She has enjoyed herself. For the first time in a really long time. It may have been all the wine, because she wasn’t paying attention, because she was nervous, because she was trying to silence the guilt in the back of her mind. She stumbles as she stands, sways, steadies herself with the table. Cory is quick to put a hand out to steady her. The care of the gesture makes her want to cry. She turns away to hide it.
“Hey!” Stacy says. “You’re drunk.” She is only a little bit, might be okay to drive. Is about to brush it off.
“Do you want me to take you home?” Cory is hesitant, thinking she turned away from his touch, not her reaction to it. She wants it more that she cares to admit.
“If it’s not too much of an inconvenience.” She wants to give him an out.
“Nope. Not at all.” He won’t take it. She is suddenly shy.
“Okay.” She doesn’t believe it, gives him another chance. “Are you sure?” He sees in her the girl she was on the curb; fragile, unsure, wanting to hope, but not daring to.
“Yes. I’m sure. I’ll gladly take you home.” He enunciates clearly, almost sarcastically. Mark and Stacy watch, a bit confused, then say their goodbyes.
She doesn’t think, doesn’t care, about the logistical nightmare of retrieving her car. She will think about it tomorrow. Instead, she, now aware of her drunkenness, concentrates on balance, ambulation. Cory accompanies her to his minivan, unlocks it, opens her door for her. She smiles down at him.
“Who holds the door for you?” she asks, more drunkenly than she realizes. He smiles.
“Sometimes nobody. That’s why I’m such a dick about the buttons.” She remembers the missed meeting, the door opening independently, blushes. She turns to get into the van and is surprised there’s no driver’s seat. She would turn to ask him about it, but he is waiting for her to get in. She does.
He closes her door, wheels himself to the driver’s side of the car. There is the whir of machinery. The passenger door slides open. More whirring, and the liftgate extends, lowers. He wheels himself onto the liftgate, pushes the button. He is lifted into the van, folds the liftgate into the van, closes the door, all mechanically, all hydraulically, all magically. He wheels himself into position, starts the car, drives with more magic, more adaptation.
Tessa is so busy watching him drive with his hands that she forgets to give good directions. They finally make it to her apartment complex. It feels late, she being drunk already. He parks, makes to undo the lengthy process of getting out, just to open her door. She can’t know he has ulterior motives.
“No, don’t bother. I can make it.” She’s pretty sure she’s not lying.
“Oh.” He won’t be put off so easily. “Would it be okay if I came in for a bit?” She eyes him suspiciously. “I’ve been in my chair a lot today and I’d like to get out of it for a bit.” He sees she is wavering. “It’s not late. I’ll only stay for a half-hour.” A pause for effect, then, “if that’s okay.”
She wants him to come, to stay, verifies that it is, indeed, still early. Not even nine yet. She can’t figure why he’s being so nice though. She did this to him, this mechanical, inconvenient thing to him. “Yeah, I guess it’ll be okay.”
He proceeds to divest himself hydraulically from the van. She gets out, waits, would help if she knew what to do. Finally he is ready, wheels her into the building, rides the elevator to her floor, muscles his way over the thick pile carpet of the hall. She doesn’t know what he is doing just to be with her.
Inside her apartment, he wheels himself to the couch. “I’ll need some help.” It’s not entirely true, but the trip up has worn him out. And he has motives.
“What do you need me to do?” She’s removed her jacket, her shoes.
“Come stand over here,” he points to the spot directly in front of the wheelchair. He has moved his footrests; his feet rest on the floor. “Put your feet between my feet.” She does. “Good. Now, you’re going to need to squat down and grab me under my arms.” She does. “Nope, all the way around. Lock your hands around your wrists if you can reach.” She can and does, hesitating at first. “Okay, now stand up; use your legs. You’ll pull something if you try to use your back.” She’s lifted weights, knows the drill, stands. He pushes himself most of the way out of his chair. Even with his help, he is surprisingly heavy. He puts his arms around her shoulders, her neck, a lover’s embrace, intimacy. But not. He is standing, close enough she can balance them both.
“Now what?” He can hear the strain in her voice. His legs bear some weight, but only if she will balance his weight directly over them.
“Shuffle your feet and turn so you’re facing the couch.” She manages, barely, to turn and keep him balanced. “Okay, now carefully, put me on the couch. Watch your back!” He warns as she bends, not squats, to set him on the couch. He can feel her adjust, use her legs, as she puts him down. He is loathe to let her go; she is bent over him, her hair falling onto his shoulder. She begins to pull away. He pulls her to him, onto his useless lap, kisses her.
She fears she will hurt him again, has already with her weight. She wants better for him, to give him some other life, more than she thinks she can give. But for that moment, she kisses back, gives what is hers to give. And hopes for a better ending.
Part one here Part two here
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