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5. 5

5

“ I t’s been over a month,” Dr Harris said, the first note of seriousness creeping into his voice since Sean had woken up in the hospital. They were in his office at the club, another doctor—Dr Cohen, a neurologist—sat beside Sean in front of Harris’ desk, Jack on Sean’s other side.

When Jack had roused him that morning, his look had been different. His gaze in the morning was always searching—he examined Sean as if he expected someone else to be there, a hopefulness on the edge of that look he tried to conceal. Those looks had diminished after the first week, or Jack tried to better hide them. But that morning, Jack had really looked again, as if he were trying to peer inside Sean and will someone else into residing there.

Sean had dropped his eyes, for the first time feeling guilty. Anger surged after the guilt—he didn’t owe Jack anything.

But he remembered what today meant and what he’d decided. If they told him this was permanent, he was moving back to his apartment. He couldn’t keep playing this charade. Jack had been good to him, but it was too weird.

Adding to the weirdness was an unprecedent level of arousal thrumming under the painkillers. He’d always had a good sexual appetite—he jerked off most days, though he never had sex after the first few disastrous hook-ups he’d had with men. It wasn’t just that the sex had been bad, which it had been, it was the racism, the flash of surprise and dismay when a hook-up arranged on an app saw he wasn’t whatever they thought he was based on the shirtless picture of his torso. He had a white grandad of Irish descent on his dad’s side, and other whitefellas in his bloodline going back over two hundred years and siring kids in ways no one ever talked about, and while he was clearly a man of his race, he wasn’t dark, not even as dark as his brother, more brown than black. But those few hook-ups always failed to conceal their disappointment, their judgement. As far as he remembered, he’d decided to stop hooking up at all. He had no memory of feeling like this—body tingling, braced for something, adrenaline and desire coursing through his busted body when he tried to sleep at night. And to feel like this around Jack—it was too much.

“Trauma induced amnesia, or organic amnesia,” Harris went on now, his eyes apologetic over the business-like tone.

“Amnesia caused by an injury to the brain, a traumatic brain injury or TBI,” Dr Cohen interjected.

“Usually resolves within a few days or presents very differently. Arthur,” Harris inclined his head at Dr Cohen and they all looked at him.

He smiled, his round glasses reflecting the sunlight beaming onto the oval outside the upstairs offices, his thin body swivelling to face Sean, his glance darting between him and Jack.

“Yes, a simple trauma induced amnesia usually presents as an inability to recall the actual traumatic event, which you have, but, in your case, you seem to have lost the last two years as well. Now, we might have thought traumatic brain injury, but,” Cohen got up and all eyes followed him to the CT scans of Sean’s brain glowing on the screen. “Your brain has no signs of injury. Once the swelling came down, we can see here,” he pointed and it meant nothing to Sean, “a healthy brain. If you had a TBI, we’d see something and the presentation would be different. In most cases, you lose everything except abilities.”

Sean squeezed his eyes closed and scratched his forehead. “Can you tell me what you’re tryin’ to say?”

“Well,” Cohen sat. “It’s controversial, but I think you might have psychogenic amnesia. There’s nothing wrong with your brain, it’s, well, it’s psychological. But there is a lot of debate around this and it’s not a diagnosis we tend to use.”

“What does that mean?” Jack asked. And Sean was grateful for the impatience and frustration in his voice.

“It means,” Cohen exhaled and spoke on it, “we don’t know. Your memories should’ve come back. They may yet come back, but we just don’t know.”

He felt Jack slump back in his chair beside him, tried to listen as Harris went through the latest X-rays and said his femur was healing well, it’d still be six months, and he’d miss next season, or most of it, but if he could keep up his conditioning, if he could let everyone, Jack, take care of him, he’d be physically good to go before he knew it.

“A miracle really,” Harris finished, “considering how fast and hard that truck hit you.”

Sean’s heart rate ratcheted up and he gripped the edge of the chair; he didn’t understand why, it wasn’t a memory, he didn’t have access to that memory, he didn’t have access to a lot of fucking memories apparently because he was a fucking head case. He was about to drown in it, the buzzing in his head, the voices talking around him, when Jack said, “Email us the rest,” and then they were out the door, Jack pushing him as he rested his head in his hands.

“Sean, no,” Jack said with quiet shock when Sean told him his plan.

Lola was pressed against his side on the couch, his arm snug around her, hand patting her like muscle memory.

“I think it’s for the best, I, this… Look I really appreciate everythin’ you’ve done—”

“Everything I’ve done!” Jack threw his hands up, his face incredulous. “I haven’t done anything! Nothing we don’t do for each other.”

“Yeah, well, either way, I appreciate it, but, it’s just too weird for me,” he finished quietly and buried his hand in Lola’s fur.

“How’re you gonna live in an apartment? You live on the fourth floor and you’re in a wheelchair,” Jack said.

“Harris said I can switch to crutches, and it’s not like there isn’t an elevator—”

“Harris said you can switch to crutches once your ribs are healed, which isn’t going to be for at least another two weeks. And the bruising—”

“No, he said if I’m feeling up to it—”

“You’re not—”

“I know my own body, I know what I can handle.”

“I know your body too and believe me, I don’t miss it when you’re in pain and you’re tryin’ to hide it,” Jack stood up and ran an agitated hand through his hair. “What can I say or do to make you change your mind?”

“Nothin’,” Sean replied, looking back down at Lola. He didn’t want to leave, but he had to. He couldn’t be around Jack like this.

“We sorted everything, we just…” Jack exhaled and he sounded more upset than Sean had ever heard him. “We really care about each other.”

It was another one of those weird sentences—it sounded like the truth, Sean knew it wasn’t a lie, but it was a half-truth. And an agonising half-truth at that. Sean couldn’t respond to it.

“Harris is gonna have Jorge bring crutches tomorrow,” Sean said. He’d replied to Harris’ email the evening after the appointment, lain in bed that night in a haze of painkillers with a throbbing erection and a tightness in his chest, and known he’d made the right decision.

He hadn’t expected telling Jack to go well, but this was worse than he anticipated.

“I guess I don’t have a car anymore,” he mused.

Jack laughed, another one of those hysterical laughs. If Sean wasn’t the one with the injury and the pain meds, he’d think Jack was taking something—he’d been a real crackpot these last few weeks. It’d only been weeks. It felt like an age.

“The Range Rover’s yours,” Jack said with a tired smile once he’d settled down.

“So what was I driving when…”

Jack shrugged and went into the kitchen.

“I totalled your car,” Sean breathed out.

Jack came back with a bottle of Gatorade and Sean’s midday pain meds. “Like I give a shit about the car. And you didn’t do anything, that fucker driving the truck was the one—”

“No, but, why was I driving your car?” Sean asked as he took them.

“You like it,” Jack said simply.

“What was it?”

Jack went over to a basket of laundry and started folding it, his face hidden by his hair. “Ah, it was just an old Mustang.”

“No,” Sean said.

“Insurance is covering it and I’m not worried about the fucking car,” Jack said, and shook out one of Sean’s shirts with an angry flick of his wrists. He folded it with sharp, neat movements. He was like an efficient, angry housewife. If a housewife was a tall, built surfie-looking dude in grey tracksuit pants and a white shirt—Sean had not missed Jack deciding to free ball it after taking Lola for her run this morning, after his shower. This was another one of the many reasons he was moving out. Him from two years ago could not be around a free balling Jack telling him they cared about each other and lent one another their fancy, restored cars, and did all this like it was nothing, natural.

“At least,” Jack started, eyes fixed on the laundry. “At least let Jorge give his opinion on whether or not you can do this on your own.”

“I already emailed Jorge,” he replied quietly. He’d said Sean could live wherever he liked provided he had carers coming in, had even drawn up an ideal schedule of hours and required assistance—shower, meal prep, med prompts, welfare checks—all the stuff Jack was already doing. Sean didn’t mention that part; he knew himself, he’d be alright. Worst case scenario he’d call one of his mob, surely one of his cousins wasn’t busy, would probably be happy to come down to the city and stay in Sean’s fancy apartment and help take care of him.

Jack sighed, focused on the laundry, his shoulders slumped, his face carefully hidden in the fall of his hair. Sean heard him sniff wetly and rub his nose on his wrist, but there was no way Jack was crying about this, there was just no fucking way.

Jack had helped him move all his shit back to the apartment, his face stoic, then lost, then, careful to shield it from Sean, hurt. Sean had told himself not to let it deter him. He just needed to hold the line until Jack left and then he could sit down, let himself relax, try and force his mind to tell him what the hell had happened over the last two years.

Jack had taken a long time to leave. He wouldn’t go without Sean promising to text him every morning and every night, and agreeing to let Jack drop in every day to make sure he was doing alright. Jack told him he’d bring Lola to sweeten the deal, and the two of them would check the care staff Sean hadn’t hired, but had told Jack he had.

“It’s a bit much,” Sean had said.

“Humour me,” Jack retorted, and Sean had relented.

Twenty fours later, and Sean knew he’d made a mistake. It was agony getting around on the crutches, his side screaming at him, his leg a dead weight he dragged, and his head, while it might be perfect according to Cohen, was still giving him random, blinding headaches. He couldn’t cook, so he ate cereal. Showering took over an hour and took every last bit of strength he had. By the time he collapsed on the couch he swore was made of two slabs of concrete with a thin layer of stuffing and scratchy material, and swung his leg up onto the foot rest Jack had brought, he was a sweating, exhausted mess, ready to have a shower again. There was no way he could get up again. To get his pain meds. To get to bed. He stayed there until the next day.

But he made sure to put a good face on it when Jack arrived the following morning with Lola—and her ecstatic barking and wriggling body when she saw him sitting there was enough to make all the pain disappear.

“Has the carer been yet?” Jack asked as he went over to the bench. “You missed your night meds. And you haven’t had the morning ones.”

“Ah, yeah, comin’ off ‘em I think,” Sean replied, his hands in Lola’s fur, face in hers as they grinned at each other. “How’s the hire car?” he asked to distract him.

“It’s a car,” Jack said flatly. “And bullshit you’re ready to come off these.” He came closer and looked at Sean. “You’re in pain,” he stated. “Where’s your carer?”

“She’ll be here in a bit,” he replied and they went in circles for an hour, Jack determined to wait and meet this incompetent woman, while he made Sean a proper breakfast, made him take some pain pills and only left when Sean said he’d rather Jack didn’t meet her today, he’d tell her what she needed to do and everything would be fine tomorrow.

Jack and Lola reluctantly left when Sean’s phone pinged and he said he needed to make a call before she, the fabricated carer, got there.

He managed this ruse for three days, though to be fair, he thought as he lay on the third-floor landing of his apartment stairwell in agony, body covered in sweat, crutches thrown down the stairs in a fit of rage, even if this hadn’t have happened, Jack wasn’t buying his bullshit for another day anyway.

He’d come back from his appointment at the radiology clinic to find a hand-written Out of Order note slapped on the elevator button; Jack had known about the appointment and been crestfallen when Sean told him he’d use a rideshare to get there, no need for Jack to worry. He’d stared at that Out of Order sign, hopped to the base of the stairwell, stared up the white concrete flight of stairs that’d take him to the first landing and refused to consider he’d made a mistake not accepting Jack’s offer. He placed the bottom of the crutches on the first step and tried to swing up to the next step but almost fell back, his heart lurching, stomach swooping sickeningly at the thought of cracking his skull open with a backwards fall. Manoeuvring to the handrail, he tucked the crutches under his arm, gripped the rail and hopped on his good leg up to the first step. The concrete jarred his knee, so he brought both crutches under one arm and used them as leverage on the outside while pulling himself up and hopping with his good leg. It lessened the impact and leaning forward stopped any chance of falling back. He made it as far as the first landing and had to stop, struggling to breathe around the pain in his side, the strain on his bruised torso. The thought of three more flights was not something he could think about, he wasn’t trained to think about it—it’s always only the next play, never think ahead to the whole game, just the next play.

Wiping sweat off his face, he managed the next flight with the same action but slipped on the final step and landed hard on the concrete, the edge of the step cracking into his good side. He cried out as pain seared through his abdomen. He rolled over and threw his crutches down the stairs, the sound of metal clattering up to him before the stairwell fell silent save for his gasping breaths.

He’d army crawl the rest of the way. Just this step, then the next step. He felt his phone digging into his hip and refused to pull it out and call Jack. He could do this. He was a full-grown adult man for fuck’s sake, he could take care of himself. Each pointy edge of the steps pressed against his chest and seemed to roll into the bruises sending waves of agony through him; he marvelled at his own stubbornness, but he was in it and he was going to finish it.

At the third landing, he could go no further. He pushed himself back against the wall, swung the busted leg in front of him and told himself he’d just take a breather. His eyes burned with the urge to cry, but he refused. Except he couldn’t stop it—his body was taking over and it told him no more. His sweat turned cold and his eyes continued to burn with frustrated, painful tears. The hours passed, his phone buzzed in his pocket a few times, but he wouldn’t look at it.

The door below opened with an echo up the stairwell, and he knew it was Jack, imagined his face when he saw the sign on the elevator, Sean’s crutches on the floor, pictured his worry and horror with a mix of shame and resignation.

Lola barked and her nails on the stairs announced her presence before her face was pressing against Sean’s, the sound of Jack jogging up the stairs following quickly behind her.

“Jesus Christ, Sean,” Jack gasped. “Are you okay? Shit, have you hurt yourself again? What the fuck happened to the elevator. Why didn’t you fucking well call me?”

He had Sean’s crutches under his arm, a green shopping bag over his shoulder. He came alongside him and brought his hands up like he wanted to pat him down. Sean rolled his head to the side on the wall and realised he felt worse than he’d been allowing himself to acknowledge. Fresh tears welled in his eyes from the pain, the exhaustion, the frustration.

“Fuck, Sean,” Jack said and dropped the bag and the crutches. He slid one arm under Sean’s thighs and the other around his back and lifted him. “Where the fuck is your carer?”

Sean brought his hands up around Jack’s neck, buried his face against his throat and felt ashamed when his eyes spilled over with silent tears.

“I didn’t hire one,” he said against Jack’s skin. He smelled good. He always smelled good. Sean hated that he always smelled this good.

Jack tightened his grip. “For fuck’s sake.”

“Hold on,” Jack said once they were in front of Sean’s door.

Sean held on as Jack got his keys out of his pocket, unlocked Sean’s door, got him inside with a grunt, and deposited him on the bed with careful hands.

“I’ll get your meds,” he said, a little winded, and disappeared as Lola jumped up next to him.

Sean was medicated, rehydrated, fed and dozing with Lola beside him, Jack propped up against the headboard on his other side in less than an hour. Sean had raised both eyebrows when Jack took the spot after getting Sean sorted. Jack raised both eyebrows in response, a rare look of defiance crossing his handsome face.

“Fine,” Sean said and slipped his eyes closed.

“I know you’re still awake,” Jack said now, and Sean grunted.

“Why didn’t you hire a carer? Or even call one of your mob? You know Shelley or Roger or any of them would’ve come down in a heartbeat.”

Sean breathed and thought about it, he ignored that Jack knew his cousins well enough they sounded familiar in his mouth. His eyes were closed and that made it easier. “Everyone talks to me like I’m somebody else. Like the last two years stuff happened and it made me somebody else or somethin’. I dunno, I’m not explainin’ it right, but it’s stressful. People—you, Ben, Harris—you all talk to me like I’m someone and I feel like I’m shrinkin’. So, I guess, I wanted to be alone where no one’s lookin’ at me expectin’ somethin’ I can’t deliver.”

Jack breathed audibly beside him.

Sean continued to pat Lola and drifted off.

“I get that, I can see that,” Jack said after a while. Sean grunted, he wanted to say, ‘Good talk,’ but he was feeling so much better, full of food, on his meds, and all he could manage was a soft grunt.

“But the problem is you need help,” Jack went on. “And I gotta be honest, I don’t really trust anyone else to give it to you but me. I mean look what happened when I didn’t.”

Sean scoffed. “There’s no one here to compare yourself to, Jackie, don’t worry, you’re still the best.”

“Am I?” Jack asked, his seriousness at odds with the tone Sean was trying to set. “‘Cos I get why you wanna be alone. I really do, I really can see that. What you’re going through? It fucking sucks, okay? But all you had to do was tell me and I’d have backed off.”

“You already backed off and that’s the problem,” Sean opened his eyes and looked up at him.

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Jack asked.

Sean roved his eyes over him, another nice white shirt—he must buy them in packs of seven, one for every day of the week—worn in blue jeans, hair nice like he’d just washed it, the smell of it Sean’s shampoo and conditioner.

“You’re like, skittering around your own house like a mouse, givin’ me all this space and like, I can feel it,” he said.

Jack frowned. Sean let him chew on that and closed his eyes again.

“Okay,” he said finally. “I promise I’ll be more present—”

Sean snorted.

“And you’ll come back home.”

Sean thought about it. He did need help, at least for a bit. And he could stay here in this showroom apartment and hire a carer or call someone else. But, as much as he was loathe to admit it, Jack did take bloody good care of him. He got everything right. Except—

“How in the fuck are you gonna act normal around me, but?”

“I’ve always acted normal around you,” Jack replied, shifting on the bed.

Sean laughed, but it hurt his side so it was more of a gasp. His ribs were almost healed, but switching to crutches and trying to do too much too soon—like army crawl up a flight of stairs—was clearly a mistake. “I don’t reckon you act normal around anyone, me least of all. You’re so self-conscious.”

“Well, tell me how you really feel,” Jack huffed, a smile in it. “And I’m only like that around you, dumbass, because you’re always looking at me like you want to kill me. Well, you were, you don’t anymore.”

Sean had been wheezing a laugh but that right there brought him up short. “I can’t be the guy you want me to be.”

“You are the guy I want you to be, you’re you .”

“You know what I mean, I’m not the guy you’re friends with.”

Jack didn’t reply. Sean watched him recross his ankles. He had nice feet, toenails like shells—Sean wondered if he got pedicures. He could almost picture it, but then he doubted it. Those were the feet of someone who swam a lot and Jack might be a lot of things, but a beauty parlour customer he was not.

“Yeah, but, you’re still you. That part will come. Please come home,” Jack said.

Sean sighed. “I dunno if I can stop… being angry around you.”

Jack took his hand and squeezed it. “When we first started hanging out, just the two of us?”

Sean looked up and nodded, weirded out by their hands clasped together but also not; it was another one of those weird sensations, familiar but foreign at the same time.

“You were still angry around me for ages,” Jack smiled. “I didn’t get the reason out of you right away. So, you can be angry around me. I’m pretty used to it.”

Sean squeezed his hand and Jack gripped him back so tightly, Sean was embarrassed for him, which made him smile. “Why’d you put up with it?”

“‘Cos I liked you,” Jack said simply. “I always have.”

“Then why were you such a dick when we met?” Sean asked for the first time. He blamed the pain meds, the trauma of the afternoon. It still cut him up, which was still humiliating. The hit had been the reason he kept in the forefront of his mind for his resentment, but a part of him knew what happened on the cricket pitch the night they snuck out at the juniors’ carnival and camp burned in a way that was so shameful he couldn’t even look at it in his memories.

Jack’s expression shifted to one of true sorrow. “‘Cos I was fuckin’ stupid.”

“You’re still stupid,” Sean retorted.

Jack laughed, which Sean had hoped for. “But you’ll let me take you home anyway?”

“Yeah,” Sean breathed out. Where else was he going to go?

Jack tightened his grip. “Thank you.”

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