Page 335 of The Long Way Home

Seventy-Eight

Magnolia

Once they moved me they kept me at Weymouth Street for another four days before discharging me and sending me home.

I had lots of visitors, the boys, Tausie, BJ’s parents, the sisters (even Madeline), Gus. No Julian and no Daisy. I thought that was a tiny bit rude, but anyway.

Broken ribs are a pest but the painkillers are nice. It hurts to move and it will for a while, my doctors said, but I’ve barely had to do a thing because Bridget says BJ is processing the grief of almost losing me by not leaving me alone, ever.

That could almost sound annoying, but actually, I’d live in his pocket if he let me.

When we get back to Grosvenor Square the house is filled to its brim with flowers.

Beej is staying for a while, so it seems.

“Could have asked first,” is what my sister said when she found out. “I don’t want to have to hear you two going at it all night. You know, my room is right next to yours, Magnolia—”

Taura gave her a look. “Look at her little mangled body. What’s he’s going to do with that?”

“Are you kidding? Those two?” Bridget gave us a look. “Where there’s a will, there’s a way.”

I have a little bell I keep by my bed to get Bridget’s attention primarily because she hates it. Sometimes I just ring it to annoy her because the reaction is so fun.

A lot of eye rolls and sounds from the back of her throat. One time I rang it just so I could time her to see how long she took to get to me. She was so cross she threw her phone at me and it hit me in my ribs, which meant her and BJ had a row. He yelled at her so much and he never yells at her — he’s horribly irrational when I’m hurt — but all’s well that ends well because Bridget was so guilty about hurting me that now when I ring her bell I’ve calculated that her response time is 210% faster than it was before.

Showering is hard between the clavicle and the ribs, so much so I’ve been reduced to once-a-day showers, which is completely barbaric, but every time I liken my current showering privileges to those of a Guantanamo detainee I’m not met with an overwhelming response of compassion.

That said, BJ takes his role as my personal bather very seriously.

Absolutely zero funny business (but quite a many few kisses) — the carefulness of him with me is very sweet.

The great tenderness he undresses me with only adds to the build-up of how much I want him, and the part where I can’t have him right now — well…

It’s a funny kind of boundary between us, this physical one. We’ve never had one before. He’d get injured playing rugby but that barely slowed him down in this arena, but not here, not with me.

And I think he revels in it a bit, that I want to be with him as badly as I do and I can’t be.

I’ve suggested an array of ways to make it possible but he just rolls his eyes. Scoffs, “Yeah, right—” And then he kisses me anyway.

That’s what he did after this morning’s shower as he helped me pull on the bow-embellished strapless dress from Carolina Herrera. Things without sleeves and straps are the MVPs for me at the minute.

He’s standing on the other side of the room, leaning back against the wall, watching me with a small smile on his face.

The windows behind him, illuminating him in the way I see him in my mind at all times anyway.

Today he’s in the white My Name Is tag-print T-shirt from Vetements, black baggy, Dolce & Gabbana jeans from the ‘90s that I pulled for him from a shoot the other day, and the black Balenciaga Political Campaign hoodie around his waist. Vans. As always. He nods his chin at me.

“Like your place…” I glance around, pleased that he does. I like it when he likes my things. “Good ceilings.” He nods appreciatively. “Very light… Bit of a shame you have to leave, isn’t it?”

I frown over at him. “No, I don’t.”

“Yeah, you do—” He nods.

“What?” I’m confused. Did something happen while I was at hospital?

He gives me a little shrug. “You have to move out.”

“When? Why?” I pout over at him.

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