Karina

I drive the van right up to the porch. Never have I been so glad to have no neighbors! Mark tries to stand on his mutilated leg and his face twists in pain.

"What are you doing, wait?" I rush over, offering my shoulder for support.

"Damn, I thought the anesthetic would help," he hisses, leaning on me with one hand and the railing with the other.

"You'll need to take off your jeans so I can take a look," I say, groaning as he shifts all his weight onto me.

"Isn't there anyone else here who could help?" Mark pauses, looking at me doubtfully. "At this rate, I'm going to crush you."

I immediately blush like a tomato and quickly lower my head so he won't notice. His words sounded so ambiguous...

"What are you talking about!" I lie convincingly. "You're not heavy. I've been going to the gym since spring, lifting weights. You have no idea how strong I am."

I say this and at the same time, I stoop over. Gromov looks down at me skeptically.

"And what was your max weight on the bench press?"

"Well... umm..." I look up at the sky, calculating how to lie believably.

"Thought so," Gromov nods. "For you, lifting an empty bar would be an achievement."

He tries to lean on me as little as possible, clinging to the door frame, the wall, the window sill.

We drag ourselves to the guest room, and that's when I realize something.

"Mark, you can't stay in this room."

"Why not?" he stops.

"The workers are coming tomorrow, and the guest room door opens onto the terrace. They might see you."

"What do you suggest?"

"Better go to my room. My room's windows face the other side. And I'll move to my parents' room, they won't be back soon," I add hastily, so Mark doesn't think I'm implying anything.

I'm not implying anything, just stating the facts.

And only when I cross the threshold do I realize that Gromov will now see his glossy poster.

"Oh!" I hear him utter softly, and I wish the ground would swallow me up.

"That poster isn't mine," I mumble, pushing Mark into the room.

"Really? Whose is it then?" His voice is serious, but there's a teasing tone in it.

And I feel like crying. Why didn't I take it down and stash it in the pantry like I promised?

"It's my dad's. He's obsessed with racing. He's your fan."

"So why did your dad hang his poster in your room?"

"Because Mom fights back," I shrug. "They have a designer layout in their bedroom. She won't let Dad hang anything on the walls. He asked permission to hang it here."

Gromov smiles, but I keep a stone face. The main thing now is that he doesn't enter my parents' room. There, not even basic repairs have been done, let alone a designer layout.

He limps to the bed and leans against the headboard.

"I'd like a shower, Karo. Can you help me?"

"Of course," I reply enthusiastically.

"Then help me get these jeans off."

And then I realize I've been too hasty.

Sure, in my dreams, I've done it more than once. When we're both hot and excited, he rips off my dress in one swift move and I undo his jeans belt. My hands tremble with impatience, with excitement, and lack of experience. I can't unbuckle it, and then he pulls off the belt with one hand...

Aha! Reality turned out to be slightly different.

Let's say, the exact opposite. Different and close.

The man who occupied all my thoughts and dreams now stands before me waiting, while I feverishly swallow and stretch my hands towards his belt.

"I'll unbuckle it myself, thanks," Gromov thankfully doesn't read minds, otherwise I would surely die of embarrassment. "You pull the legs of the pants down."

He pulls his shirt over his head and unbuckles his belt. His shoulders and arms are covered in wounds from the broken windshield fragments, so the shirt is stained with red spots.

"I'll try to wash it," I murmur, squatting in front of him. And that too I had imagined, but not like this, not at all...

Mark almost falls onto the bed, and I pull first one leg and then the other. I exclaim loudly and cover my mouth with my palm, Gromov swears bitterly.

His leg looks terrible. It's swollen, crimson with blue veins.

"There could be a fracture," I say hoarsely, indicating his leg with my chin.

"Maybe," he accepts grimly.

"Mark, you need an X-ray."

"Where's the shower?" he deliberately changes the subject, and I reply with a sigh.

"Wait, we need to figure out how you're going to bathe. We don't have a bathtub, only a shower, and you can't stand."

"We need a metal chair or stool," says Gromov.

Right, I have both in abundance.

I find the chair in the kitchen and bring it to the bathroom. I go to fetch Mark, offer my shoulder, and look only at my feet. Having a handsome naked torso right under my nose is enough for me. If I see his boxer shorts, I'm afraid to imagine what will happen to me.

Gromov collapses onto the chair. With my eyes closed, I hand him the showerhead and start to leave, but then my hand is caught in a soft yet firm grip.

"Where are you going, Karo? You promised to help me..."