The 18th Floor

Chapter Thirteen

By 5, it's raining again and Lucien offers to drive me home. Since the "incident", Lucien has driven me home 4 times and thankfully, nothing quite so dramatic has happened.

As we pull up to my house, Lucien exits the car and goes to take my wheelchair out from the back. It's Tuesday today, and this morning dad told me he would be staying over his at Dylan's. Dylan is dads' best friend and every month they plan a day where can spend the whole 24 hours together to play intense golf in the mornings and then do a pub crawl in the evenings. Just casual 53-year-old activities. However, it means the house is empty.

Lucien opens my door and scoops me into his arms. He carefully places me into my wheelchair. Despite these small acts of intimacy between us, with our chests pressed together after office hours, Lucien has never pushed the boundaries when working, which I don't know whether I am pleased about or not.

As I adjust in my seat, I look up at him and ask, "do you want to come in for a drink?", I've asked every time he has driven me home, and every time he has kindly declined. "My dad isn't home, and won't be home till tomorrow, you can come in and have a quick coffee you know. You've driven me home multiple times, it's the least I can do." He looks at me hesitantly and then, by some miracle agrees.

He goes to shut off the car engine, as I make my way up the ramp to enter my home. I dig the keys out of my bag and open the door, feeling Lucien behind me.

"Our house is not the biggest, but it's homely", I smile back at him, having second thoughts on whether this was a good idea, quickly trying to remember what I have tidied away and what I haven't.

I live in a one-floor bungalow, with wide enough doors for my wheelchair to get in. We have limited furniture and clutter in the house to avoid me bumping into things. But I have everything I could need to help me live close to a normal life at home without needing help from anyone.

"The kitchen is just here on your right, you can go in and sit down, but don't you dare make anything. I promised you a drink and I will be the one to make it for you", I say smiling.

He smiles back at me, a smile that reaches his eyes. His eyes where his bags today are especially dark and deep in purple colour. Another reason why I hoped he would come in for a drink.

"I'm just going to go leave my stuff in my room and I'll be back. The toilet is the door on the right just outside the kitchen if you need it."

He hasn't said anything since stepping inside, he's barely spoken today which I try not to dwell upon. He just nods as he goes to sit on my dining room chairs and pulls out his phone.

Lucien's POV

I'm in her house. Again. I don't know if the first time really counts. She's been inviting me every time I drop her off and I usually decline, but hearing that her dad isn't here today, I said yes without hesitation. Not that I haven't already met her dad, but can see how it might look.

She's gone off to her room, which is at the end of the corridor. I remember from last time. I take in her home. It's nice that she still lives with her dad. Why move out anyway, with rising costs there's no point in her leaving a house that's been made for her and what she needs.

She told me once she grew up in East London and her only option for accommodating housing was in North. I know what it's like, that even if you aren't English, the part of London you were raised in will always be yours. You will always fight for your postcode and moving house was probably the least of her concerns after what she went through.

I look at the photos of her and her dad on the wall. She's never mentioned her mum, but has said on several occasions it's just her and her dad. The photos on the wall are fairly recent.

A selfie of her and her dad smiling. And then a picture of her dad and her at Brighton Pier, both smiling with an ice cream in hand. And then the third picture. She's standing up here. No chair, pre-accident. Hugging her dad. She looks young and carefree, she must have been 17 or close to that age in this photo, even her dad doesn't carry the small weight of stress on his shoulders I've noticed the few times I've seen the man.

"What would you like to drink?", Cyrene asks as she makes her way into the kitchen.

"That's a different wheelchair", I blurt out. I suddenly regret speaking.

"Oh, I use a different one for inside the house", she replies back smiling. She hasn't changed her clothes, but she has taken off her blazer and shoes. She's also tied back her hair, which she normally has in a bun, but today she curled it and let it loose. I like it when its tied back. I can tell that this is her safe space, there's a comfort around her here in this environment.

I sometimes struggle to identify the boundaries between us. The line in which I become a prick for saying shit about the wheelchair, or where I am acting as a friend who cares for her. Does she think of me as a friend I wonder?

"Just an espresso would be nice", I reply back, realising she's waiting for an answer to her original question.

She heads over to the coffee machine and pulls down a cup from her cupboard. It dawns on me that her kitchen is lower than normal, for her to able to reach the counter with ease. If she was standing, I would say she's around 5'7, maybe 5'8 I can't tell, but her legs look long, even as she's sat down. Either way, I would be towering over her at 6'3.

Even when she's in her chair, I make the conscious effort to stay back a little bit so she doesn't feel too small. Her low kitchen only makes me feel taller.

She puts two cups of coffee on the table in front of me, and plate of an assortment of biscuits and positions herself in the space where the fourth table chair would have been. Directly opposite me.

As she pushes her chair under the table, I feel her knees graze mine. Whether it is something she feels, she doesn't let on. I don't know the extent of her injury; I just know she told Sarah its paralysis from the waist down. Since then, I've been doing research online. It turns out there are several different types of spinal cord injuries, and each injury differs. Some people may have zero sensation in their limbs, but others may have tingling feelings. I don't know what Cyrene feels, I know it's not my place to ask.

"So, rate my coffee making skills out of 10?", she laughs.

I take a sip.

"7", I say.

She rolls her eyes, "liar", she says amused. "It is 100% a 10, you have not had better coffee than this."

"Why do you think I buy us a coffee every morning?", I ask playfully and continue to say, "so, I don't have to drink the ones you make in the office."

She starts laughing. A sound so beautiful I wish I could record it to listen to it constantly. I look over and find her still smiling at me, and I can't help but smile back.

Everything feels easy with her. She helps me forget.

After sitting for around an hour, talking, her showing me around the house, I finally go to leave but she insists I stay for a bit longer. She's only been working with me for just over a month, yet the comfort I feel when I'm with her feels as though we've known each other for a lifetime. I know me being here, me even dropping her off at home, is breaking some form of barrier or rules of generic workplace colleagues, but I can't enforce those things when I'm around her.

I say I have to go and that I have a later arrangement, a lie I regret telling the moment it leaves my lips, because when it does, her face drops slightly, and she just nods ok and makes her way to the door to see me out.

For the first time in a long time, I sleep through the whole night.