding you while inspecting my stump."

Mark chuckles. " Okay, not the best idea I've had. " He pauses. " I can still come. If you want. "

I consider it. But what if I snap at him again? "Thanks for the offer, but I'll be fine alone."

Mark sighs.

I cringe, realising how dismissive that sounded. "I appreciate it, Mark. And I'm sorry for snapping at you."

" I'm not sighing because of that. I know you're going to be stressed out. I wish there was something I could do ."

"I'll be fine. I went to appointments all summer."

There's a knock at the door.

"I gotta go."

" Okay. And Kyle—don't feel bad about earlier. I know you didn't mean it ."

I do feel bad, and will continue to do so. How would I feel if Mark snapped at me after a morning in bed like that? The answer is all in the negative. The very negative.

" I can hear you feeling bad about it. "

"Kyle?" Chris calls.

"I'm coming," I call back. "I'll see you tomorrow, Mark."

" See you tomorrow ."

???

"Can I come in?" Chris asks, surprising me.

I expected him to demand to be part of the appointment, whether I liked it or not. Though I suppose, technically, even if Chris feels like my guardian, according to the country, he isn't. I have the final say, and I'm reluctant.

"It's not nice to look at. I don't want you to get upset."

"I won't get upset," Chris promises.

"Yes, you will. I lost my leg, and it's upsetting," I reply.

Chris pauses to think. "You're right," he admits. "It is upsetting—whether I physically see it or not. But it's up to you. I'll wait in the lobby if you prefer."

I waver as I consider it. I told Mark that I don't mind other people seeing my residual limb or my prosthetic, which is true. The primary reason I hate these appointments is that I have to see it, and I have to acknowledge in every gruesome detail that my leg is gone. Which I'm going to have to do whether Chris comes in or not.

I shrug. "Fine."

We go in. I am sternly reprimanded for skipping all my appointments, and I wish it would go on forever because my prosthetic is safely hidden away for it all. Unfortunately, my specialist Terry runs out of steam and tells me to take off my prosthetic.

I briefly consider ducking my head and closing my eyes, but between Terry and Chris, I know that won't fly. I force myself not to move in a jerky way or to hesitate. I methodically pull down the sleeve, tug off the prosthetic…tug off the prosthetic…?

It's not coming off. I struggle for what feels like forever before casting an uncertain look at Terry.

"Stuck?" Terry kneels in front of me. He has a better angle to grasp it and gives a firm tug. I wince. My messing around with it had the sides digging in against my stump. "Is it usually difficult to take off?"

"Never," I answer. My unease must show in my voice, because Terry pauses to offer me a reassuring smile.

"Don't worry, sometimes this happens," Terry tells me.

He tugs and the socket pops off. I shudder at the uncomfortable feeling. Terry's gaze is sharp. "That hurt?"

"Where I was rubbing against it at the top, trying to get it off."

"Okay, let's see under the lining."

I peel it off, watching Terry's face as he inspects me rather than looking down. I notice Chris looking. I don't really want to see his reaction, so angle my face away.

"How long have you had the swelling?" Terry asks.

Uh…

"It swelled up when the old prosthetic snapped."

Terry's gaze cuts up to mine. "Four weeks ago?" He neither looks or sounds impressed.

"It's gone down almost entirely, now," I say. I try not to get defensive. I should have come in for a check-up, and I didn't. That's on me.

Terry sighs. "What about the bruises? Are they from four weeks ago as well?"

I thought all the bruises were gone? Mark would have kicked up a fuss yesterday about putting cream on any bruises. Unless he was distracted, as I was, from doing so. I peek and am surprised by what I see. The last time I'd seen my leg in more than a brief, accidental glance, the scar from the surgery had been red and jagged.

Most of the red is faded, and the scar is considerably smaller. Obviously, it isn't ever going to disappear, but the part I can see is much thinner than when I'd last seen it. I focus on the quality of the pale skin, seeking, before I cast Terry a puzzled look. "Where are the bruises?"

"Here." He cups his fingers into a circle, hovering them above the skin where the rim of the socket presses. "There's also bruising down here." He indicates the bottom of my residual limb. "I'm guessing what happened is you didn't give your leg the chance to heal after injuring it when the old prosthetic broke."

"I was off my feet for a full week."

Terry's eyebrows lift. "And what schedule did you follow to re-accustom your leg to the replacement prosthetic?"

I blink.

"None. Correct? You went straight back into full days. Which is why you're still bruised and swollen a month after you were injured."

I frown. "It wasn't swollen like this until today. If it was bad, I couldn't have been fully mobile on the prosthetic. It would have hurt too much."

Terry stares but I don't back down. I may not like looking at my leg, but I'm not ignorant of the care it needs. Except when it comes to bruising cream and icing it…but Mark did all of that for me. Point is, I took care of it. I stayed off it until the swelling went down.

"Swelling can happen for a number of reasons besides physical injury. Water retention—in particular, if you have a high salt diet—is one of the most common causes we see here. Even hot weather can do it, though it's not that one today. And you need to keep in mind that even if a week used to be enough for you to heal from a sprained ankle or the like, your residual limb is still healing from the surgery. So when I tell you that you need to take it slow, I'm not just saying that for the hell of it." Terry stands up and retrieves his tablet. "Let's start going through the exercises. Do you remember them?"

"I only did them all summer," I reply.

The exercises go smoothly, though instead of the usual exercises with my prosthetic on, Terry wraps an extra large cold pack around my stump. "Cold helps the muscles retract. You should be able to take the prosthetic off without any difficulty once you're home." Terry looks at Chris. "I'll get the information packs you asked for, and some prototypes for you to have a look at," he addresses the last part to me. "Although for simple hikes, the prosthetic you have now should hold up no problem."

I lean back on the bench and incline my head toward Chris as Terry walks away. "You asked about exercise prosthetics?" I ask. "They told me I have to wait a minimum of six months to get fitted for one, and in most cases, it's longer than that."

"You can look at the options and be thinking about it." Chris sits next to me. He's silent a moment, his gaze distant before his eyes flick to me. "I didn't realise you were so uncomfortable."

"It's just awkward," I reply, looking away from him.

"I thought you were mad earlier because you find the appointments annoying, not that you found them hard. I should have talked to you before I booked you in. You would still have to come in, but it wasn't fair to spring it on you like that. I was worried about you missing the appointments; I didn't consider the reason behind it."

Apparently, my stellar acting that had fooled Terry all summer was transparent as glass to Chris. I don't dismiss my discomfort as "awkward" this time. "I doubt there's anyone in the world that takes losing part of their limb in their stride."

Chris wraps his arm around my shoulders and ruffles my hair. "I hate that I wasn't here and you did it alone, but I'm proud of how much you've adapted."

I lean into him. It hadn't been easy. None of it was. Weeks in hospital, several surgeries, and then physical therapy when everything just hurt like hell? I wanted Chris. I wanted him and wanted to just cry all the time. Without him? I had no other choice. I couldn't walk for weeks, and every day I got more and more afraid that somehow one of my other brothers would get word about me. That one of them would walk through the door and say they'd take care of me. I became singularly determined to get mobile before that happened. The motivation from my recovery hadn't been inspired by anything other than naked fear.

"Is it okay for me to take the spare room?" Chris asks.

Earlier, I'd been against the idea because I didn't want him putting his life on hold for me. But now that he's here, I can't help the selfish part of me that is just…relieved. He's here. I'm alone. "You're not allowed to kick people out of my apartment," I stipulate. "Or boss me around."

Technically, the housing money is all coming from Chris's insurance policy, so it's more his apartment than mine.

"And you can't be mean to Mark," I add. Chris continues to rub my hair. He doesn't answer. "Chris…he's been really good to me."

"I'll see."