The folding trolley to transport the tree home tonight clonk-bonks along the pavement behind me, and as I reach the top of the hill and go to cross the shrub border surrounding the car park, James’s car pulls into his usual space under the lamppost. I can’t help the smile that breaks across my face. It’s a foggy grey morning but seeing his matching smile through the windscreen makes it feel like the sun has burst through the clouds.
He turns the engine off and opens the door. ‘I was hoping to catch you,’ he says before I’ve reached him.
I put my hand on the open car door and peek around the edge at him. ‘I missed you last ni— You’re wearing a Christmas jumper!’
He grins. ‘Thought you’d like it.’
‘Where did you find that? It’s perfect for you.’ I can’t tear my eyes away from the giant green face of the Grinch on the front of the black jumper.
I don’t miss how difficult it is for him to get out of the car. Every movement is slow and considered as he turns in the driver’s seat and inches each leg out before using the door to haul himself upright without twisting his upper body.
‘Mrs Brissett at the jumper shop.’ He’s speaking through gritted teeth and holding on to the car roof to steady himself.
It makes me realise how much pain he must be in and how much he usually covers it. Since the night in the storage room, apart from the odd wince or intake of breath, you’d never know there was anything wrong, and my nails make crescent-shaped indents in my palms as I hold back from how much I want to put my hand on his back and just sort of rub. His arm is out of its sling for driving and the white plaster of his cast stands starkly against the black sleeve of the jumper that’s pulled up to his elbow.
‘And now I wish I’d been five minutes earlier so you didn’t have to see how long it takes me to negotiate something as simple as getting out of a car. I’m not usually like this, I swear.’
‘You’re hurt, James,’ I start, but all the moving has pulled his jumper skew-whiff and as he reaches one arm back and tries to pull it straight, I catch sight of the bare skin underneath. ‘Holy hell, you’re black and blue.’
The trolley clatters onto the pavement as I drop it and leap forwards to stop him pulling the jumper down. I cover his hand with mine and roll the knitted material and the plain T-shirt underneath it back up again, sucking in air through my teeth as I uncover more and more skin of his left side, from hip to as far as I can go without risking pulling near his ribs.
‘Nia, don’t, please. It’s just bruising – it happens when you’re hit by a car.’
‘Have you had this checked out?’ His whole left side is an angry mottle of black, blue, and purple in more shades than you’d see on a standard colour chart, with yellowy-green edges that extend under the waistband of his jeans and further around his chest than I can see.
‘Of course. They said I’d be bruised and it’d take a few days to come out and a couple of months to properly heal. It looks worse than it is, Nee. They’re just bruises; it only hurts when I press them. Don’t look, please. At some point in the future, I wouldn’t mind if you found me attractive, and seeing my battered body is not going to help matters.’
So many things spring to mind – that he’s the most gorgeous man I’ve ever met and a few bruises don’t make any difference to that, how bruises that severe are not the kind that only hurt when you press them – bruises like that spread through your entire body and hurt with every step – and mainly, how much I wish I could reach my fingers out and trail them across his bare hip, but that would be asking for too much trust from someone I barely know, not to mention crossing God knows how many lines.
I also realise that even though it’s warmer today with the low-lying fog and threatening rain clouds, it’s still a December morning and he’s standing in the car park with half his torso exposed and the cold air is undoubtedly not doing the bruising any good. I quickly tug the T-shirt and jumper back into place and step away, but all my good intentions fly away as he straightens up and turns around, pain visible in every taut line of his face.
Without thinking, I throw my arms around his neck. Well, with enough thinking to be careful of not hurting him. I reach up and pull his head down to my shoulder, my hand sliding around the back of his neck and my fingers carding through the thick hair there. My other arm wraps around his good shoulder and tightens as much as it can without being painful. I half-expect him to shove me away, but his right arm curls around my back, his hand tangling in the hair hanging over my shoulders and sort of gathering it up and pulling it aside, and even his broken arm slides behind me, the elbow above the cast pressing into my back.
‘What are you doing?’
‘I don’t know.’ All I know is that I’m nearly in tears at the sight of his bruised body and the thought of seeing that and not hugging him was unthinkable.
‘I don’t either, but feel free to keep doing it.’
My arm gets impossibly tighter around his shoulders and my fingers curl into the thick strands of hair at the back of his neck, so dark it’s almost the same colour as the black lamppost beside us, and uneven enough to feel like it’s growing out of the
