Page 37 of Must Love Christmas

“We’ve met, and he’s fine,” Natasha said. “I prefer when loved ones ask questions rather than think they’re experts because they read Wikipedia for five minutes.”

“I always read Wikipedia for at least seven or eight minutes.” Garen beamed at her from the high-backed visitor’s chair, then leaned forward to speak to Simon in a conspiratorial tone. “She called me your ‘loved one.’ Seems quite the upgrade from flatmate.”

Natasha snorted. “You deserve an upgrade after all the time you’ve spent here.”

“Nae bother,” Garen said. “Hospitals are fascinating places.”

Simon disagreed. Perhaps it was buried memories of his childhood bout with this same illness, but the moment he’d been swept through the A&E doors Saturday afternoon, he’d felt like a caged animal. Garen’s presence had been the only thing stopping him making a run for it—or acrawlfor it, back when his arms still worked.

Simon knew he was lucky, because he’d been told so several times:

Lucky he’d known what his symptoms meant.

Lucky a neurologist who specialized in rare demyelinating neuropathies happened to be on staff at the closest hospital to Shawlands Rink.

Lucky not to need a ventilator or feeding tube (yet, probably).

Lucky it happened in November during the slow season for his father’s landscaping business, so he could stay by Simon’s side for the next…however many weeks.

It could be worse, Simon kept telling himself, but that felt like a lie.

Natasha checked the plasma exchange machine again, then typed a few notes into the computer station across from his bed. “Before I leave you two to chat, Mr. Andreou, would you like me to roll you over or shift you in any way?”

Simon’s entire body ached to be moved, but he couldn’t bear to have Garen see him manipulated like a doll. “I’m sound just now, thanks.”

When she was gone, Garen slid his chair closer. “Your parents are having breakfast, so we finally get to chat alone. You want me to adjust the angle of your bed?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“You just want to play with the buttons, don’t you?”

“That’s a big part of it, yeah.” Garen took Simon’s hand. “Can you still feel that?”

Simon nodded. “It’s weird how me hands and feet feel numb from the inside, like they’re full of novocaine, but I can still tell when something touches me.” He focused with all his will on closing his fingers. “Am I squeezing your hand?”

Garen’s brows dipped in sadness. “No. Sorry.”

Simon’s eyes heated.Just four days ago I was running in the park.

“All this feels so familiar,” he said, “even though when I had it before, I was too young to remember.”

“Your body remembers.”

“Maybe you’re right,” Simon said, “because lying here right now, I feel, like, three years old.”

“Well, what if I told you I’ve got proof you’re one hundred percent grown man?”

Simon couldn’t believe Garen was flirting at a time like this, but he played along. “What proof? You’ve got pics I’m not aware of?”

“Just my memories, and they’re the sort I never forget.” He gave a saucy grin, his mouth half open, enough to show his tongue.

For a moment, Simon felt his blood surge with thoughts of their first night together, how adeptly his hands had caressed Garen’s body. But then he crashed back into the present, finding himself a helpless husk harnessed to a host of machines. It might be weeks before he could manage even the clumsiest of touches.

“About that upgrade from flatmate,” Garen said.

Simon tensed. Was Garen implying they might be boyfriends? It seemed odd timing, but then again,inappropriatewas Garen’s middle name. “What about it?”

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