Page 16 of We Were Never Lovers
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 andwriggling 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-writtenOut of Ordernote slapped on the elevator button; Jack had known about the appointment and beencrestfallen when Sean told him he’d use a rideshare to get there, no need for Jack to worry. He’d stared at thatOut of Ordersign, 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; hemarvelled 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 thefuckhappened 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.
