Chapter 6

“Sorry,” he says before I can. “That was a stupid question.” He bites his lip. “How are you now, though?” He looks at my eyes as he says it, which is another thing I’ve learned to appreciate since I moved into a wheelchair.

I have to take a breath before I can answer. “Same as most people, I suppose. Good days, bad days. Thing is, even with this”—I gesture to where my legs aren’t—“there’s always some bugger worse off. There’s never been a day I’ve wished that bomb had killed me. At least, not since right at the start,” I add. Don’t know why. I don’t usually feel such a need to be honest with blokes I’ve fucked once.

He smiles. “You should’ve met my dad. You’d have liked him. He lost an arm in the Falklands back before I was born. Never let it bother him.”

“How did he die?” Because I may not know much about grammar, but I can tell a past tense when I hear one.