Chapter Four

I feel awkward on crutches, but strangely less awkward than when walking on my prosthetic. I used glue and duct tape to secure the bar that snapped, and I'm wearing the quick fix so that it looks like I have a leg. I eye the food spread in the cafeteria, debating my options. Sandwich? Wrap? I'm not too hungry. Phantom pains have been killing me since I woke up.

Toast.

I balance my weight on my remaining leg at the station and set the bread toasting. I'm about to shove both pieces into my mouth to checkout when someone steals my bread and puts the slices on their plate. I recognise Mark's hands immediately. I glance up. Our eyes meet.

"What else are you having?" Mark asks.

I glance at his tray; there's a plate with a burger and chips, and a second plate with my toast. There is also a second set of cutlery. Is this sweet or just pity? I'm going to roll with it either way. "That's it," I answer.

Mark eyes me. My shoulders, my—as he called it the other day— lean frame.

"Okay," he says.

He walks toward the checkout and I follow, watching as he pays for my toast before I can object. I then follow as he sets the tray down at the nearest free table. The cafeteria isn't busy, and I don't see anyone I know. I hesitate, not sure if he expects me to sit next to him.

Mark glances at me, then deliberately sets out the plates and cutlery in two spots.

I'm rolling my eyes as I sit. "Let me guess," I say. "‘ Did you ice your leg?'"

"Did you?"

"I threw the cold compresses straight into the bin the second you were out the door."

"Kyle," Mark says, already exasperated with me.

"The bruising cream, too. I threw it from the couch. All those years of basketball finally paid off."

Mark doesn't say my name again; just levels me with an unimpressed look. I'm not going to lie; Mark's unimpressed looks do good things to my serotonin levels, always have. I do feel slightly off-kilter that he knows about my leg, but like it doesn't kill me like I thought it would if people knew. I'm certain now the only person I don't want to know I'm missing part of my leg is me.

I reach for the toast and am touched when I see the collection of spreads Mark brought to the table. I apply the butter, jam up one, marmalade the other, and take as neat a bite as I can. Mark mentioned the thing about being tidy, and I don't want him to watch me smear jam all over my face. Unless he'd like to lick it off.

"You iced it though, right?" Mark asks.

I almost choke. When I recover, I shake my head, trying not to grin. "No, I didn't," I persist.

Mark stares at me intently, not touching his plate of food. He's trying to wring the verbal confirmation out of me but I'm too stubborn to give in, finding his vexation amusing. This is a fun new game to play. Not exactly a replacement for all my sports clubs, but hey, it's something.

I eat more of my toast.

"You—"

Mark is interrupted by a large guy sitting in the seat next to him. Eddie fixes me with an aggressive look. I lean back quickly—becoming aware that I had been leaning forward to talk to Mark—and thumb my bag strap in the chair next to me. Anxiety sparks in my veins. Did Eddie notice how I was leaning in? Will he suspect that it's—that I'm—

"You know, if Mark wanted to sit with you, he would do that," Eddie says. "And since it's been two years and he hasn't, you—"

"I sat with him." Mark interrupts Eddie. The two exchange looks, and I suspect from Eddie's confusion, their communication-through-eye-contact is lagging.

My anxiety tastes like gravel as I swallow it down. I don't even look at Mark as I get to my feet.

I despise the few seconds of awkward vulnerability as I balance, getting my hands into the crutches. Mark's gaze jumps to me, and he's on his feet in an instant, too. His hand plants on my waist, trying to urge me back into the seat. "Eddie will shut up," Mark says as he pushes a little harder. It's not enough to put me off-balance, and I resist the force. "Sit with me until you're done eating at least."

I'm not tempted by the offer. I don't think I'll be able to talk semi-normally to Mark like I managed today and yesterday if there are people watching. I know myself—I get shy. And if it's Eddie? No way.

"No," I say. And it's Eddie's presence that keeps me from being polite about it. Mark tenses at my tone—I said it in a fuck you manner. Not on purpose. I regret it immediately, but it's done, and Eddie is fuming in his chair. Mark meets my eyes, and he looks confused. And then he looks unhappy. I'm not sure how I look. Probably like an asshole.

I'm so hyper aware of Eddie staring at the two of us next to each other that I knock Mark's hand off me, hoist my bag over my shoulders, and leave. It's not an impressive storming off—I'm on crutches, after all. Only once I'm out of the dining hall do I remember my toast…I would need far thicker skin than I have to go back for it.

I stew about the failed lunch for the rest of the day, and only put it out of my mind when classes are all over and I'm in the library getting stuck into my books. I feel better after getting a lot of work done. I'm so far ahead with my midterms and readings I could cruise right through until the end of semester exams. It's a nice feeling.

A muffin appears on my papers. I look up in surprise and find my study-buddy—nerdy, blonde-haired, pretty—also setting down a coffee. I hadn't even noticed him leave.

"For me?" I ask, a smile twitching at my mouth.

"I could hear your stomach from over here," he grunts, and sits back in his place and picks up where he'd left off without even a second glance in my direction.

I lean back in my chair, stretching for the first time in—I check the time— hours . Dang, I was really in the zone. Studied right through dinner. "Thanks," I say, picking up the muffin. I eat it quietly—if study-buddy heard my stomach rumbling, then his sharp ears won't appreciate chewing either—and sip on the coffee. I die a little since it's black with no milk or sugar, but I'm determined to persevere. It was very thoughtful of study-buddy to get it for me, and the gesture improves my mood. It improves it a lot, actually, and I'm not even too sure why. A lack of friendly interactions recently? I'm lacking friends after all. Bethany's still cross with me for ditching her party on the weekend.

"Thanks," I say as I finish up the muffin.

Study buddy glances at me, grunts, and gets back to work.

It's coming up to nine now, and I glance outside, knowing that Mark will be finishing volleyball any second. He's already outside, walking out. His head is tipped back, and he's searching the library windows. I sink down so he doesn't spot me. This catches study-buddy's eye. He looks from me to the outside, his gaze landing on Mark, and as his gaze darts back to me raises an eyebrow.

I shrug, staying low and hidden. I'm only hiding because of how embarrassed I am from earlier. I'm about to ask study-buddy if Mark is still looking when my phone vibrates. I pick it up and jolt in surprise. Chris is the name attached to the incoming call.

I forget all about Mark looking. I stand, lifting the phone to my ear to answer. And I wobble, almost falling, as I put weight on the broke prosthetic. I curse under my breath and grab the back of my chair to save myself. It's a successful manoeuvre—just about. I glance between the ringing phone, my hidden, damaged prosthetic, and my crutches. This isn't a dash-out-and take-the-call situation.

I take a deep breath and calm my racing heart. Luckily, the only witness to my stumble was study-buddy.

I answer the phone, pressing it to my ear. "I'm in the library," I whisper. "Give me a minute."

" Okay ," Chris replies.

Without hanging up, I stuff the phone in my pocket, get my crutches, and walk to the stairwell. I pick the one further away that hardly anyone uses even when it's not late at night and almost deserted. I sit on the steps to one side and rest the crutches against my shoulder.

"You there?" I ask.

" I'm here ."

My hand creeps to my thigh and I rub just above where the prosthetic ends. It's sore inside, and I want to itch the aching skin. If I'd looked yesterday or this morning, I'm sure I would have seen bruising from my tumble. "You're back at base camp? How was the climb?" I ask. Chris had been escorting several people on a months-long hike up one of the taller mountain ranges in Europe. He'd left cell range a few days before my accident.

" Fine, " Chris says. The short answer tells me something is wrong. He usually gives me a few details over the phone, and I save the thorough investigation until he's home. I've gone on several expeditions with Chris in the past—though none of the ones that last months. I was saving those until after college.

"Are you okay?"

" Emails came through from the insurance company, " he says.

I squeeze my leg tighter, knuckles whitening, and there's an aching pressure against my fingernails. My eyes water; tears threatening to fall as I drag in a shallow breath. "I had to use it. I was in an accident a few days after you left." The hospital had tried to contact Chris, as had the insurance company once I'd gotten in contact with them. In his absence, all the decisions had landed on my shoulders. I had the option of contacting family myself, since the only number on my details was for Chris, but when they asked, I objected so violently to the idea that the doctor's ended up prescribing something that left me zoned out and barely conscious for half a day. I think a note was left in my file because everyone I spoke to after that acted as if Chris was the only family member that had ever existed.

" Are you okay ?" His voice is tight.

I don't think he has the details about my leg, or he'd be less calm. "When are you coming?" I know I'm his first stop. Injured or not, Chris always comes to see me first. It used to be a constant source of jealousy from the rest of my siblings—no matter how hard they tried to impress him, Chris has always favoured me.

There's a frustrated sigh through the phone. " I'm at second camp. There's bad weather promised the next week, but as soon as it clears, I'm getting a helicopter to base camp and will be on the soonest flight I can to you. "

"You have to hike from second to base with your clients, don't you?"

Chris grunts.

I sigh. "You can't just abandon them in the mountains, Chris."

" I'll contact some coworkers. Someone will fly in on the helicopter and take over for me ."

I know the futility of arguing with Chris. "This is why everyone says you're too protective of me," I point out. I wanted Chris when the accident happened, but now that I've had a few months, I'm apprehensive about it. I'll probably have to face it all more directly than I am now. Chris is going to obsess about the details of recovery. "I'm alright, Chris. It's been months."

" I'm taking the helicopter, " he says, no room for argument.

Like I said, no point in arguing. "I look forward to seeing you," I tell him. Despite the apprehension, I mean it. I've missed Chris. "I have a new apartment. I'll text you the address. And I'd better let you go. I'm still at the library and don't want to get in trouble for talking."

" Call me later if you're not too tired. Storm will hit tomorrow and I won't have coverage. "

"Will do. Love you, Chris."

I return to my desk and pack up.