Whatever I thought was going to happen after Taylor and I had spent an afternoon watching my nieces, waking up one morning a week and a half later feeling like my entire right side was on fire was not it.

“Ow, ow, ow, ow,” I whimpered as I tried to sit up, doing my best not to jostle my right arm too much as I moved. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d been in so much pain – it was almost searing, the pain radiating out across my ribs and down my right arm. Going anywhere other than the appointment I had today would be entirely out of the question if this kept up – I couldn’t drive one-handed, nor could I steer my wheelchair with just my left hand. Not unless I wanted to drive myself into walls or off the road.

I had finally managed to get myself sitting upright when my phone rang. I’d recently changed my ringtone to the chorus of Follow Your Lead, having been inspired by the song’s recent performance in Wellington, and I spent a few seconds listening to Taylor’s voice before reaching for my phone, tapping the Speaker icon on its screen to pick up. “H’lo?” I said to answer it, rubbing my eyes with my left hand as I spoke.

“Jesus Ruby, you sound like absolute crap,” Lisbeth said. She sounded rather shocked, and I wasn’t entirely sure I blamed her.

“I feel like absolute crap. Have for most of this week.” I pushed my quilt back with my feet and started shifting toward the side of my bed so that I could get up. “I swear I haven’t felt this bad since the last time I caught the flu.”

“I’m guessing you won’t be coming to TAFE?”

I almost shrugged before remembering that Lisbeth wouldn’t be able to see it. “I honestly don’t know. I have to go see Dr. Marsden this morning, so it’ll depend on how I feel afterward. I’m not liking my chances to be honest.”

“D’you want me to drop you there before class?”

“I’d love you to, but my appointment’s at ten-thirty,” I replied. “And I’d hate for you to get yelled at for rocking up late.”

“Yeah, good point,” Lisbeth conceded. “How are you planning on getting there though?”

“I’ll get a taxi. Shouldn’t be too hard to scrape together enough money to get myself there and back. No way in hell I’m driving.”

“Well, you could do that,” Lisbeth said. “Or you could save forty dollars and ask that boyfriend of yours to give you a lift.”

“I didn’t even think of that.”

“Twit.”

“I’ll twit you in a minute.”

Lisbeth snickered. “Sure you will.”

“Oh, bite me.” I glanced across at my alarm clock and its glowing red digits that read 8:30. “Okay, well, if I’m going to be ready to go out I need to get a move on. I haven’t had my breakfast yet, and the way I’m feeling it’s going to take me a good hour just to get dressed.” I swiped my left hand over my eyes in an effort to wake up a little. “I’ll text you after to let you know how things went.”

Almost as soon as Lisbeth and I had hung up, I opened my phone’s contacts and started scrolling through until I reached the Ts. I normally didn’t call Taylor on my phone, preferring instead to Skype or text him. But I didn’t have the energy to drag my laptop out, and I didn’t know if he was home or not. Never mind that I really didn’t think this was something I should have put in a text message. My thumb hovered over his name for just a moment before I tapped it, bringing up a second screen with his name, photo and mobile number. I took a deep breath before pressing the little green phone icon.

“Hello?”

“Hey, it’s Ruby.”

I could hear the smile in Taylor’s voice when he spoke next. “Hey you. What’s up?”

“Not much. Just got up.” I rubbed my eyes again. “I was wondering if I could ask a favour.”

“Yeah, of course you can.”

I closed my eyes and braced myself before continuing. “I have a doctor’s appointment at ten-thirty, but I can’t drive today and I’m not sure I have the money for a taxi. Could…” I swallowed hard, feeling suddenly nervous. “If you’re not busy, could you take me to my appointment and drop me back home after?”

“Sure,” he replied, and I instantly relaxed. “What time?”

“Quarter to ten?” I suggested.

“Quarter to ten it is.” I heard a quiet sort of rustling sound. “And I still have the keycard you lent me, so I’ll meet you at your van, yeah?”

“Sounds good to me. I’ll see you then.”

As soon as we had both hung up I slowly eased myself to my feet and padded the few steps through to my kitchenette, in search of breakfast, my medication and some Panadol to try and make a dent in the pain that was currently doing its best to drive me up the wall.

Try as I might, I wasn’t ready to go by the time there was a knock at my front door just over an hour later. I paused in poking one-handed through my wardrobe as Sadie came up into the caravan and nosed at my right ankle, and gave her a scratch behind the ears with my toes. “Yeah, I heard it too,” I told her. “Come on, let’s go see who it is.”

Taylor was standing a few paces away with his back to me when I opened the blinds over my front door. I watched him typing away one-handed on his phone for a few moments before unlocking the glass door and sliding it open. He paused and looked back over his shoulder at me, and gave me a small smile as he put his phone in his pocket – one that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Hey,” I said quietly as he came up to the door. “I’m not ready yet, sorry. Still trying to find something to wear.”

“You’re worse than my sisters,” he teased me as I unlocked and opened the screen door to let him in. “You look fine, honestly.”

I glanced down at what I was wearing – loose, long black pants, and a grey long-sleeved hooded shirt that had an elephant on the front, my feet still bare because I hadn’t been able to find my slippers that morning – before looking back up at Taylor with one eyebrow raised. “I’m still in my pyjamas, Tay,” I said. “And I am not going out to Woonona dressed like this.”

“Like I said, worse than my sisters,” he said, and I gave him a playful swat. Fire erupted across my right side all over again as I moved a little too fast, and I let out a hiss of pain. “Hey, you all right?”

I shook my head. “My entire right side hurts right now. Like I’ve got a really bad sunburn, but it feels like it’s a lot deeper than that.” I resisted the very strong temptation to go poking at my side. “Feels kind of stabby as well.”

“Like it’s on fire?”

“Yeah, how’d you guess?” It hit me a split-second later just how Taylor would have known that. “Oh, right…”

“Yeah, not exactly a lucky guess,” he said dryly. He stepped a little closer and pushed my hair away from my face, tucking it behind my ears. “Honestly Rue, you look fine. But I don’t mind waiting if you still want to get changed.”

“I’m at least going to change my pants,” I said, and headed back up into the caravan.

Soon enough, I was ready to go – I’d changed out of my pyjama pants into my jeans, deciding that it wasn’t worth feeling like I was alternately being stabbed in the side or having searing pain shooting across my ribs to change my shirt, and shoved my bare feet into my runners. My phone went into a pocket once I’d unplugged it from its charger, and I gave my appearance a cursory once-over in the mirror on the inside of my wardrobe door before heading back down into the annexe.

“I’m ready to go when you are,” I said as I grabbed one of my hoodies from the top of the basket of clean laundry sitting on the lounge, unzipped it and shrugged it on. He gave me another smile and got back to his feet. I watched him head for the door before snagging my keys and wallet from the coffee table and following him.

The waiting room of the medical centre was fairly busy when Taylor and I arrived around ten minutes later, with a short line of patients lined up at reception. “I meant to ask this when you got to my place,” I said as we joined the end of the line. “How’ve you been feeling? I can’t imagine that this whole changing meds business is a lot of fun.”

“It’s really not,” he replied. “I’ve got a week and a half left on the Zoloft and Endep, and a week of washout after that. I’m already counting the days until I can start my new medication.” He let out a quiet, almost humourless laugh. “Never thought I’d ever say that.”

“It’ll be worth it in the end,” I ventured hopefully. “If it means you stop having panic attacks all the time and the nerve pain calms down, I mean.”

“I really hope so.” He held up a hand to show me he had his fingers crossed, an action I quickly mirrored.

The line moved quickly, much to my relief, and I soon reached the reception desk. “‘Morning Becca,” I said as I eased my Medicare card out of its slot in my wallet and handed it over to the receptionist. “I’ve got an appointment with Dr. Marsden at ten-thirty.”

“Good morning Ruby,” Becca replied, and gave me an apologetic smile. “Dr. Marsden is running a little late this morning – she’s a couple of appointments behind.”

“Oh, now you tell me,” I groused, though without any heat to my tone, and Becca let out a quiet chuckle. “That’s okay, I don’t mind waiting.”

“Okay, so we keep my boss happy,” Becca said once she’d swiped my Medicare card into her computer, “can you just confirm your name, your date of birth and your address for me?”

“If I must,” I said, doing my best to sound utterly put-upon, and quickly rattled off the information that Becca had asked me for. She was seemingly satisfied with this, and handed my Medicare card back.

“Take a seat – hopefully she won’t be too much longer.”

“Thanks, Becca.”

I could have laughed out loud at the look on Taylor’s face as we walked away from the reception desk – he looked very confused, and I wasn’t entirely sure I blamed him. “They know me really well here,” I explained as we sat down in the middle row of seats that stretched across the waiting room. “I’ve been coming here since I was a kid, so I’d be surprised if they didn’t. And I have to come here often enough these days that joking around with Becca and everyone makes it a bit more bearable.”

“I can understand that,” Taylor said. “I’ve never liked going to the doctor – maybe I should try that sometime.”

“It can’t hurt,” I agreed, and settled in to wait for my name to be called.

It felt like an eternity had passed by the time Dr. Marsden called out my name. By that time the searing pain in my side and arm had returned in full force, and it was all I could do to not start screaming. Instead I slowly eased myself to my feet, Taylor’s hand on my back the whole time, and the two of us followed Dr. Marsden down the corridor to her office.

“How are you feeling today, Ruby?” Dr. Marsden asked as soon as her office door was closed, and she’d taken a seat at her desk. I let out a quiet sigh of relief as I took a seat of my own.

“Not great,” I admitted. “I…I woke up this morning feeling like my ribs and my right arm were on fire.”

“That doesn’t sound good at all,” Dr. Marsden said sympathetically. “I had planned to get the ball rolling today on your usual tests, but I’m getting the impression that might have to wait a few weeks.” She motioned for me to hop up on her examination table, something I did very carefully once I’d shrugged out of my hoodie and handed it off to Taylor for safekeeping, so that I didn’t make my side and arm feel any worse than they already did. Though the way I was feeling, I was fairly sure that wasn’t even remotely possible. I eased my right arm out of my shirt once I was settled. “Now, where exactly are you feeling pain?”

“My ribs, on my right side – about halfway down” I let out a quiet hiss of pain as Dr. Marsden carefully ran gloved fingers over that spot “and my right arm, from about my elbow down to my wrist. It feels a bit stabby as well.”

“Have you taken anything to try and relieve the pain?”

I nodded. “Some Panadol when I had my breakfast. It’s worn off already though.”

“Hmm. How have you been feeling otherwise?”

“Like I’ve got the flu, though without all the coughing and sneezing everywhere. Hasn’t been fun.”

“I imagine not.” Dr. Marsden studied me for a little while. “You’ve had chickenpox?”

I nodded. “When I was in preschool. I did watch my nieces a couple of weeks ago, though, when they had chickenpox – their mum didn’t want them infecting anyone else.” I considered this for a little while. “I don’t have chickenpox again, do I?”

“I don’t believe so. It’s possible to catch it more than once, but I’m fairly sure that’s not the case here.” She motioned for me to pull my shirt back down again. “I can’t be absolutely sure without a blood test, as you don’t have a rash yet. But based on the pain you’re experiencing and where it’s located, I’m fairly certain that you have shingles.”

From across the room, I heard Taylor suck in a sharp breath. “Ouch,” he commented. “Dad had that a couple of years ago,” he added at my questioning look. “It’s not fun.”

“No, it most certainly is not,” Dr. Marsden agreed as I eased myself down off the examination table and went back to my seat. “What I’m going to do, just in case that is what you have and to save you coming back here,” she continued, and started typing away at the keyboard of her computer, “is write you a prescription for acyclovir. I also want you to keep an eye on your ribs and your arm over the next couple of days. As soon as you see a rash appearing on either of those areas, which if you do have shingles should happen sometime in the next few days, you need to get your prescription filled and start taking it within seventy-two hours. All right?”

“All right,” I agreed. “What else should I do?”

“Alternate Panadol and Nurofen for pain, and once the rashes appear keep them covered for the first couple of weeks whenever you’re out and about. It should be healed after that.” Dr. Marsden gave me a sympathetic smile as she handed over my prescription. “As soon as you’re better, give me a call and I’ll set up an appointment to get your tests done.”

“Okay. Thanks, Dr. Marsden.”

I didn’t say a word as Taylor and I left the medical centre. We were halfway to his car before I opened my mouth.

“Shingles. Fucking shingles. It couldn’t be fucking chickenpox again, could it.” I let out an almost hysterical laugh. “I think I would have preferred being itchy as hell for a week.”

Taylor let out a laugh of his own, one much quieter than mine had been, before slipping an arm around my shoulders. “Come on, let’s get you home.”

---

The next two weeks were some of the most painful and uncomfortable I had ever experienced. Almost like clockwork, three days after my appointment with Dr. Marsden a bright red rash appeared in long stripes across my right side and down my right arm – not only did it hurt like hell, but each rash was peppered with tiny blisters. It took every bit of self-control I could muster to stop myself from running my fingers over them – that, and knowing they would only hurt more if I did. I was used to pain, as much as I hated admitting to it, but this pain was so much worse than what I felt day to day – a constant burning right beneath my skin, with an occasional stab of pain that somehow managed to break through my almost constant dosing of painkillers. By the time the rashes finally cleared up, almost three weeks after I’d gotten sick in the first place, I was miserable as hell and cursing whoever it was that had passed chickenpox on to me when I was a kid.

There was one thing, more than almost anything else, that made it so much more bearable, though – Taylor. Every Tuesday and Thursday while I was laid up, without fail, he would drop by on his way home from class, always with dinner for us to share. Some days I found a cardboard box sitting just outside my front door, one that was packed with clear plastic takeaway containers of food labelled with Taylor’s slightly-untidy handwriting – and as far as I could tell, all of it was homemade. There had even been a thermos of soup a couple of times. Even just cooking a pot of pasta or two-minute noodles had been beyond me a lot of the time, so knowing I had something I could just stick in the microwave for my dinner had been a massive relief.

“You’re looking much better,” Mum said from her seat at the kitchen table as I wandered into her and Dad’s kitchen one afternoon in early August, my well-loved nanna trolley trundling along behind me. I also had one of my casserole dishes – this one was white-glazed stoneware, wrapped up in a dark blue teatowel to cushion it a little – cradled in the crook of my left elbow. As soon as I was within reach of the kitchen bench I put my casserole dish down on it and started unpacking my nanna trolley.

“I feel loads better,” I replied, and proceeded to shake back the right sleeve of my hoodie and hold my hand up, angling my arm so that Mum could see it. My shingles rash was almost gone – all that was left was a faintly pink stripe down my arm that still stung a little, but much less than it had a few weeks earlier. The rash on my ribs had healed completely, leaving a stripe that was slightly darker than the rest of my skin in its wake. “If I ever get it again I won’t be happy.”

“Well, let’s hope that doesn’t happen,” Mum said, and she set her coffee mug down and got to her feet. “What was it that you wanted my help with?”

“Baking,” I replied without looking up from unpacking one of my shopping bags. “I’d use my oven but it’s on the blink. And it’s supposed to be a surprise for Taylor, so…” I shrugged a little, hitching my left shoulder up toward my ear. “Can’t very well use his.”

“Ah.”

“Yeah. He was an absolute angel while I was sick, and he’s not well at the moment so I want to make things a bit easier for him while he’s laid up. If he’s anything like I am when I’m feeling crook, he’s not going to want to cook anything.”

Mum gave me a smile that seemed almost proud, and I ducked my head a little. “And let me guess,” she said, and I watched her survey the groceries that I’d already unpacked. “You’re going to make a pasta bake.”

“Yeah. He likes my spag bol, so I figure I’ll use that as a base.”

“My spag bol, you mean,” Mum corrected, her tone teasing.

“That you taught me how to make,” I retorted, and stuck my tongue out.

“Yes, okay,” Mum said with a laugh. “I do have an idea, though.”

“Yeah?”

“His oven works?”

I thought back to the lasagne I’d had for dinner the previous Tuesday. “Pretty sure it does.”

“In that case, why don’t we leave the baking part until we get to his house? We can put it together here once the pasta and the sauce are cooked, and I’ll drive you over when that’s done. Sound good?”

“Yeah, that’s a good idea,” I agreed. I surveyed everything I’d set out on the kitchen bench – half a kilogram of beef mince, a punnet of cherry tomatoes, a tin of diced tomatoes, an onion, a couple of cloves of garlic and a package apiece of spiral pasta and grated cheddar cheese, among the many other things I needed for making a pasta bake – before looking over at Mum and giving her a smile. “I’m ready to get started when you are.”

Soon enough my parents’ kitchen was filled with the mouthwatering aroma of spaghetti sauce – tomatoes, garlic, Italian herbs, and so many others I couldn’t quite pinpoint. It felt like home. “You don’t have to go into a lot of detail,” Mum said as I stirred the sauce, making sure it wasn’t sticking to the base of the cooking pot. “I’m guessing it’s probably a very private matter. But when your dad and I met Taylor for the first time, I got the impression that he was…” She trailed off, and I figured she was trying to work out how to put what she wanted to ask me.

“Like me?” I finished, inwardly wincing at the bluntness of my words.

“Yes, that,” Mum replied. She seemed relieved that I’d been able to put it into words.

“He is, a little bit,” I said. I set the wooden spoon I was using in a spoon rest, deciding the sauce would be okay to simmer for a little while, and joined Mum at the table. “He has severe anxiety and depression. And he’s a cancer survivor – one of the chemotherapy drugs he had to take damaged the nerves in his hands and feet, so he’s got peripheral neuropathy as well. And, well…” I ran a thumbnail along the edge of the table. “He’s between medications right now. His painkillers and antidepressants stopped working properly, so he’s had to taper off them so that he can start new ones. And he’s right in the middle of washout at the moment, so everything’s hitting him all at once.” I shrugged a little. “I just want to make things a bit easier for him, that’s all. Like he’s done for me.”

Mum gave me another smile and reached across the table to put her hand over mine. “I’m very proud of you, Ruby. He’s very lucky to have you.”

I gave Mum a smile of my own at this. “Thanks, Mum.”

It wasn’t too long at all before the pasta bake was ready to go into the oven. I spooned half of the sauce and cooked pasta into the casserole dish, covering it with a few handfuls of cheese, before following it up with the rest of the contents of the pot and more cheese. The lid went on after that and I wrapped the whole thing back up in the teatowel, ready for the five-minute drive down to Taylor’s house. Just before Mum and I left, I sent him a quick text. Coming over for a visit if you’re up to it. :)

His response was short and to the point – a thumbs-up emoji and a smiley face. I sent a smiley face back and followed Mum out to her car.

Somewhat to my surprise, the face that greeted Mum and I after I’d rung Taylor’s doorbell wasn’t the one I expected to see. “Hey Mrs. Hanson,” I said when his mother answered the door.

“What did I say about calling me that?” she said, her tone playfully stern, and she raised an eyebrow at me as she unlocked the screen door.

“Sorry, Diana – force of habit.” I nodded back over my shoulder at Mum. “That’s my mum, Trish.” Here I raised my casserole dish a little higher. “Could we put this in the oven? It’s a pasta bake. Figured Tay wouldn’t be much for cooking right now.”

“Of course you can.” The screen door opened, and Diana stepped aside to let Mum and I inside. “He’s in his bedroom when you’re done in the kitchen.”

“I’ll get it in the oven,” Mum said, and she took the casserole dish from me. “You go and see Taylor.”

I gave Mum a smile that she returned. “Thanks Mum.”

Taylor’s bedroom was at the front of the house, across the front hall from the laundry. It looked much the same as the rest of the house – walls, window shutters and ceiling painted a blue so pale it was almost white, but with dark grey carpet on the floor in place of the light-coloured wooden floorboards that were in the hall, kitchen and lounge. The wall opposite the end of his bed, which was dark wood with a quilt in alternating shades of blue, was taken up by a built-in wardrobe that had mirrored doors. He was fast asleep on top of the quilt on his bed, facing his bedroom window with his back to me, covered from his shoulders down to his feet with a colourful knitted blanket. His toes were sticking out from beneath the blanket, and I resisted the strong temptation to pull the blanket down over them. Propped against the side of the bed within his reach was a set of forearm crutches that looked identical to my own pair.

Rather than stand in the doorway all afternoon, and so I didn’t wake him up, I moved the neatly-folded clean laundry that had been stacked on the low wooden bench beneath the window to one side and sat down on it, wincing a little as it creaked. In the six months that we’d known each other, not to mention the five months we’d been going out, I’d never had much of a chance to watch Taylor sleep. He didn’t really nap much, and during tours and whenever I stayed over he always woke up before I did. But now that I was getting the opportunity, I was going to make the most of it.

He looked so much younger when he was asleep. Out in public – but particularly during tours and at TAFE – he looked every bit his age. Even when it was just the two of us he still looked within a few years of thirty. But right now, he looked much closer to twenty. He had dark smudges beneath both eyes, with a faint scar beneath his left eye and another along his hairline on the right side of his forehead, and he was frowning just a little in his sleep – an expression I recognised as pain, having seen it on the faces of my brothers and sisters often enough after they’d broken bones or sprained joints. I bit down on my bottom lip – it was one thing to be in pain myself and to be used to it, but to see it in someone I loved hurt like hell.

I was just about to go and see what Mum was up to when he woke up, easing an eye open at me – one that was a tired, washed-out blue, almost grey. “Hey,” I said quietly, not wanting to startle him.

“Hey,” he replied, his voice sounding a bit scratchy, and gave me a small half-smile. He frowned a little again, but this time I could tell he was thinking. “Are you cooking something?”

“Baking,” I replied. “Borrowed your oven – your mum said it would be okay. Mine’s on the blink.”

“Well, that sucks.”

“Yeah, no kidding.” I sat back a little as he eased himself upright, keeping the blanket around his shoulders, and watched him run fingers through his messy hair. “How come your mum’s here anyway?”

“Making sure he doesn’t starve,” Diana replied from behind Taylor, and I jumped a little in my seat. I hadn’t even heard her come into the room.
Taylor rolled his eyes a little at this. “I eat,” he retorted, though I could tell his heart wasn’t really in it.

“Yes, you eat. I’m aware of that.” Here Diana sat down on the bed next to Taylor. “And I’m very glad that you do. But when you have flares it’s barely enough to keep a bird alive. You’re already far too thin – you need to eat more than you do.” She brushed Taylor’s hair back off his face and behind his ears. “I know you don’t have much of an appetite right now, love. I get that. And I know you feel sick because you’re in a lot of pain. But you need to eat something more than a handful of M&M’s or an apple. That’s not enough to keep anyone going.”

“I made you a pasta bake,” I piped up. “From scratch. The sauce at least.” I picked at the left knee of my jeans. “I know you like my spag bol, and besides you did a crapload of cooking for me when I was sick. My way of saying thanks.”

This time Taylor’s smile was bigger, lighting his eyes right up. “That sounds freaking amazing.”

I gave him a smile of my own. “Thought it might.”

“Do you think you might be up to eating some of it?” Diana asked, and Taylor nodded. “Okay. I’ll let you know when it’s ready.”

As soon as Diana had left the room, I hopped up on the bed next to Taylor. “So how’re you feeling?” I asked.

He was quiet for a little while before he spoke. I swore I could see wheels turning in his head as he thought it over. “Sore, mostly. My hands won’t quit aching – just when I think they’ve stopped hurting it starts up all over again. Fucking nerve pain is a bitch.” Here he raised his right foot up a little. “And my right foot’s gone numb again. Hence the crutches – I can’t get around right now without them.”

“That has to be a pain in the arse.”

“No kidding.” He closed his eyes and tipped his head back. “I’m tired a lot of the time too. And my head feels empty all the time – I can’t think, whenever I try for longer than a minute or so I lose my train of thought. I had to ask for extensions on all my assignments just so I can have even the slightest chance of getting them done.” He let out a quiet sigh. “I hate this, Rue. The sooner I’m done with washout the better, so I can start my new medication. The side effects are going to suck but it has to be better than this.”

It took me a little while to figure out what to say next. I didn’t want to say that I knew how he felt, because I didn’t. I didn’t want to tell him it would get better, because I knew that wasn’t what he needed to hear right now. So I settled for the one thing I knew would help.

“I’m always here if you need to talk to someone,” I offered. “I know I say that a lot. But you know…even if it’s the middle of the night and you can’t sleep, text me or something. I promise I won’t be mad if you wake me up. I might not give the greatest advice, but I’ve been told I’m a pretty good listener.”

He opened his eyes and looked at me, and gave me another smile. “I know, Rue, and I appreciate it.” He slipped an arm around my shoulders. “Same goes for you, you know.”

I let out a quiet laugh. “Yeah, I know.”

“Good.” He shrugged the blanket off his shoulders and reached for his crutches. “Come on. I’m actually hungry for once. I reckon I could eat a horse and chase the jockey right about now.”

This time I let out a proper laugh, and I got to my feet so I could help Taylor onto his feet. “Me too. You have no idea the amount of self-control it took to not go digging into that pasta bake during the drive here.”

He grinned as he slipped his hands through the cuffs of his crutches, curling his fingers around the handgrips. “After you, then.”

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