Page 10 of Missed Steps
Chapter Four
I feel awkward on crutches, but strangely less awkward than when walking on my prosthetic. I used glue and duct tape to secure the bar that snapped, and I’m wearing the quick fix so that it looks like I have a leg. I eye the food spread in the cafeteria, debating my options. Sandwich? Wrap? I’m not too hungry. Phantom pains have been killing me since I woke up.
Toast.
I balance my weight on my remaining leg at the station and set the bread toasting. I’m about to shove both pieces into my mouth to checkout when someone steals my bread and puts the slices on their plate. I recognise Mark’s hands immediately. I glance up. Our eyes meet.
“What else are you having?” Mark asks.
I glance at his tray; there’s a plate with a burger and chips, and a second plate with my toast. There is also a second set of cutlery. Is this sweet or just pity? I’m going to roll with it either way. “That’s it,” I answer.
Mark eyes me. My shoulders, my—as he called it the other day—leanframe.
“Okay,” he says.
He walks toward the checkout and I follow, watching as he pays for my toast before I can object. I then follow as he sets the tray down at the nearest free table. The cafeteria isn’t busy, and I don’t see anyone I know. I hesitate, not sure if he expects me to sit next to him.
Mark glances at me, then deliberately sets out the plates and cutlery in two spots.
I’m rolling my eyes as I sit. “Let me guess,” I say. “‘Did you ice your leg?’”
“Did you?”
“I threw the cold compresses straight into the bin the second you were out the door.”
“Kyle,” Mark says, already exasperated with me.
“The bruising cream, too. I threw it from the couch. All those years of basketball finally paid off.”
Mark doesn’t say my name again; just levels me with an unimpressed look. I’m not going to lie; Mark’s unimpressed looks do good things to my serotonin levels, always have. I do feel slightly off-kilter that he knows about my leg, but like it doesn’t kill me like I thought it would if people knew. I’m certain now the only person I don’t want to know I’m missing part of my leg is me.
I reach for the toast and am touched when I see the collection of spreads Mark brought to the table. I apply the butter, jam up one, marmalade the other, and take as neat a bite as I can. Mark mentioned the thing about being tidy, and I don’t want him to watch me smear jam all over my face. Unless he’d like to lick it off.
“You iced it though, right?” Mark asks.
I almost choke. When I recover, I shake my head, trying not to grin. “No, I didn’t,” I persist.
Mark stares at me intently, not touching his plate of food. He’s trying to wring the verbal confirmation out of me but I’m too stubborn to give in, finding his vexation amusing. This is a fun new game to play. Not exactly a replacement for all my sports clubs, but hey, it’s something.
I eat more of my toast.
“You—”
Mark is interrupted by a large guy sitting in the seat next to him. Eddie fixes me with an aggressive look. I lean back quickly—becoming aware that I had been leaningforwardto talk to Mark—and thumb my bag strap in the chair next to me. Anxiety sparks in my veins. Did Eddie notice how I was leaning in? Will he suspect that it’s—that I’m—
“You know, if Markwantedto sit with you, he would do that,” Eddie says. “And since it’s been two years and he hasn’t, you—”
“I sat with him.” Mark interrupts Eddie. The two exchange looks, and I suspect from Eddie’s confusion, their communication-through-eye-contact is lagging.
My anxiety tastes like gravel as I swallow it down. I don’t even look at Mark as I get to my feet.
I despise the few seconds of awkward vulnerability as I balance, getting my hands into the crutches. Mark’s gaze jumps to me, and he’s on his feet in an instant, too. His hand plants on my waist, trying to urge me back into the seat. “Eddie will shut up,” Mark says as he pushes a little harder. It’s not enough to put me off-balance, and I resist the force. “Sit with me until you’re done eating at least.”
I’m not tempted by the offer. I don’t think I’ll be able to talk semi-normally to Mark like I managed today and yesterday if there are people watching. I know myself—I get shy. And if it’s Eddie? No way.
“No,” I say. And it’s Eddie’s presence that keeps me from being polite about it. Mark tenses at my tone—I said it in afuck youmanner. Not on purpose. I regret it immediately, but it’s done, and Eddie is fuming in his chair. Mark meets my eyes, andhelooks confused. And then he looks unhappy. I’m not sure how I look. Probably like an asshole.
I’m so hyper aware of Eddie staring at the two of us next to each other that I knock Mark’s hand off me, hoist my bag over my shoulders, and leave. It’s not an impressive storming off—I’m on crutches, after all. Only once I’m out of the dining hall do I remember my toast…I would need far thicker skin than I have to go back for it.
