Page 81 of London Inked Boys: The Complete Trilogy
To keep my thoughts from my body’s failings, I turned my mind to Rocco. I hate to leave him alone, having to deal with his father’s estate, but I don’t have any choice.
Yes, you did. If you’d just been honest with him, you could have arranged to have this session done at a local dialysis centre instead of coming all the way back to London on your own.
I sigh and scrub one hand across my tired eyes. I’ll have to tell him soon, I know that, but I’m not looking forward to it. Will he treat me differently if he knows what he’s letting himself in for? People on long-term dialysis can be fragile. We have complications, and it simply isn’t as easy as living with a healthy person. We’ll never be able to just go on a spontaneous holiday because I’ll always have to make arrangements for my dialysis first, and I’ll always have to avoid drinking too much alcohol and be careful with my diet. I’m making assumptions about our relationship, but I know how we are together. We’ve known each other our entire lives and, from the way he looks at me, I don’t think this is just a fling.
I squeeze my thighs together as I tingle at the memory of our time together. He’d always known exactly what I liked, and that hasn’t changed. There had been a couple of other men over the past ten years, but nothing comes anywhere close to how I feel when I’m with him. I hope he’s all right dealing with everything down in Cornwall by himself, and wish more than anything that I hadn’t needed to leave him.
An hour later, I stop off at some services and take a break. I’m hungry, but takeaway food isn’t a great thing for me, as most of it’s too high in salts to be good for me. I’ve already been naughty by eating the fish and chips yesterday. I settle on some fruit and a coffee for the caffeine, though I could use something more substantial. I take the time and stretch out my legs, trying not to wince at my swollen ankles or scratch my nails across my itchy skin. There are only a couple more hours to go now, and I just have to push through. I’ll go straight to the hospital, and the dialysis will put me right again.
I get back on the road again.
I fight off the exhaustion and ignore the leg cramps, watching the miles being eaten away by the car. A tickle starts in my throat, and I cough to try to clear it away, but phlegm sticks like glue to my pipes. I do my best to ignore it as well, taking sips from the bottle of water I have in the holder beside me, though I know from experience that too much fluid at this stage isn’t going to do me any favours.
A surge of impotent anger boils up inside me. Why does it have to be me who’s going through all of this? Why couldn’t I just have been born into a healthy body, and be reunited with the love of my life, and live happily ever after? Plenty of people have it worse, but right now it all seems so unfair, and I blink back angry tears.
As I approach the outskirts of London, my cough grows worse, and I find myself breathless, my chest tight. I’m trying not to worry about what it means, knowing it’s most likely the result of the long drive and pushing myself physically right before a dialysis session. Three days ago, right after my last session, I would have been fine, but my non-working kidneys mean that toxins have been building up in my system for the last three days, and my body doesn’t have any way of getting rid of them by itself.
By the time I reach the hospital, I’m exhausted and feel as though I want to sleep for a week. I make it to the clinic to check in. Linda’s behind the reception desk, and the nurse’s eyes widen as she takes in the sight of me.
“Sophia, are you feeling all right? You look terrible.”
I nod. “Just tired, and my chest feels tight.”
Linda frowns. “You haven’t missed any sessions, have you?”
“No, I’m right on time.”
“Then what have you been doing?” She frowns at the swelling in my hands and feet.
“I had to go down to Cornwall with my boyfriend. His father died, and he needed to arrange the funeral. I wanted to support him.”
The nurse gives a tut of disapproval. “Well, I’m sorry to hear about his father, but it really has been too much for you.”
A fresh volley of coughing clutches at my lungs, and I double over, trying to dislodge the phlegm caught in my throat. My eyes stream, and I can’t catch my breath. A rush of heat floods over me, followed by a drenching in cold. A firm hand presses to my back, and I’m vaguely aware of Linda saying my name. But I can’t catch my breath, and the room around me suddenly feels distant, as though I’m drawing inside myself. My legs buckle, and I hit the floor, but I’m barely aware of it.
Shouts of alarm surround me, but I’m not able to figure out what they mean. All I know is that a sweet darkness is surrounding me, and the only thing I have the energy to do is give in to it.
13
ROCCO
“She’s opening her eyes.”
I sit by Sophia’s bedside, holding her hand, when her eyelids flutter.
Her parents had got my phone number off Sophia’s phone and called me while I was still in Cornwall to say she’d collapsed in hospital and was unconscious. I’d dropped everything and jumped on the next train back to London, sick with worry, and furious with myself for allowing her to make the journey back on her own.
When I arrived, they told me how serious her condition is. I was filled in on her dialysis treatment—both of them expressing annoyance with her for not being truthful about how badly she needed to have it—and that she had a build-up of fluid which in turn caused pneumonia. She’s on treatment now, and should recover fully, but it’s been a worrying twenty-four hours.
Why had she felt she couldn’t tell me? Had I given the impression that I wouldn’t want to know? I’m angry at myself for not asking more questions. I should have asked more about what’s beneath the bandage she always wears on her arm. Maybe a part of me hadn’t wanted to know. I hadn’t liked to think of the girl I’d grown up with being so sick it could kill her.
I can’t imagine a world now where Sophia isn’t in it, and the thought of having her torn away from me again so soon is torture.
But now she’s waking up, and I’m determined to make her see that she can be honest with me, no matter what.
Her parents crowd into the room, taking up the space on the other side of her bed.
“Sophia?” her mother says. “Sophia, sweetheart. Everything’s okay. You passed out at the hospital, but you’ve been given treatment and you’re doing better now.” She takes her daughter’s other hand and gives it a squeeze.
