Me-Before-You-by-Jojo-Moyes

I ran down the corridor, slid to a halt in the doorway and stood, both hands
gripping the door frame. Will was in the middle of the room, upright in his chair,
a walking stick balanced across the armrests, so that it jutted eighteen inches to
his left – a jousting stick. There was not a single photograph left on the long
shelves; the expensive frames lay in pieces all over the floor, the carpet studded
with glittering shards of glass. His lap was dusted with bits of glass and
splintered wood frames. I took in the scene of destruction, feeling my heart rate
slowly subside as I grasped that he was unhurt. Will was breathing hard, as if
whatever he had done had cost him some effort.
His chair turned, crunching slightly on the glass. His eyes met mine. They
were infinitely weary. They dared me to offer him sympathy.
I looked down at his lap, and then at the floor around him. I could just make
out the picture of him and Alicia, her face now obscured by a bent silver frame,
amongst the other casualties.
I swallowed, staring at it, and slowly lifted my eyes to his. Those few seconds
were the longest I could remember.
‘Can that thing get a puncture?’ I said, finally, nodding at his wheelchair.
‘Because I have no idea where I would put the jack.’
His eyes widened. Just for a moment, I thought I had really blown it. But the
faintest flicker of a smile passed across his face.
‘Look, don’t move,’ I said. ‘I’ll get the vacuum cleaner.’
I heard the walking stick drop to the floor. As I left the room, I thought I
might have heard him say sorry.
The Kings Head was always busy on a Thursday evening, and in the corner of
the snug it was even busier. I sat squashed between Patrick and a man whose
name appeared to be the Rutter, staring periodically at the horse brasses pinned
to the oak beams above my head and the photographs of the castle that
punctuated the joists, and tried to look even vaguely interested in the talk around
me, which seemed to revolve chiefly around body fat ratios and carb loading.
I had always thought the fortnightly meetings of the Hailsbury Triathlon
Terrors must be a publican’s worst nightmare. I was the only one drinking
alcohol, and my solitary packet of crisps sat crumpled and empty on the table.
Everyone else sipped at mineral water, or checked the sweetener ratios on their