Page 36 of The Way We Fell

“No, I don’t think so.” I release a long breath from pursed lips and move to roll my pants down again. Katy adjusts it, blousing it over my trainers as I move to stand.

“Don’t rush, love.” One hand rests on my foot. “Just take your time. Rest a minute longer, if you need.”

I take another minute before pushing to my feet. The pain has gone, leaving only a dull ache in my muscles and a light throb in my skin, where nerve endings are still relearning how to fire.

“Come on. Let’s go back to mine and order pizza. I think we’ve earned it after this.”

She grabs my hand and leads me back to her car. I left mine at her house this evening. With rush hour traffic gone, it’s only a short drive back to Katy’s house, and I release an embarrassing groan as I hoist myself out of her car. It’s the kind of grunt and groan sound that old men make when they stand up or sit down. The kind I always used to mock my dad for. By the time I’m fully upright, steadying myself with one hand on the roof of her tiny Yaris, Katy has rounded the front of the car and is patting me on the chest.

“Come on. I’ll even let you shower first. Wait—do you have anything to change into?”

“There’s a go-bag in my car,” I sigh. I’d almost forgotten it was there until now. You can take the man out of the army but you’ll never take the army training, the preparedness, the readiness for all eventualities, out of the man. I click the key fob in my pants pocket and amble across the road to my car, pulling the bag from the back and locking it again. I wait for the lights to flash before clicking it one more time—just to be sure—and meeting Katy at her front door.

“Pepperoni?” she asks. “Wings or garlic bread?”

“Get both. I’ll pay.”

I pull my wallet from my pocket and hand over my debit card. Her lips curve into a wicked smile, crinkling the corners of her eyes, and fuck, I love that I can make her smile like that. That smile, the one that lights up her whole face, warms me like sunshine. “Okay,” she says, ushering me up the stairs. “I’ll jump in the shower when you’re done.”

Growing up with a mum and sister who liked to hog all the hot water instilled in me the value of a quick shower, and the skill was honed in shower tents in the Middle Eastern deserts, where the water was blessedly cool, but the pressure was poor and cleanliness worse. I let the blissfully hot water sluice over my skin, rinsing the sweat and shame off my body and loosening some of the muscles already beginning to tighten. There’s a small graze on my left knee, and one on the side of my hand where I caught myself as I fell. I wince as the water stings them. Once I’m dry and dressed in the clean joggers and T-shirt from my car, I drag my bag and my weary body downstairs to meet Katy.

She squeezes my arm lightly as she passes me, heading up for her own shower. I hate the way my body reacts to her touch, with panic rather than peace. The way my skin prickles, and every muscle fibre stiffens, my breathing hitches, my pulse quickens. The way her proximity so often ignites my fight or flight response. I will my breathing to even out as I take a seat in the armchair across from the sofa, digging my right heel into the edge of the seat and rolling up the legs of my trousers.

Running my hands over the skin of my shins, it already feels dry and scaly after my shower. I rifle through my bag for an emollient cream and smooth it over the scars. I can practically see my skin greedily accepting hydration, using the cream to smooth out all the bumps and ridges. It’s just a shame this greasy shit only works on skin, and not my fucking brain.

True to her word, Katy’s shower is almost as quick as mine, and she returns a few minutes later in grey leggings and a pale pink sweatshirt. Even as oversized as it is, the cuffed waistband clings to her narrow waist, blousing the material over her hips, and the wide collar offers a tantalising glimpse of the creamy skin of her shoulder. It’s not like I’ve never seen her in this kind of outfit—it seems to be a staple style when she’s at home—but my god, the gentle flush on her skin from the hot water, and the curve of her lips as she smiles at me with curious eyes…

What I wouldn’t give to be that sweater right now.

Twenty minutes later, I gather tissues as Katy unloads our food onto a pair of plates.

“You have a tattoo,” I say dumbly.

“You have several,” she responds with a cheeky smirk and a raised eyebrow. “Are we stating the obvious, or are you going to ask me what you want to know?”

“I didn’t know you had one.”

“Not really something I tend to advertise. Hi, my name’s Katy and I have a taco tattooed on my ribs.” She leads the way into the living room and I flick off the kitchen light as I follow, taking my plate and my seat and slouching with my legs spread in front of me.

“A… taco?” I hadn’t been able to make sense of the tiny explosion of colour, but a taco probably would’ve been my very last guess. An embarrassed flush colours Katy’s cheeks as she ducks her head.

“A taco,” she confirms. “Amie and I were… possibly a little too under the influence. An ill-conceived idea after little too much fun with our good buddy Sauvignon Blanc.”

“It happens to the best of us.” I try to console her, but I can’t help the way my lips twitch. I stuff a chunk of garlic bread into my mouth.

“So where’s your drunken tattoo, then? Let me guess, Father Christmas’s face around your right nipple?”

The mouthful of Sprite I take to wash down the garlic bread almost makes an immediate reappearance through my nose. I have to fight to swallow without spraying it across the room. There are many things I’m coming to know and like about Katy Keller, but this—her dry humour—might be one of my favourites.

“No,” I say, pressing my lips into a line. “But a buddy I jumped with had a cactus on his arse after he lost a bet.”

“Cam told me once that his best friend has a cockroach on his bum for the same reason.”

“Cam seems like the sort to have some interesting tats.”

“Nah. Too much of a pussy. Boy’s afraid of needles.”

“Wuss. What about you—would you get more?”

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