Sid took a long, slow drink from the water bottle closest to him. “That’s London, right? Anything further south than Nottingham is a mystery to me.”
“You don’t travel much?”
“I’m happy here.”
“You should be. It’s nice.”
“Even though no one talks to you?”
“Maybe that’s why I like it.” Dante watched Sid take another drink.Man, he has the nicest neck. Is that a thing? Fuck, I have no idea.
Sid lowered his water bottle. “Can I ask you something else?”
“If you like.”
“What do youthinkis wrong with me? Like, you’ve been with me a while, so you’ve seen me falling around all over the place... so, I don’t know. I guess I’m curious what it looks like to someone who doesn’t know.”
“I don’t think anything is wrong with you—hey, let me finish.” Dante raised his hands to quiet the protest forming on Sid’s lips. “I know you’re off balance sometimes and in pain, and from watching you, I’d say it was something in your brain—an injury, or a condition that affects your mobility and, I don’t know, maybe how you think too?”
Sid reached for his water bottle, then seemed to change his mind again. “That’s better than the last person I worked with who grassed me up for being drunk all the time.”
“Who was that?”
“A posh git friend of one of the trustees. He told Benjamin I was drinking with my breakfast in the morning and I could hardly stand up by the end of the day.”
Dante was good at concealing his emotions, so good that often not even he knew how he truly felt. There was no mistaking the fury that flooded him now, though, and he didn’t want Sid to see it.
He got up and retreated to the fruit barrow. The display was dark purple with the latest crop of blueberries Sid had grown in the hottest polytunnel. He complained daily that it felt wrong to force them but ate them after lunch anyway.
Dante grabbed a bowl and returned to the table.
Sid hadn’t moved, save that hand that had crept to the back of his neck again to rub it.
Dante passed him the blueberries. “Does it hurt?”
“What? Oh. Nah, not really, at least, not right now. It’s more a sensation that freaks me out. Like boiling water being trickled over my skin.”
“Nerve pain?”
“Yeah.” Sid rolled a berry between his finger and thumb. “You were right about everything you said. I have multiple sclerosis.”
Saying the words seemed to shift something in him. A dozen emotions rampaged in his dancing gaze before two settled—grief and a sad defiance that made Dante want to cry.Don’t. He doesn’t need sympathy. But what did Sid need? It was a question Dante had asked himself since they met, and searching for the current answer drew Dante’s eyes to Sid’s forearms, strong, corded, and brown from the sun. He wanted to rub his palms over them, cup his elbows, and tug Sid closer to him.
The door behind him opened with a bang and a sudden influx of loud voices.
Dante flinched.
Sid frowned. “What’s the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“Liar.”
“Am I?”
“Yeah. Fuck this. Let’s walk.”
Sid stood before Dante could argue and stomped away.