by S. C. Megale
“Maeve, you have a visitor, but I know the doctor is on his way. Should I tell your guest to come back later?”
“No,” I said. “Let her come in.”
“Him,” said the nurse. “And one second.”
I rested my head back and stared at the ceiling. This would be KC. Guilt-ridden. I didn’t want this to happen now, but at the same time, I could get it out of the way. I still loved him.
As soon as the figure appeared at the doorframe in the corner of my eye, I knew I was wrong. My heart smacked into my chest and stopped.
He was too big. Too tall. Too awkward. To be KC.
I turned my head to meet his eyes.
Cole Stone stood at the door.
30
Dad rose and immediately made for the doorway. He didn’t say anything, only nodded and offered his hand. Cole shook it.
Then Dad left.
Dad left.
Heat swelled inside me. I wasn’t looking too good. This wasn’t my best outfit. Not my best hair day. Not really killing it at being alive right now. But Cole just looked at me and seemed to gather breath the way one gathers marbles into a bag.
We were alone.
“Cole,” I whispered. Tried to shake my head. “What—what are you doing here?”
He stepped into the room, and I realized then that he wore his nametag from set, completely crooked, completely upside down.
“Are you all right?” I’d never heard his voice without volume. I never realized just how throaty it was when it didn’t boom.
“I’m…” I looked at myself. “I probably don’t smell good.”
“That’s not what I asked.” Cole laughed nervously.
“Why did you come here? I thought you…” I didn’t know what to say.
“I don’t know,” said Cole. He scratched his neck fast.
“You don’t know why you’re here?” I said.
“Maybe.”
I pursed my lips. “Just tell me. I’m not scary. I don’t bite.”
Cole glanced over his shoulder. Then he made a face like fuck it and lunged for the side of my bed and kneeled down. He was my level now. His arms folded over the metal rail. “You are scary,” he said. “And you do bite.”
Carefully, his hand reached into the bed and took mine.
I squeezed it. His fingers were strong. They were rough. They were everything I wanted them to be.
“What does this mean?” I said.
Cole didn’t answer, but he kept rubbing my hand. “I don’t know.” A pause. It lasted forever. Finally, he murmured, “But my nametag is lopsided.”
“I can fix that,” I said. We both smiled.
I tried to roll my body towards him. I reached weakly for his nametag. He shifted closer. He pushed against the bed to hover nearer, still kneeling. His scent engulfed me, his heat. I strained to touch him, and then he abruptly laid his hand on the side of my face and lowered his mouth to mine. His whiskers almost grazed my lips and blood rushed in my body to meet him.
I pushed my fist against his firm chest. He stopped, hanging over me.
“What?” he whispered.
I stroked his beard with my fingertips. They shook.
“Not here. Not like this.”
31
A few months go by fast.
With the click of a laser pointer, I struck the black floor of the stage with a beam of light and moved forward. My chair echoed in the auditorium as it moved in an S shape like a remote control vacuum cleaner for all the empty rows of seats to see. Dust floated in the shine of the spotlight.
My first ever stage production was in just a few weeks—and it was a good way to prove to everyone still sending me cards and fruit arrangements since the hospital that I was alive and okay.
The boards creaked below me, and my wheel covered a stage marker—a white, taped X. I spun under the spotlight and faced my actor.
Cole Stone stood there with his arms crossed and his feet kind of spread, wearing a smug, frustratingly handsome smile. I clicked off the laser pointer.
“So that’s the blocking,” I said. “For the dance.”
“And when I return to the table?”
I moved about five feet to stage left. He followed me with his eyes.
“Sort of here.”
“Is that where you want me?”
I looked at him. “I think so.”
Weeks ago, we’d met below the sycamore when I’d returned home and I was healthy and it was warmer. He’d swayed next to the trunk, eyes on the dead branch he was absently tugging like a caveman, and I rubbed my hand along his belt (suggestive, I know, but really all I could reach) and told him what I wanted for real. A relationship. A future. And for him to carry me up that staircase on the last sycamore and into the tree-house so we could make out and someday make love.
He never met my eyes as he pulled on the branch, but I could see the thoughts working on his face. He was silent the whole time.
And when I said the words make love, Cole stopped tugging. His fingers traced the seam of my blouse and I gripped the fuzziest part of his forearm in anticipation. Then he stopped and exhaled a long, low breath. It didn’t go further.
He wanted to avoid decisions altogether.
Now I was his director again. There were decisions I had to make for him.
Cole hummed. He walked forward into the spotlight, and it was amazing to see how his presence dominated the stage.
“Show me again,” he said. “This time with me.”
I swallowed. Dance?
“Uh.” My throat dried up. “Okay.” When I rolled forward, he stepped back in pace. “You start here.”
He stepped in front of me.
“Turn.”
He did, so he always faced me.
“And then back up with her,” I said, reversing my chair. It drew him forward, but this time, he pressed his strong arm hard against the armrest of my wheelchair as he did. He lowered a bit too. I slowed. So did Cole.
His scent filled me, and the pocket of space between us seemed minuscule.
“And then what?” His voice was low.
I kept reversing slowly, and he kept stepping forward one small pace at a time.
My heart sped, and finally there was a click. I stopped.
“Then you stop,” I whispered.
“Do I?”
“Yeah,” I said.
“I don’t have to,” he said. Cole continued to drape over me, holding the wheelchair. He leaned down farther.
“You’re not the boss,” I whispered.
He was so close to me that I only knew he smiled by the shifting of his beard.
He nodded. “I know.”
And he crushed his lips against mine.
* * *
The lights in the theater flashed, and the flow of audience members streamed for their burgundy seats. The room filled with eager chatter.
I inhaled, looking around. The playbill was in my hand. In a moment I would go backstage and report the packed room. Ten minutes to showtime.
In Aisle F was KC. He sat next to his mom, and his arm was looped in hers. I couldn’t hear them over the crowd, but she said something to him and pushed hair from his forehead. He gave a small smile. I did too. KC was in therapy, and the state had finally intervened after the emergency vehicles they sent me had noticed how bad the site had gotten. They separated his dad and ordered the place cleaned up. KC was okay. We were talking and taking things slowly.
“Are you mad at me?” he’d said after a long breath the first time we spoke since leaving the hospital. “I know I—you have every right to—”
In the middle of his sentence, I’d dropped my forehead onto his arm and closed my eyes. He stopped talking. We just existed.
We promised each other to continue just existing.
In Aisle G were Mom, Dad, and Mr. Billings. Dad was in his suit with François’ white body draped over his lap, wagging. Dad petted him subconsciously and studied the stage. Mom pecked her BlackBer
ry, but she had a box of Sno-Caps under her arm and a bouquet of flowers in her lap she’d bought for me for later. Lilies. On the other side, on the balcony, were Mags and Elliot. I arranged those tickets. They laughed at some joke, and Elliot wiped tears of mirth with his thumb and forefinger. Elliot’s girlfriend’s mauve coat hung on the back of the seat next to him, and I had held my nose and secured a seat for Nate next to Mags too. But he wasn’t there. So I logged that little detail away for later. It’d been awhile since I’d seen them together—since the hospital, four months ago, actually.
An hour earlier, just after she’d applied some mascara on me at home and made her way to the theater, Mags had texted me.
I’d huffed.
My friends are awesome. And thanks to some even more awesome reels and recommendation letters from Billings …
We’d all be going to UCLA this fall.
This close to curtain, I headed down the carpeted ramp for backstage. A tall, olive-skinned usher in a grey uniform stopped me.
“Can I see your ticket, ma’am?”
“I’m—”
“Our handicapped section is full tonight.”
I looked over to the front row—devoid of seats—to see a parking lot of wheelchairs. I knew it well. When I go to rock concerts, the staff like to sandwich me in the back between ten or so wheelchairs staring lifelessly at the stage lights like FDR statues. But tonight’s row was anything but lifeless. At least seven campers from Caring Hands Camp were there. They grinned, waved playbills, and wiggled their shoeless feet. My initial reaction of annoyance was rejected like a crumpled dollar from a soda machine. I waved to them warmly. Patricia Weinhart sat next to a severely disabled camper and gracefully wiped saliva from his mouth. She didn’t see me.
“I’m the director,” I said to the usher.
“Oh.” The usher stepped aside. When he did, I noticed another man behind him in the handicapped section as well. My eyebrows rose as I approached.
“Quinten?” My hand squeezed his forearm. He jumped.
“H-hey.” He smiled through his wheezing. Then he might have blushed. It was hard to tell in the dim light.
“I’m so happy you’re here!” I said. I looked him over. He wore a bright yellow polo and his hair was combed, but he looked frailer and thinner. He stooped a little farther towards the floor. “Did your nephew drive you?”
Quinten nodded. The effort it took forced his playbill to slip from his grasp. Its pages shuffled to the ground. We both stared at it ironically.
“I’d help you if I could,” I said. Only after it echoed in my ears did I realize the maybe double meaning behind that sentence.
Quinten struggled to lift his gaze to me. I met it, and, after a pause, a small, melancholy smile creased my lips.
“Enjoy the show,” I said to Quinten. Then lifted my hand to place it on his cheek lovingly before moving away.
Through a few cramped doorways, I burrowed my way into the catacombs of the stage. Tape marked random areas of the floor and ropes hung above. It smelled like old wool and sawdust. There were black sheep costumes and glittery gold Elvis jumpsuits hanging from bulwarks. I rounded a bend and plowed up the makeshift wooden ramp pushed against the stage. When I scaled it, I could see the illuminated stage ahead of me only a few yards away.
“Five minutes!” called a voice that tried hard to suppress excitement and sound professional. I caught Roman, my showbiz buddy, pressing a hand to the earpiece and speaking into it. Then he caught sight of me.
“Maeve!” He lumbered over. “Where have you been? Let’s go!”
“It’s a full house out there.” I beamed.
“Get back there,” said Roman. “One of the actors asked for you.” He pointed in the back. I glanced in the direction he indicated, where the costumes and mirrors were, and pulled my brow together. I rolled over, nerves and possibly a smile developing. Suddenly I was aware of the loud squeak of an ungreased wheel—probably my front left, maybe a loose bearing. I tried to sit up straighter.
And when I arrived, I realized I had nothing left to be self-conscious of. Cole Stone was sitting there on the seat backwards, feet around either side of the chair. He was dressed in his lapelled blue jacket for the prologue. Because we put a punk spin on the production, the blue jacket was leather; it had zippers and a patch on its shoulder. His beard was as well groomed as I’d ever seen, and the natural lines beneath his eyes were beastly. His dark gaze shone. I wasn’t nervous around him anymore. Not since the hospital.
Since the hospital, he replied to texts within hours. He was down to meet up and watch people or eat food. He’d poke my temple. Through months of rehearsal after that kiss, we’d danced the same dance of flirting and pulling back when we got too close because I refused to ask him twice for what I wanted. When I’d near him, his hand would run down my back, but when I shot him a responsive look, he’d pivot aside like nothing happened.
One night, I just texted him flat out:
I gazed at that text for a little.
All I knew was that he didn’t treat me as more fragile or closer to that hospital bed. He didn’t change the way he viewed me. I loved Cole Stone, and I could only control that much. I couldn’t control if he noticed my crookedness or my metal or anything else. The thing was, to notice something, you needed to at least look at it.
Right now, minutes before opening night at last, he laid his arms over the backrest of the backwards chair and his eyes were hooked on only mine.
“Ready, Cole?” I said.
“Just about.”
“Roman said you need me.”
Cole retrieved an object between his feet. It was hair dye called Amber Blaze. He rattled it. The dye was a warmer brown than his dark hue, and more recognizable as the Beast’s color. I swallowed and glanced at it then back to his steady gaze.
“Just—in your beard?” I said, coming closer and holding a hand out for the dye.
“Enough for the back row to see.”
My fingers shook as he squeezed the cool dye onto them.
Silence fell between us. I was not sure he even breathed.
Slowly, Cole lowered his head so that my weak hands could reach his beard. He waited.
With an uncertain shudder, I reached out and touched him. I brushed the highlights into his beard. My heart pounded. His hair running through my hand was rough. Stroking it was the only sound in the room. His body was taut in the chair, and the tension between us nearly made me hitch for breath.
I drew back my hand, the dye smeared across the lines of my fingerprints. He was ready. Cole rose and kicked out the chair. He towered over me just as the theater lights extinguished and Roman waved everyone forward frantically. Maybe that was supposed to be my responsibility, but I’d done everything before—rehearsals, props, advertising—that I deserved this moment in Cole’s dressing room, just for tonight …
Moments later, Cole stormed onto stage and boomed his first lines without hesitation. The spotlight made the Amber Blaze shimmer in his beard. I sat behind in the shadows of the curtain and watched, script in hand, next to Roman. Pride swelled within.
About halfway through the performance, the first violin notes weaved over one another to produce Beauty and the Beast’s classic theme. A beautiful young actress in a yellow dress rose to offer Cole her hand as she had in my envying fantasies.
Cole stood as he was supposed to, using his hands to push from the table surface. But then he did something he was not supposed to.
He paused.
He paused and stared at me offstage. I tried to see if he needed something, forgot a line, anything. Concern flickered past the actress’ countenance next to him as she glanced for the “ballroom” he was supposed to accompany her to.
But Cole just stared at me. Absorbed me. He looked so close to smiling that his eyes burned.
I stared back. The moment lasted so long that I did something I’d never done: looked away first.
* * *
Cole clicked a butto
n hanging from his lanyard and his silver Lexus sedan chirped, unlocking, in the parking lot. I wheeled alongside him. The March night air was mild, and by this time, all the cars making up our audience had driven off. The final night of Beauty and the Beast had ended an hour ago. It neared 11:00 p.m.
Dressed back in his regular clothes, a white button-down shirt and dark jeans, Cole wiped his sleeve across his jaw to free any last drops of sweat from his beard. I carried the play’s poster rolled up at the back of my chair.
Cole had been waitlisted to UCLA. He might be going in the fall. He might not. I tried to keep my voice hopeful.
“You were amazing,” I said.
“I’m used to it,” Cole replied. “Not far from real life.”
“More like good directing.”
I reached for his hand. It skimmed over my skin for a second, but he pulled it away. Poked my temple instead.
He approached his car and opened the door. Bent into the front seat and stuffed his costume beneath the cup holders. I waited to say goodbye.
He straightened and turned to me. The sky above him was black. His eyes searched me for a moment. Then the moment passed.
“Well,” he said. “This was fun.”
I tried to smile. I didn’t want to say goodbye.
And then his voice dropped to a breathy murmur. “See you, kid.” He looped his great arm around me and pulled me into him. My forehead pressed against his ribs and I closed my eyes.
I felt his body fill and release with air and heard the hushed rushing of his heart. The quiet burble of his stomach. I loved being held by him still, but heat and moisture prickled my lashes.
When Cole pulled back, he must have caught the shine in my eyes. He tensed and froze right there, looking down at me. I didn’t have the courage to look up.
Cole’s thumb hovered at my eyelash. It shook as he tried to brush away the tear. Without a word, he pulled me hard to him again, this time with both arms. He turned his head and rested the side of his face over my head. Squeezing me. I don’t know how long it lasted. It felt like forever. But I had never felt him hold me that way.