Months have passed since you were last

The lover I once lost myself in

I can’t believe it’s Christmas Eve

And soon a new year will begin

All I can think as I sit here drinking

Is whether you’ll be here by Spring

Or if you’ll go and leave me low

If you do that, babe, I won’t have anything

(Repeat chorus)

— “Christmas Stocking” by The Sandy Coves, 1989

September

The next few days passed quickly. The café was busy without Mum and Derek to help out. They spent all their time at the hospital, mostly with Rosie, though Mum forced Derek to go with her to see Mack each afternoon. I got in the habit of visiting Rosie after the lunchtime rush, when they were with Mack, then I’d drop in on Mack in the evening, once the café had closed.

It was obvious early on that he was set on being released as soon as possible. He pushed himself hard, first to get up out of bed, then to start walking around, ignoring the nurses’ warnings that he needed to pace himself. Although he never complained of any pain to me, I’d see him steeling himself before he stood up or took a step, his grim expression telling. In those first few days after the surgery, the simplest of activities exhausted him, a fact that clearly frustrated the hell out of him.

“You’re going to have to resign yourself to letting me do some things for you for a couple of weeks,” I told him one evening a few days after the operation. I helped myself to a few Maltesers from the family bag sitting on his bedside cabinet, tossed one up, and caught it in my mouth.

“Ugh, unhygienic!”

“Unhygienic how?” I demanded, tossing another chocolate ball in the air. I caught that one too, then displayed it to him between my teeth, grinning.

“This is a hospital—it’s full of bloody germs!”

“What, my Maltesers are going to pick up germs as they travel through the air?” I chuckled.

He just rolled his eyes, and it made me smile. He’d eased up in my company these last few days, and I liked it. I liked it a lot.

“Anyway,” I went on, “the point is, you’re going to need some help when you first get out of here.” I waggled my eyebrows at him. “So, if you want me to give you a bed bath, you let me know. Because I can absolutely do that.”

He gave me the repressive look he used on me whenever I said something joke-flirty like that. “I just need to take things slowly for a bit,” he said. “I’ll be fine.”

“It’s not a crime to ask for help, you know,” I said, tossing another Malteser up and catching it. “You just need to ask.”

They finally agreed to release him on the sixth day. He’d been haranguing the nurses about getting released—I was convinced they only agreed in the end because they couldn’t take any more of his increasingly irascible questions.

I arranged to extend Katie’s shift so I could pick him up and take him back to the flat. When I arrived at the ward, he was sitting in the chair beside his bed, fully dressed with his packed rucksack beside him.

When he saw me approaching the bed, he got slowly, determinedly, to his feet.

“Thank God you’re here,” he said. “I can’t wait to get out of here. I need a burger.”

I laughed. “I suppose we could stop off at Macky Ds if you’re desperate.”

“Cool your heels, Speedy,” said a voice behind me. I turned. It was the nurse from the first night. She was in her usual scrubs plus a green plastic apron. She stepped past me, offering an unappetising tray of hospital food to Mack. “You’ll have to wait for the doctor to sign your release forms and her round’s not till two. Here’s your lunch.”

“She said I could go home last night!” Mack protested.

The nurse shrugged, clearly unmoved. “She’s still got to sign the forms, hon.”

Mack muttered out a string of curses that I couldn’t make out but was willing to bet were fantastically rude. The nurse just laughed.

“Fine.” Mack scowled. “But I’m going to see my sister till the round starts. If I sit here a moment longer, I’ll go mad.”

“I’ll get you a wheelchair,” the nurse said, but Mack waved her off, getting to his feet and making for the door.

“I’ll walk.”

“You should have taken the wheelchair,” I told him a few minutes later when he stopped in the middle of the corridor, expression drawn, gingerly touching his side. “You’ve been told to take it easy—they’re not giving you that advice for the good of their own health, you know.”

Mack glared at the pale-green vinyl floor, saying nothing.

I sighed. “We’re nearly there. Lean on me for now. I’ll find a wheelchair for the return journey while you and Rosie chat.”

With a grudging look, Mack let me slide my arm round his chest while he propped his over my shoulder. He was slim but solid, a surprisingly heavy weight. I liked the way he leaned on me though, and, when I turned my head, the faint scent of tea tree from his shampoo. He’d been complaining about not being allowed to shower the night before. The nurses must’ve relented this morning.

Right then, an image popped into my mind, of Mack standing naked under a shower spray. My cock began to twitch and fill, which was fucking awkward given that he was pressed up against me.

I suppressed a curse. Jesus, what was wrong with me? Clearly, it had been way too long since I’d had sex. And of course, that thought made me recall exactly when the last time had been: with Mack, at his hotel. The memory didn’t help my erection subside.

Determinedly, I shoved my predicament out of my mind and began slowly walking, supporting Mack as we went.

“Have you seen Rosie since the op?” I asked in a desperate attempt to distract myself.

“Once,” he said. “Well, twice, but the first time she was sleeping. Dad brought me down in a wheelchair.” He paused. “She looked pretty awful both times.”

“Her recovery’s going to take longer than yours,” I pointed out. “She’s been poorly for months now, but the doctors seem pleased with her progress.”

He glanced at me, hopefully. “You think?”

I found I wanted, needed, to reassure him. “She’ll be fine, Mack. You’ve made sure of that.”

He swallowed, hard. “There’s always a chance of rejection though. It’s weird, but I feel . . . It’s like I feel responsible for her getting better, you know? Like, it’s my liver in her, and if it doesn’t make her better, it’s my fault?” We’d reached the door of Rosie’s ward now—she’d been moved out of her single room after the first couple of days. I stopped walking and turned so that I faced Mack while still carefully supporting him with my arm.

“Listen,” I said. “Things weren’t looking too good till you came along. Rosie didn’t have a donor. She was basically waiting for someone to die. Even if this doesn’t work out, you’ve at least given her a fighting chance. None of us were able to do that.”

Mack met my gaze. He didn’t say anything, but his dark eyes were understanding, like he knew how hard that had been for me.

“Okay,” he said at last. “Let’s go and see her.”

Rosie was curled up in the big chair next to her bed playing on her phone when we went inside. Derek was reading the paper. He looked up when we arrived, then hurriedly got to his feet, gesturing at the ridiculously uncomfortable visitor chair he’d been using.

“Dylan, sit down here.”

“I don’t need—”

“Sit,” I said firmly, giving him a little shove.

He scowled at me, but did as I said.

Rosie snorted with amusement. “Nathan’s so like Mum,” she told Mack. “The two of them are unbelievably bossy, aren’t they, Dad?”

Derek smiled weakly at Rosie. “Yeah. For sure.”

His discomfort was palpable, the tension between him and Mack thick enough you could cut it with a knife. From what I’d seen, Mack didn’t seem to know how to treat Derek at all, always stiff and awkward around him. As for Derek, he gave off the vibe that he’d rather be somewhere—anywhere—else. Which probably didn’t help with dispelling Mack’s obvious conviction that Derek didn’t give a shit about him.

Was it possible Mack was right? Did Derek’s behaviour genuinely reflect his feelings? Surely not—whatever his faults, I didn’t believe Derek didn’t care about Mack.

Mack and Rosie were on the same level now, both sitting. Mack asked Rosie what she was doing on her phone and she started showing him, swiping at the screen with her quick fingers. He was good like that, with her. Didn’t talk at her the way adults so often did with kids, asking them question after question like it was an interview, controlling the conversation—like I did, really. He just let her show him her stuff and natter about it, asking the odd question during the lulls.

I had a feeling I was about to lose my favourite-brother spot.

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Or how Mack did. He’d surprised me, with how much he seemed to want to get to know Rosie, especially when he didn’t seem to feel that way about the rest of us. I admitted, I wished he wanted to get to know me better. Whilst he’d grown more friendly over the last few days, there was still a distance there, a line he stayed firmly behind.

I watched them, two dark heads bent together over the little screen. Then I turned to Derek.

“How’s Mum today?”

“Better,” he said. “I packed her off to the hairdressers his afternoon. You know how she is though—she was refusing to go till Rosie told her point-blank she needed to get her bloody roots sorted out.” He laughed warmly, and I saw Mack glance up. He had a great laugh, did Derek. Infectious. Something about it just made you smile and wonder what was funny.

After a bit, I slipped off in search of a wheelchair for Mack. It took me a while to track one down, but eventually I was back at Rosie’s bedside with my prize.

“Your carriage awaits,” I told Mack, gesturing at the wheelchair.

Mack grimaced. “I can walk.”

“Nope,” I said firmly. “We agreed on the way down here that we’d be taking wheels back to Ward Fourteen—and by the way, we’ll also be taking them out to the car.” When he opened his mouth to protest, I ploughed on. “That’s nonnegotiable, my friend.”

Rosie laughed again, and my heart warmed to see her eyes glinting with real humour. It felt like months since I’d seen her like this, and so soon after surgery, it felt like a miracle.

Mack wasn’t laughing though—he was grimacing as he levered himself up and again as he dropped into the wheelchair. “Fine, I’ll use the bloody thing,” he gritted out, “but only to get out of this place, then I’m back to my own two feet.”

“At least you’re getting out,” Rosie said. “I’ll be stuck here a couple more days at least.” She scowled. “I can’t wait to go home. The food’s awful, and they wake you up at the crack of dawn for breakfast and make you go to sleep super-early at night. It’s like being a little kid.”

Her expression was disgusted, but there was no real fire in her.

I went to her and hugged her. I wanted to hug her tight but she was too sore for that, so I contented myself with a gentler embrace and pressing a kiss to the top of her head.

When I broke away, turning back to the wheelchair where Mack sat waiting, I caught an oddly poignant look on his face that brought a lump to my throat.

“Hold me.”

On the other side of the bed, Derek sat, staring down at his loosely linked hands.