The next morning, from my position in the doorway, I watched Trent hobbling between the fridge and the worktop, attempting to make himself a sandwich and some tea. Dividing his duties between needing to carry the ingredients and keep himself upright, he was managing with only one hand to prepare the snack and one crutch.
Hopping between the fridge and his workspace, he slowly transferred some ham, cheese, mayonnaise and pickles to his plate and then proceeded to try to cut, scoop and arrange the fillings with limited success.
"Stupid English bread," he muttered, having already made a great fuss about the lack of availability of the American variant in the country.
"Stupid English Miracle Whip substitute," came next as he hopped on one foot to keep his balance whilst trying to scoop some mayonnaise out of the jar with his free hand as the pot scooted around the counter. He laid a pickle in place and slowly bought a knife down on it, but it shot out from under the blade and hid itself behind the breadbin.
"Stupid pickles," followed then as he lodged four whole pickles into the 'Miracle Whip substitute', and slammed another slice of bread down on top of it.
"Why are there no goddamn Subways in this country?"
The kettle boiled and he reached for it, attempting to pour it into his mug with his left hand, his dominant hand clutching tightly onto the crutch, and spilled most of the water over the worktop. More cursing came as he then used his left hand to haphazardly stir the beverage.
"No goddamn coffee in this country either, fucking tea drinkers."
This last stereotypically American statement became too much for me, and my silence broke, my laughter making Kurtis jump, and then becoming even louder as he nearly toppled over backwards. Grabbing onto the kitchen table he glared at me.
"Don't do that!" he yelled, looking thoroughly angry.
I stifled my mirth down to a giggle and opened the cupboard next to me to take out a jar of coffee grains and reach down the cafetiere. Turning the machine on, I set about improving his badly made sandwich. Placing the two finished products down in front of him where he'd fallen into a dining chair and taking the tea for myself, I sat opposite him, grinning.
"You think that was funny?"
I smiled and nodded, blowing on my tea to cool it. He glared but it was soon overtaken by a smile to match my own, and he sipped the coffee. He considered it for a second and then set the cup down.
"Guess it's not that bad. Still say this is a backward country, though. Your bread is...springy."
"No different to your sour dough," I countered.
"I don't like sour dough," Trent replied. "I like bread."
"Tsk." I finished, taking another sip of tea.
Kurtis watched me a second and then asked,
"Found any more trouble to get yourself into to worry that boyfriend of yours?"
I blinked at him, my face blank, before I realised he'd make the mistake that many others had.
"Bryce isn't my boyfriend," I said simply, "We're just very close friends, that all."
"Oh, so that's why I heard you two giggling as you left his room at four this morning, then."
I rolled my eyes a touch.
"We were watching TV and talking. Late, yes. Clandestine rendezvous, no. Didn't wake you, did I?"
"No." He shook his head, swallowing another bite of sandwich. "I was already awake. Back pain."
I decided to offer a little more information.
"Bryce and I – we spent a couple of years flirting, then we decided to see if there was anything more, but there isn't. Our close personal contact is a remnant of a romance that never was."
Kurtis stared at me blankly for a second and then blinked, bringing himself back to reality from the brief moment of living a bad romance novel that my last sentence had invoked. Shaking his head slightly, he swept the last bit of his sandwich around the plate to pick up some blobs of mayonnaise and then said,
"Clearly, the man is gay." I stared at him with my eyes widened in disbelief at the audacity of his last comment for a second before laughing outright.
"And just what is that supposed to mean?" I asked, grinning at the huge compliment I had just received.
"Ah well," he replied, "That would normally be the moment where I'd sweep out of the room before you had a chance to react, leaving you flustered and me safe from questions like that." He illustrated this with a roll of his hand in the general direction of the door and a grin. "But, as you see, I'm kinda incapacitated in that aspect."
"Would you like me to sweep out for you?" I asked, enjoying the game.
"Go right ahead."
I smiled again, not quite sure whether to move or not, but at that moment the phone rang and, aware that in a mansion as large as Croft Manor with only three permanent residents, the Lady of the house could not rely on her staff to answer it before it rang off, I stood up and offered a parting raise of my eyebrows to Kurtis before leaving.
"Saved by the bell," I heard him drawl.

I stood on the platform waiting for Hilly's train to pull in. It was he who'd been on the telephone, letting me know when he'd been arriving, and stating in no uncertain terms that he wanted me to go and pick him up. I sighed. Clearly, he was going to make me pay for my behaviour by being less of a butler and more of a scolding father. I deserved it, and I understood why he was doing it. I had no right to act the way I did, no right at all. Looking back, it seems as if it should have been easy to seek help, be nice, come to terms with things with the help of my friends. I knew, however, that it hadn't been at all. I'd handled my trauma the only way I'd known how, and though my friends understood it, they didn't have to like it.
I was shaken out of my thoughts by the train pulling in. My eyes darted along the carriages, and I caught sight of Hilly alighting with his luggage in tow. I started forward.
"Hillary!"
"Lara!"
Normally, he would have engulfed me in a hug, but not today. Instead, he stood before me, the warmth we'd rediscovered on the phone gone in the cold light of day.
"Where were you?"
"I told you, Hilly, Paris. I'll fill you in on the details when we're home – Bryce hasn't heard the full story yet either."
"What changed?" There it was. The question that had to be asked, that only Hillary would have asked, and that I still wasn't quite sure how to answer.
"I think – I." I faltered, hesitated, thought about my answer. At last I said, "I realised that I didn't die in Egypt."
Hillary stared at me, searching my eyes for a second. Blinking, he glanced down and picked up his case.
"Good," he said. "I'm glad."