by Ruby Molloy
From what I can make out, Boyd’s close with his family too. His mother, Wanda, is sweet and pretty, while Steve, his dad, is an older version of Boyd. Though Steve’s shoulders aren’t quite so broad and he’s shorter than Boyd by an inch or two.
I first met them on the morning after Boyd’s release from hospital. I was still recovering from the sight of his hips draped in nothing but a towel while I’d helped him tug on a pair of cut down sweats. I knew his parents were coming, but I wasn’t expecting the perfumed hug from Wanda nor the fleeting kiss on the cheek from Steve. They treated me as if I was Boyd’s girlfriend―one they approved of.
Boyd wasn’t shy in setting them straight. I think his exact words were, “Why are you hugging her for Christ’s sake? She’s here to work.”
As much as he was only telling the truth, I can’t say I liked him for that. His mother’s smile had dimmed a fraction and his dad shot him a stern look, but their reactions hadn’t seemed to bother Boyd. He asked ... actually, no, he told me to go make them coffee and proceeded to act as if I wasn’t there. That kind of laid the foundation for what has been a short but volatile working relationship.
Tired now, I fight off a yawn, but another follows in its tracks, this one too strong to hold back. My eyes water and I blink away the moisture. I’m still adjusting to sleeping in a new bed. I wake often, thinking I’ve heard Boyd call out for me.
“Go to bed if you’re tired.” He’s watching me, his eyes sharp as cactus spikes.
“I’m fine.”
He’s about to say something else, but his phone rings. It rings a lot. Sometimes it’s work, sometimes family and sometimes it’s his friends. Molly calls most often. I don’t know who she is or where she fits into Boyd’s life, but she’s definitely not work. Their phone calls are quiet and intense. Boyd lowers his voice when he speaks to her, as if he doesn’t want me listening. I usually make an excuse when I hear that drop in tone, but she called once while I was in the middle of making dinner. I heard him tell her everything was going to be okay, how he was there for her and he’d always be there for her, no matter what. At first I thought she might be just plain needy or hysterical, but I don’t think Boyd has the patience for someone like that. One thing I know, she means something to him.
Whoever he’s speaking to now, it’s not Molly. His voice is warm and flirty and he’s laughing at something they said. The more he laughs the deeper and more relaxed his voice becomes. I don’t know why this bothers me, but it does. His call lasts for twenty minutes and once he’s finished he checks his phone and says, “Get my charger, would you.”
It’s not a question or a request. There’s no please. I don’t know how, but I bite my tongue and go fetch it. It’s plugged into the socket behind his bedside cabinet. I take it through to the living room and leave it on the table at his side.
“I need you to plug it in,” he says, the expression on his face telling me that he thinks I’m stupid. I can feel my temper ratcheting up a notch, but I count to five and do as he says.
“Your mum seems nice,” I say. “Shame she didn’t teach you your please and thank yous.” I know I’ve scored a hit when the muscle in his jaw bunches. Aside from attacking his manners I kind of insulted his mum―sorry, Wanda. I’ve already learned that Boyd doesn’t like being criticised. Ever. I guess he thinks he’s perfect.
“You got something to say, Kayla, just say it.” He sounds bored. Not angry or peeved, just plain bored, as if I’m his annoying brat of a sister and he’s tired of my juvenile games. This annoys me. No guy has ever treated me this way. When you’ve got a face and body like mine, you get used to guys hanging on your every word. Or should I say pretending to hang? Because I might be clever, but I’m not that damn clever. And though I might flirt and have a little fun, it’s kind of a kick in the teeth to know that guys are only interested in my face and body.
I’ve seen Boyd watching me so I know he’s interested in my body. But my mind? I’m pretty sure that’s a no. He finds me annoying and frustrating as hell. And he doesn’t mind me knowing this.
“I’m going to bed,” I say. If I don’t go now I’ll let my temper loose again and once is enough for today. I can almost hear Boyd’s sigh of relief when I leave the room.
Too wound up to sleep, it seems like having a bath is the way to go. Boyd’s apartment has one bathroom and I deliberately leave its door open while I run the bath. I have no idea if he finds this annoying, but I sure as hell hope so.
This is what he has reduced me to.
When the bath is full and the water is obscured by a seam of bubbles, I turn off the taps and go fetch my PJs. I bought two pairs, specially. I need to be covered in case Boyd needs help during the night. It’s a pain. This summer the nights are almost as hot as the days.
I lock the door and soak away my tension. It takes a while―long enough for my fingers and toes to become wrinkled. When I’m finished I have just enough energy to lift my foot and pull out the plug with my toes.
“You going to be long in there?”
Boyd’s voice is loud, as if there’s no door between us. I jump out of my skin and almost trip over the side of the bath. “Christ, Boyd, way to make a girl jump!”
I don’t hold out for an apology. I know there won’t be one. I dress in my PJs, my arms and legs pink from the bath. Boyd is waiting on the other side of the door when I open it. He’s leaning heavily on his crutches, his head dipped low, ripples marring his forehead. When he lifts his head his eyes zoom straight to my boobs, as if they’re a drug and he needs a fix. Badly.
“Up here, Boyd!”
His eyes rise upwards and I go to walk past.
“Wait!”
I turn and stop. He nods towards the bath. “Could you put the seat in for me?”
I raise my eyebrows and wait.
“Please.” He makes it sound like a curse. The way his eyes are glittering, I’d say he’s two seconds away from losing his temper. For some reason this pleases me. Maybe he’s human after all.
I place the seat in the bath, ensuring it’s stable. When I’m finished I turn and find his eyes are now on my arse. My PJs shorts are tight. I should have selected a larger size, and maybe I shouldn’t have gone for the vest top and shorts. Maybe I should have gone for a onesie or a floor length nightgown with a frilly collar.
“Stare much?” I mutter on my way out.
“Hey!” His voice is deep and gritty.
I spin round with hands on my hips, expecting a verbal attack. “What?!”
He tips his chin towards the bath. “Hose,” he says.
“That’s it? We’re down to one word sentences now?” When he doesn’t respond, I stoop down and balance the showerhead on the taps, making it easy for him to reach from the chair. “That everything?” Please God, let that be everything.
He nods and I go to my bedroom, somehow managing to close my door without slamming it shut. My room is hot. Already I can feel beads of perspiration gathering in the small of my back. It’s a fifth floor apartment, so it’s perfectly safe to open the window, but there’s a pub down the road. My first night here I woke up disorientated, convinced I’d heard Boyd calling my name. The soles of my feet were already planted on the carpet when I realised the sound was coming from the streets below.
I lay on top of the duvet, my limbs spread wide like a starfish. I can hear the distant sound of running water and I picture Boyd in the shower. It’s an erotic image, even allowing for the chair and his broken leg. I roll to my side to dissolve the image, but it’s replaced by another, this one of Boyd on the phone to Molly, his voice low and consoling.
I roll to my stomach and groan into the pillow.
It’s going to be a long night.
*****
I wake before Boyd. Each night I set my alarm for seven, knowing he rises at eight. I’m freshly showered and buttering toast when I hear his alarm bleeping. It’s now seven forty-five and I know it takes him ten minutes to shower and dry. I dressed for the weather
in shorts and a flowery tank, but already I’m hot. And the jangling from my silver and pink bangles is beginning to grate on my nerves. Today’s predicted to be the hottest day of the year so far. If I had a choice I’d find a pool and sink into its cool water. But I don’t have a choice so I get to spend another day cooped up with Boyd in an apartment without a view. Lucky me!
I’ve just taken a bite from my toast when his shout rings out.
“Kayla!”
I lick my fingers and rinse them under the tap.
“Kayla!”
I don’t yell back that I’ve heard him. I’ll let him figure that out when he sees me walking through his door.
“About fucking time.”
“Good morning to you, too.” I said these same words yesterday, though my voice wasn’t pitched so high. But the sight which greets me today is different. Yesterday Boyd wore a t-shirt, with a towel draped over his hips and thighs. Same as the day before. Today the towel is there, but his torso is bare. Silver beads of sweat dampen his chest and further down, just below his navel, a trail of hair disappears beneath the white towel.
“Stare much.” Boyd says.
It’s too late to act as if I’ve seen it all before. I mean, obviously I’ve seen naked guys. I’m twenty-one. But not like this. Never like this.
Breathing slow and silently repeating the word calm, I walk to his dresser where he keeps his stash of boxers. Pulling out the very first pair I find, which happen to be black, I search the next drawer for a fresh pair of cut-offs. These ones are soft-washed navy and I can already imagine them moulded to his legs.
Walking back I see his legs are spread, the way guys do, as if there’s too much junk in the way for him to pull them together. I take a slower breath this time and kneel at his feet, my eyes fixed on the rough white plaster that begins just beyond his toes. He cups himself through the towel to preserve his modesty and raises his good leg for me to slide on his boxers. Switching to his other leg, I pull the fabric over his cast and up towards his knees. Boyd takes it from there. I turn my head to the side as he shifts and pulls the boxers in place and he clears his throat when he’s decent. His sweats are next and we repeat the same process. When he’s semi-dressed – there’s still no t-shirt – I hand Boyd his crutches and he makes his way to the living room. I expect him to head for his space on the sofa, but instead he walks to kitchen.
He nods towards his high tech coffee maker. “Get me a coffee, would you?”
Dammit, does he have to be so rude? “Please?!”
“Please.” His voice is a low rumble.
“Which flavour?” He has a stash he keeps in a square woven basket on the counter. I’m guessing it’s a gift from Wanda because its edged are dotted with a dozen or so tiny blue flowers. “There’s ...” I start reeling off their trendy names, my pronunciation deliberately awful. I’m not even halfway through before Boyd interrupts.
“Just give me the green pod for fuck’s sake.”
I guess he got out of the wrong side of the bed this morning. It’s juvenile, I know, but getting a rise out of him makes me happy. I don’t know why I’m behaving this way. It’s like we’re potassium and water and when we come together ... BOOM!
I guess I’d be the highly reactive potassium, Boyd the still water.
The coffee machine begins to emit dramatic noises. I tap my toes on the floor and hum, waiting for it to produce a coffee masterpiece.
“Do you mind?”
Startled, I look up. Boyd’s mouth is tight and I know I’ve annoyed him again, I’m just not sure how.
“You were humming,” he explains.
“So?”
“So, it’s annoying.”
I frown in disbelief. “You don’t like humming?”
“No.”
“How about singing? You have a problem with singing?” I ask this in the most patronising tone I can produce.
Boyd glares at me. He knows he’s being an ass, just as he knows I’m deliberately inciting him. “Singing is fine,” he says.
I make a mental note to sing. Often. “Where do you want it?”
Boyd’s eyes widen then darken at my question and his gaze drops to my mouth.
“The coffee, Boyd!”
He shakes his head, as if to clear it. “Over by the sofa would be good.”
I place his mug on the coffee table and wait for him to be seated, hovering at his side, hands on my hips and my legs slightly spaced. Boyd takes this as a sign that I want his eyes straying over my legs and boobs. I ignore how this makes me feel. “What do you want for breakfast?”
“Muesli. Use one of the blue bowls and fill it to the top.”
“Yes, Sir!” I salute him and go fix his breakfast. It’s a simple enough task and takes no more than a minute. While he’s eating, I make his bed and wash his laundry. Next I clean the bathroom from top to bottom, figuring this is better than sitting and staring at Boyd in his shorts and not much else. Bathroom clean, I move on to dusting the glass dining table, buffering its surface with vigour until it’s just as shiny as it was before I started.
The kitchen tiles are large, shiny and black. With the morning light flooding the apartment, they catch Boyd’s reflection. He’s staring at me and I don’t want to know where his gaze is fixed, though I’m guessing it’s either my arse or my legs. Tasks finished, I stand at the kitchen counter browsing through the only recipe book he owns – probably another purchase from Wanda –waiting for inspiration to strike.
“Fuck!” Boyd’s curse comes out of the blue. Turning, I see that he’s reaching for his leg – the one that’s not in plaster – alternately thumping and massaging his calf. I can see the muscle bunching and flexing beneath his skin, as if it’s an alien ready to hatch.
“Here, let me,” I say, making my way over. Kneeling, I draw his foot against my stomach and stretch out his leg, leaning in until his foot flexes and pulls at the bunched muscle. Almost immediately the spasm stops, though pain is still visible on his face. I continue to massage his calf, keeping my fingers firm without pressing too hard. Boyd’s head drifts back against the cushions as I gently manipulate the muscle for a few more minutes. “Better?”
He nods, eyes still closed.
“You want me to stop?”
His eyes open a fraction, thick black lashes screening his green irises. “Yeah, thanks. I’m good.”
There’s a thickness to his voice that wasn’t there before and his expression is languid. It comes to me that he may look like that after sex. As soon as the thought registers I jump to my feet as if I, too, have cramp. “You might be dehydrated,” I say, rushing to escape both him and my unwanted thoughts. “I’ll fetch you some water.”
I grab a bottle from the fridge and he downs half before screwing the cap back in place. “I need some air,” he says, sounding less than calm, which is not Boyd’s way at all. I guess being cooped up is getting to him too.
I shrug as if I couldn’t care less, but inside I’m doing somersaults at the thought of getting out of here. “Okay. Where do you want to go?”
He releases a scornful laugh. “Pretty fucking limited on that score.”
I count to five, breathe, and ask, “How about the park? We might get lucky and find a parking space.”
“Guess it’s worth a try.”
I fetch a couple more bottles of water and put them in my cotton tote with the cream and blue horizontal stripes. Boyd puts on a grey t-shirt and I help him with his trainers. The lift takes a while to reach our floor and I smile when our gazes snag. Of course Boyd doesn’t smile back because he’s not big on the smile front. Maybe a little sunshine will counteract his bad mood.
My parking space is in the shade and the car’s relatively cool when I open the door. I have to reverse before Boyd can get inside. He bears his weight on his good leg and eases in bottom first, his seat positioned as far back as it can go. I take his crutches and throw them in the back from my side.
My car has air conditioning, only it doesn�
�t work. I hit the button to open the windows, welcoming the hot breeze that tugs at my hair. Boyd’s elbow sits on top of the door. With his buzz cut, shades, and stubble that’s the same length as his hair, he looks mighty fine. Better than fine, he looks tough and handsome and ... His head turns and he catches me staring. I give an apologetic twist of my mouth and channel my thoughts in another direction.
Our luck is in; just as we pull into the car park a car is leaving and I’m able to nab their space. With there being no car on Boyd’s side it’s relatively easy for him to climb out. I walk round the car to help, bracing when he grips my forearms to pull himself upright.
Out on the path I have to keep slowing my pace to his. He’s still getting used to the crutches. A big guy like him, lean as he is, it’s a lot of weight to heft on two sticks. Soon, his forehead and the small of his back are coated in sweat, but he doesn’t complain. An avenue of trees gives us some shade until we stop at a vacant bench that overlooks the boating lake.
Boyd seems a little more relaxed now that he’s out of his apartment. I offer him water and he takes it from me with a mumbled ‘thanks’. Seeing this as progress, I search for something to say. “If you weren’t here, what would you normally be doing?”
