by Sarina Bowen
Hartley leaned over the handles of his crutches and shook his head. “I’m not climbing it, either. But…how does the food get up there? I bet they don’t carry it up the stairs.” He frowned up at the building. “I can’t believe I’ve eaten here for two years and never wondered about that.” He turned toward another gate leading out onto the street. “Dana, we’ll meet you inside. There must be a service entrance. This way, Callahan.”
My face pink, I followed Hartley out onto Pine Alley, which backed up to both Beaumont and Turner House.
“That will be it,” Hartley grinned. He limped toward a gray metal door with an intercom beside it. He pushed the button.
“Yeah!” came a voice.
He looked at me, his dimple showing. “Delivery!”
A moment later, the gray door slid open to reveal a dimly lit elevator carriage, which was not even full height. “Classy,” Hartley said. “Well, let’s do this.” There was a slight lip, which almost tripped him up. But he ducked inside, holding the door while I rolled myself backwards into the car. The door slid shut with a grinding sound that scared me. Was this going to become one of those moments — the kind you look back on later and wonder why you followed a hot guy into a shaky, unmarked elevator? But Hartley only chuckled as the car seemed to tremble around us. “I hope you have good lungs, in case we need to yell for help.”
The car rose so slowly that I didn’t relax until the door finally wheezed open. When we emerged into a brightly lit kitchen, a guy in a chef’s hat frowned at us, and several busy people in white aprons turned to stare. “Don’t tell me you lost our reservation?” Hartley scoffed, looking around. “This way, Callahan.” I followed him across a tile floor, around a glass-faced serving bay, and into the melee of students waiting with trays in hand.
“There you are!” Dana said, making room for us. “How’d you get up here?”
“In the service elevator,” Hartley said. “It worked like a charm. Dana, can you grab us one more tray?”
“Sure, take this one.” She darted off, returning with another tray and two more sets of cutlery.
The line snaked forward, and eventually we were up next. “Can you see over?” Hartley asked.
No, as usual. “What looks good?” I asked.
“Meatball sub. Fish looks a little scary.”
“Easy decision, then.”
“Two subs, please,” Hartley said.
“Can I help you guys carry anything?” Dana asked.
Hartley answered, “Callahan and I have a system.”
When he looked away, Dana gave me a meaningful eyebrow twist. I bit back a grin.
When we had our food, Hartley pointed a crutch toward a half-filled table in the middle of the room. “Over there, ladies.”
As we approached the table, a guy with dark red hair waved. “Hartley! Christ, look at you.”
“You always know just what to say, Bridge.”
The redhead got up and came around the table to see Hartley’s enormous cast. “That is serious, dude. I’m so fucking sorry.”
Hartley waved a hand, like he didn’t want to hear it. I recognized that reaction, because I’d felt that way, too. Sometimes even the nicest things that people say only remind you of all that’s gone wrong. “Get rid of one of these chairs for Callahan, would you?” Hartley said.
Bridger dismissed one of the heavy wooden chairs with a flick of one finger. He was another hunky athlete, with a broad chest and bulky, freckled biceps emerging from the sleeves of his Harkness Hockey T-shirt. Bridger was almost as attractive as Hartley, and had a friendly warmth that I appreciated. When Hartley introduced us as his neighbors, he grinned. “I traded Hartley to you two. We were supposed to be roommates. Come to think of it, I might have pushed him off that wall so I could have a single.”
“Nice,” Hartley said. “Can you do us a favor after dinner? These ladies need to buy a sofa on Old Campus. It’s only about a fifty-yard trip, no stairs. And you can see my fancy handicapped pad.”
“Alright. What are you doing tonight, anyway?”
Hartley shook his head. “It’s not up to me. Stacia leaves in the morning.”
“I see.” Bridger’s eyebrows went up. “Go easy on that leg, dude. Save the tricky positions for next time.” When Hartley threw his balled up napkin at his head, Bridger only laughed. “Did they give you any good painkillers?”
“Yeah, but they made me puke, so I left them at home. It’s plain old Advil for me, and I take them by the fistful.”
Another guy sat down with us, a preppy blond with a country club haircut. “The leg hurts that much?” he asked.
“Everything hurts,” Hartley said. “…My good leg, from working so hard, my hip, from swinging the cast through. My armpits.”
“Your crutch handles are set too low,” I said, wiping my mouth on my napkin.
“Really?” Hartley perked up.
“Really. Move them up a notch, and never lean on the underarm supports. Trust me.”
He pointed a french fry at me. “You are a very useful neighbor, Callahan.”
I shook my head. “If there was a game show for physical therapy trivia, I could win big.”
The preppy guy gave me a weird look. But I was used to those. So instead of feeling bad about it, I finished my meatball sub. It was delicious.
After dinner, Dana and I paid forty dollars for a used couch in a shade of not-too-ugly blue. Bridger and the preppy, whom they called Fairfax, carried it into our room.
“Thank you, thank you!” Dana said, dancing in front of them to open up our room. The accessible door was so wide that they didn’t even have to tip the sofa to carry it in.
“Nice room,” Bridger said, setting down his end of the sofa. “Let’s see yours, Hartley.”
With both our doors blocked open, I heard Hartley’s friends exclaim over his single across the hall. He didn’t have a common room like ours, but I’d noticed that his room was also generously sized. “Christ, a double bed? Nice.”
“Just in time for your girlfriend to leave the country,” Fairfax snickered. “Where is she, anyway?”
Hartley’s voice answered. “The mall? A salon? Somewhere expensive. Whatever. Who wants a beer before she gets back?”
After admiring our new furniture, and dragging Dana’s trunk over to be our coffee table, we made our way across campus to the singing group jam. Inside the auditorium, we were handed a program on a half-sheet of paper. There were ten groups listed, each one singing two songs. “They have to hand this out,” Dana explained as we parked ourselves in the designated handicapped spot, where my chair wouldn’t stick out into the aisle. “So that the rushes can remember who sang what.”
The groups all had cute names, like the Harkness Harmonics, and the Tony Tones. When the lights dimmed, the first group walked onstage — twelve guys in matching T-shirts and khaki shorts. I checked the program. They were the Minstrel Marauders.
“A cappella is kind of nerdy,” Dana leaned over to say. “But in a good way.”
After a few minutes, I was inclined to agree with her. One guy on the far end held up a pitch pipe and blew a single note. His eleven friends hummed a chord. And then the leader stashed his pitch pipe, raising both hands. When he brought them down again, the group launched into a rendition of “Up the Ladder to the Roof” in four-part harmony. And somehow they made a song that was on the radio when my parents were little sound cool. I’d always thought that athletes were my type. But I had to admit that a dozen men rocking out to an up-tempo love song was pretty appealing.
“They’re great,” I whispered.
Dana nodded. “They’re supposed to be the best men’s group.”
The next bunch were the Mixed Masters, a coed chorus. They looked like they were having an awful lot of fun, but they lacked the perfection of the Marauders.
“Next…” Dana whispered. But the following group — Something Special — made her squeeze my wrist. “This is my ‘reach’ group,” she said.
The women made a perfect semicircle on stage. They linked arms, and then began to sing a lovely, haunting version of “Desperado” by the Eagles.
When it was over, the applause was furious. “Wow,” I said. “They rock.”
“I know,” Dana sighed. “But did you notice how blond they are? I wonder if that’s a coincidence. Maybe you should audition, Corey. Your have almost the right coloring.”
“No way,” I said automatically, putting a hand up to my sun-streaked hair.
I wondered why Dana didn’t hear the flaw in her own logic. If Something Special cared so much about appearances, imagine what a wheelchair or crutches would do to the pretty line of smiling faces? Did Dana honestly think that any of the attractive groups onstage would look right with me parked in the center of them?
The jam was fun to watch, but I knew where I stood. So to speak.
Chapter Four: You Think You're So Sneaky
— Corey
There was a knock on our door the following week, as Dana and I dug into our course reading. “It’s open,” I called.
The wooden door swung in to reveal Hartley and his crutches. “Evening,” he said. “Is everybody working hard? I can come back another time.”
Dana snapped her book shut. “I have an audition in a half-hour. What’s up?”
“I have a strange and selfish request.”
“That sounds interesting,” Dana said. “If not promising.”
“You’re a smart girl, Dana.” He flashed his dimple, and I felt myself slip a little further under his spell. That smile could melt glass. “See, I have a QuirkBox. But no TV. Bridger and I were a good team — but the TV was his.”
“QuirkBox is a game console?” I asked.
He nodded. “Anyway, if you ever want to play, I would hook it up in here. It only takes a second.”
“Well, go ahead,” I said. “Give it a shot.”
“You’re the best,” he said, a look of joy on his face. “I’ll be right back.”
The door fell closed, and we heard the sound of Hartley thumping back across the hall.
“Big fan of gaming?” Dana asked me.
“No,” I grinned. “However…”
She laughed. “I think we should call him ‘Hart-throb’ from now on. I’d better get ready for this audition.” She went into her room to have a fashion crisis.
“Video games aren’t really my thing. I’ll just watch,” I told Hartley as he hooked it up. From the couch, I had a nice view of his backside.
“Suit yourself.” A minute later, the game lit the big screen, and a team of incredibly realistic hockey players in Bruins jerseys took the ice.
I leaned forward in spite of myself. “That’s Anton Khodobin! You can see their faces?”
Hartley chuckled. “Yeah, but I know it’s not your thing.” Balancing on his crutches in front of the TV, he held the controller in his hands. At the sound of the buzzer, there was a face-off, which Hartley’s player won. His team was skating against the Islanders, and Hartley passed the puck from his center to his left wing.
A tense moment followed, when the Islanders’ defenseman got his stick on the puck. But Hartley snatched it back with a grunt of satisfaction. He skated forward, lining up a shot. The goalie lunged, but before I could see what happened, Hartley moved his shoulders into my line of sight, and the screen disappeared behind his body. Without thinking, I pushed off the sofa to move around him.
And I fell.
In the split second before I hit the floor, I realized my mistake. It still happened once in awhile, and only when I was very distracted. I would actually forget that I could no longer stand unassisted, and hurl myself to the ground.
I went down with a thump, my arm making an exaggerated smack onto our makeshift coffee table.
Hartley’s head whipped around. “Shit, are you okay?”
“Sure,” I said, my face getting hot. “Just, um, clumsy.” I rubbed my arm where it had hit the table. “Look out,” I said, nodding toward the screen. The Islanders had stolen the puck and were breaking for Hartley’s goal. When he looked away from me, I quickly hoisted my butt back onto the couch.
He paused the game, and then turned around again, studying me.
I looked down at my hands.
“Heads up,” Hartley said. And when I looked back at him, he tossed me the controller, which I caught. “What team do you want to be?” He gave me a huge smile, just the kind that made me feel all squishy inside.
“Pittsburgh,” I answered, without hesitation.
“Good pick, Callahan,” he said, grabbing the other controller and pulling up a menu on the screen. “This will only take a second to set up. And then you will learn from the master.”
There were many things I would have liked to learn from “the master.” But that night, I settled for a video game called RealStix.
The next time Hartley came over to play hockey, I was ready for him.
“Do you remember how to do this?” Hartley asked, handing me a controller.
“I think so.”
This time, we sat side by side on the sofa, with Hartley’s cast balanced on the coffee table. He pressed “play,” and our two players stared one another down for the face-off. The digital ref dropped the puck between us, and I hooked it with my stick. Then, after passing to my wing, I skated toward the goal.
Hartley’s goalie came into view. I angled towards him, the puck aiming toward the right hand corner of the net. On the screen, Hartley’s guy inched over to cover that side. I faked to the left, and the goalie swerved right on cue. I slammed the puck right again and sent it into the goal.
Then I giggled as the fake crowd went wild.
“What the fuck, Callahan?” Hartley paused the game. “You deked my goalie?” Slowly, his surprised face evolved into a wicked grin. “Hold on, girl. You practiced, didn’t you!”
I fought against my own smile. “Wouldn’t you, if you were me?”
“Jesus Christ, you’re going to pay for this…” Then, with some kind of ninja speed, he leaned over and grabbed my arm, raising it up. Before I even knew what was happening, he had his fingers under my armpit, tickling me.
“Hartley!” I shrieked, shoving his hand away and clamping my arm against my side.
“You think you’re so sneaky.” He reached for my arm again, but it was a fake-out. I had an older brother, and I knew all the tricks. Even as he dove for my waist instead, I wrenched my elbow down, protecting myself. But Hartley only rose up on his good knee and dove for my vulnerable left side. I shrieked again when he pressed my shoulder against the sofa, his free hand finding two tickling places at once.
Above me, his brown eyes laughed. As I looked up into them, I felt a rush of warmth, and then something else too. His expression changed, growing more serious. It looked almost hungry.
A giggle died on my lips as our eyes locked.
“What is going on out here?” Dana came out of her room, fastening an earring.
Releasing me, Hartley tossed himself back onto his own side of the sofa and picked up his game controller.
And the moment was broken. Or maybe there was no moment, and I imagined the whole thing. As Dana smiled at us, I looked over at Hartley, but he looked the same as always. “Somebody got shelled,” I answered Dana to cover my own confusion, “and lost his cool.”
“Somebody needs to be taught a lesson,” Hartley argued, restarting the game.
“Bring it,” I said.
Dana put on a jacket. “Should I have called in a babysitter for you two? No fighting, okay?”
But we didn’t even answer her, because the game was back on. Hartley won the face-off this time, and I couldn’t get possession. But with a stroke of luck, my goalie evaded him, falling on the puck.
“Whew,” I said. “That was close.” I looked around for Dana, but she had already gone. “So, we’re still at one-zip, Pittsburgh’s lead.”
“Now you’re bragging?” Hartley asked. “I’m going to wipe that smil
e off your face.”
My fluttery little hope fairy put a word in then. I can think of a few ways to do that, she simpered.
RealStix Video Hockey became our thing together. The Bruins vs. Puffins rivalry grew into my favorite obsession. Sometimes we’d play a quick game before dinner on a weeknight. Dana would just shake her head and call us junkies. These games were fun, but we were often interrupted by phone calls for Hartley. He’d pause the game and answer, because at that hour of the day Stacia was just retiring to bed. “Sorry,” he said the first time it happened. “But I can’t call her back later. It’s eleven o’clock over there.”
“No problem.” Only, it was a problem. Because the phone calls were excruciating.
“Rome for the weekend? That sounds like fun,” Hartley would say. The indulgent tone he took with her sounded wrong on him. “I bet you’ll give your credit cards a workout. You’d better buy some extra luggage while you’re at it. You’ll never get all your designer booty home.”
I sat through these conversations with gritted teeth. Not only did they interrupt my new favorite hobby, but they drove my mind into alleyways where I didn’t wish to go. “Hi, hottie,” Hartley often answered his phone. Or, “hi baby.” It was hard to say which term of endearment bothered me more. Because nobody had ever called me by either one.
The truth was that my blazing attraction to Hartley made me start to measure out the distance between girls like Stacia and me. Before my accident, I’d always assumed that a passionate romance would eventually come my way. But listening to Hartley butter up his gorgeous girlfriend niggled at me. Was there a guy out there for me, who would refer to his wheelchair-bound girlfriend as a hottie?
I really didn’t think there was.
Part of the bargain I’d made with my parents was that I would continue physical therapy at Harkness. My new therapist was a sporty-looking woman in a Patriots cap. “Call me Pat,” she said, shaking my hand. “I spent the weekend with your file.”