by Sarina Bowen
“Callie, I forgot, okay?” His voice was like gravel. “For a few hours, I forgot that I’m a broken asshole. I shouldn’t have gone there. I shouldn’t have gone anywhere near there. I should have said, ‘run while you can.’”
The bitterness in his words cut short the endless loop of disappointment running through Callie’s head. In the silence between them, she raised her eyes to study his pained face. During her ice cream binge last night, she’d wondered whether he’d run out on her because of performance anxiety. Even though Hank seemed to be hinting at that, she still wasn’t sure. She’d already convinced herself that he simply couldn’t want someone like her. “Hank,” she said quietly, “you aren’t broken.”
His chuckle was dry. “You’re right, as usual. Because ‘broken’ implies the body part in question could be set in a cast and fixed. As things stand…” He cleared his throat again. “They don’t stand. I have nothing to offer you or any other woman.”
Callie’s stomach dropped. In the stacks of research she’d collected about paralysis, a few of the articles were about sex after a spinal cord injury. She hadn’t read them yet. But her utter lack of a social life implied that she soon would. “Hank, you… I’d bet good money that…things aren’t as bad as you’re making them sound. Maybe you’re being a bit overanxious.”
He glowered at her. “I’m being realistic. I can’t be your guy or anyone else’s. Small wonder that I sometimes end up at the wrong end of a tequila bottle.”
The look on his face was so guarded, so vulnerable, that she would have to choose her words carefully. Those dark brown eyes would not quite meet hers.
“Hank, listen to me. I’m saying this as your friend, and as a semi-knowledgeable medical professional. You need to visit a urologist, for your own future sanity. Because some day you’ll meet someone who will make you wish you had.”
“Meet someone? But you… I…” He rubbed his temples as if he had terrible pain there. “There’s no point. Why run the race if you can’t cross the finish line?”
She felt her mouth fall open. Could this really be how men thought about sex? “Because it’s not a race, Hank.” And now everything was just a hopeless mess. Hank had just revealed to her that he was troubled by a medical issue. Yet because of their debacle on Willow’s sofa, she was now exactly the wrong person to advise him.
Callie grabbed the hospital directory off her desk, flipped it upon to the urology department and thrust it toward him. “Look, if you want, we’ll never mention yesterday again. But for your own sake, call these guys. They’re going to tell you that anyone with a spinal cord injury can have a fulfilling romantic life. It just might look a little different than your old one.”
“Jesus.” Hank snatched the booklet from her hand and then threw it back down on her desk. “Callie, you’re not listening. And do you hear yourself? There are an infinite number of variations of the ‘adjust your expectations’ speech, aren’t there?” His face flushed, and his eyes flashed. “I’m so tired of people trying to sell me on my new shitty life, telling me how great it really is. It’s my damned life, and I can hate it if I want to.”
Callie felt an unwelcome prickle behind her eyes. “Then go ahead! There’s the door.”
His face fell. “I did not come in here to yell at you. I came to apologize for putting you in an awkward position.”
She felt her throat closing up. “Got it. Now you’re twenty minutes late for your session.”
Aiming a final, sad look at her, he opened her office door and rolled out.
On a scale where zero was a poor result, and ten was perfection, Callie’s mood for the next ten days equated to approximately negative three thousand.
When Callie wasn’t at the hospital, she filled her free time with bad television, ice cream and medical articles. She was surprised to find that very little useful research had been done on sex after spinal-cord injuries. On those pages where the scholarly journals did bother to cover the topic, the focus was mainly on fertility. And what little information she found suggested that patients had sexual outcomes that varied as widely as their injuries. While some stories were sad, there were complete quadriplegics who had fathered babies the old-fashioned way.
The most depressing result of all Callie’s stewing was realizing that there was no ethical way to help Hank. The man needed an intervention. But getting naked with him meant she was the only one on the hospital staff who couldn’t offer advice.
What a mess she’d made. And now they were avoiding each other in the hospital corridors, like a couple of angst-filled teenagers.
It was all so very sad. The pain in Hank’s brown eyes weighed on her. She couldn’t help but remember the first time she’d seen him. Sex on a snowboard, she’d thought then. Now he was at war with himself. And there didn’t seem to be a single thing she could do about it.
It made her wonder—which was worse? To have felt sexy and lost it, or to never have felt sexy at all?
CHAPTER NINE
On a Friday afternoon in mid-October, Hank did a session on the FES bike, followed by an hour with Tiny in the PT room. That misnamed giant worked him like a draft horse—yoking him into a harness over the parallel bars, and forcing him to swing his lower body along in a strange parody of walking. Before the session ended, his arms and shoulders were shaking.
“That’s it, man,” Tiny would say each time Hank gained a foot down the mat.
But Hank wasn’t exactly hearing the theme song to Rocky in his head anymore. He knew he was supposed to be enthusiastic about standing upright and moving his body. But his progress had plateaued. Physical therapy was his full-time job. And all he had to show for his trouble was a spastic eight feet of movement, all while he was supported like an I-beam from a crane.
Afterward, Hank wheeled his exhausted body into the men’s locker room. There, he heard male voices behind the door to the pool. It was after six, and the day’s sessions were finished. There was laughter, and he found himself wheeling over to find its source. He pushed the door open, and the laughter died as three faces looked up at him from the large hot tub in the corner.
“At ease, boys. It’s not the authorities,” said one of the three men, who had once introduced himself as Big Mike. “Get in here, Lazarus. And close the door.”
Hank wheeled across the pool deck toward them. “Is this where the party is?” Since he usually left the hospital after his sessions ended, he didn’t know these guys very well. He was pretty sure they were all Iraq vets.
“We hang out here some on Fridays,” another dude said. Hank was pretty sure his name was Dave. “Hop in already.”
Hank looked down at his track pants. “Sounds like fun, but I don’t have a suit. Didn’t have an aqua session today.” And even if he did have a suit, it would take a year to change into it. He was just so tired of the extra effort everything required.
Big Mike shrugged. “I didn’t bother with a suit. We won’t look at your hairy ass. Promise.”
“I’ll move over,” Dave added, shifting himself down the bench to make room. “Because I love playing footsie with Evan.”
“Go ahead,” the third guy said. “It’s not like I can feel it.” The joke earned him a laugh from his pals and a high five from Big Mike.
Hank listened to the soothing bubble and splash of the jets, and felt the steam calling to him. And in his old life, he’d skinny-dipped his way across every ski resort in the western United States. Getting naked was never something he’d had trouble with. What had changed?
Just everything.
“All right. Fuck it,” he heard himself say.
The third guy—Evan—reached for a towel he’d stashed behind his head and hurled it at Hank. “Thanks, man,” Hank said, draping it over his lap while he shimmied out of his drawers. With the towel covering the important stuff, he transferred to the side of the tub, then hoisted each leg in turn into the hot water. The last thing he did was to press up, easing his body into the churning warmth. “Hell y
es,” he sighed as the heat enveloped him.
“That’s right,” Big Mike said. “That’s why we sneak in here before happy hour. Don’t turn us in.”
Hank tipped his head back and sighed. “I’m not much of a rule follower myself.”
“You don’t look like one,” someone chuckled.
“So I gotta ask,” Big Mike said, and Hank had no idea what question was about to hit him. “Which hand controls did you put on that Panamera Turbo?”
Oh. That was an easy one. “We went with the Menox. And I’m really happy with it.”
“That’s a sweet ride, man.”
Hank grinned. “I always drove a beat-up old 4Runner. But my parents bought me that thing after…you know.” He cleared his throat. “After my sudden midlife crisis.”
Big Mike’s eyes went wide. “Damn. It’s almost worth it.”
Hank laughed for the first time in days. “If you say so, dude.”
Then Big Mike began discussing the merits and flaws of the different hand-control systems, and Hank felt some of the past week’s tension leave his body. He wasn’t really in the market for new friends, but sitting here was a lot less depressing than heading home to his empty house, and eating a reheated meal in front of the TV.
He cupped some of the hot water over his sweaty neck and let the conversation swirl around him, just as the water did.
They’re telling me I should think about getting the pump,” Dave said.
“Aw, Christ,” his buddy said.
There was a small silence, and Hank broke it by asking, “What’s a pump?”
Big Mike pointed at Hank. “If you don’t know, you’re damned lucky.”
Lucky. There was that word again. But coming from these guys it didn’t sound so bad.
“It’s a device inserted under the skin,” Dave said, rolling his neck. “It’s supposed to stop spasms.”
Big Mike just shook his head. “My legs would have to be doing the Macarena all night long for me to get that thing. Kowalsky got the pump, and now he can’t get it up anymore.”
“That’s what he told me,” Dave said, his face glum. “But when Jenny and I get it on, half the time I get too jiggy to finish.”
“But at least you still have the other half of the time,” his friend pointed out. “If you get the pump, you might not even have that.”
Hank swept a palm-full of water across his face to hide his surprise. He tried to remember if he’d ever heard a guy admit to having a problem with sex before. “What we really need right now is some beer,” he said.
“Then let’s move this party,” Big Mike agreed. “Skunk Hollow?”
“How about Rupert’s?” Hank countered.
“That place is kind of pricey,” someone said.
That made Hank feel like an ass, because the guy was right. In Hamilton, near the ski hill, they charged tourist prices. Money was the only problem Hank didn’t really have. “I’ve been meaning to see if it’s true that my little sister is working there. So how about I buy a couple of rounds?” Then he heard himself add something else to the equation. “Just as long as you’ll all give me the name of your favorite urologist.”
“Deal!” a couple of them yelled at once.
“Ha!” Big Mike laughed. “Does this mean you haven’t met Doctor Dick?”
“Can’t say that I’ve had the pleasure.” Hank edged down into the pool a little farther, beginning to regret bringing it up.
“He’s a weird old hippie who gets off on the fact that he gets paid to talk about dicks all day.”
“There are probably worse jobs,” Hank pointed out.
“True,” Big Mike agreed. “We’ll give you his number, on one condition.”
“What?”
“You have to promise to go.”
Hank shrugged. “Sure.”
“You say that now,” Big Mike said, adjusting the towel behind his head. “But nobody wants to look a doctor in the eye and say out loud that his trouser snake won’t stand up when he wants it to. They try to make it easier for us. There’s a form to fill out in the waiting room. But it still sucks. Nobody our age wants to check the box next to ‘erectile dysfunction.’”
There was an awkward silence until Evan said, “You’re really selling this, dude.”
That made everyone chuckle, although Hank felt the laughter stick in his chest.
“He’s right, though,” Mike said. “It has to be done. We all take vitamin V. It’s the best thing ever invented.”
Even though Hank suspected that some real wisdom had just been tossed his way, the knot in his chest made it difficult to appreciate. “Can we go drink a whole lot of beer now?” he asked.
“Absofuckinglutely,” Big Dave agreed.
* * *
Callie eased her car into a parking spot on Main Street just as her phone began to ring. She knew before she even looked that it was Willow calling again. Callie had been ducking her friend, because she wasn’t ready to share what had gone down between herself and Hank. Though, if she and Willow were sitting together somewhere, a bottle of wine between them, the story would have easily slipped out.
Callie missed Willow terribly. And phone calls just weren’t the same thing.
She answered her phone, because if she didn’t, Willow was going to start to worry. “Hello?”
“Callie! Thank you so much.”
“What did I do?”
“The house! We accepted an offer! After all this time, that sucker is finally going to sell.”
“That’s great, sweetie. I’m so happy for you. But I don’t think I had a thing to do with it.”
“It gets better!” Willow chirped. “This means I get to see you. The closing should happen next month. Please tell me you’re not on the verge of some long vacation. Because I’m not coming to Vermont if you’re not there.”
Callie smiled into her phone. “No worries. Where would I go? Except…”
“Except what?”
Callie wrestled with the thought of telling Willow her latest idea. If she said it out loud, then it went from an idea to a plan. “There’s a job in California,” she blurted. “I’m thinking of applying for it.”
Willow was silent for a moment. “Gosh, Callie. What brought that on? Are your parents okay?”
“They’re fine,” she said quickly. “But I need a change.” Callie opened her car door and climbed out, shoving her keys into her purse.
“Wow. Where’s the job?”
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Callie leaned her elbows on the polished wood of the bar, while her friend Travis Rupert tapped her a beer. “How’s work?” he asked, setting down a coaster for her.
“Work is great,” she said, taking the glass from him. “But work is never the problem, is it?”
Travis opened both his arms wide, taking in the attractive interior of his business. “Nope. Work is great. It’s the rest of my life that leaves a little to be desired.” Travis was another member of the lonely hearts club. He’d been half in love with Willow last year. But she’d picked Dane instead.
“This is your busy season, right?” Callie asked.
“One of them. There’s a lull after foliage season. That’s when I start praying for snow. The more it snows, the more thirsty skiers I’ll get.” He wiped down the bar. “So. Did Doctor Jerkface get dumped yet?” Travis had a theory that karma would bite Callie’s ex in the ass. But every passing month his prediction seemed a little more ridiculous.
“Nope!” Callie said cheerfully. “But I don’t have to watch him fondle her backside in the break room anymore, because now I have an office to hide in.”
“You’re moving up in the world, Callie.”
She smiled at him over the rim of her pint glass. Unfortunately, she was starting to feel as if her job was holding the rest of her life back. Sure, it had made sense to put career first for these past few years. She had student loans to repay, and that was scary. But her personal life had suffered. If she took that job in Ca
lifornia, it would mean giving up her comfy little research project here. But a year from now the study would end, anyway. And the little Vermont hospital wouldn’t likely have another one like it.
And then where would Callie be? Here. Alone. And working the same job she’d had before. Eventually, Nathan and his nurse would ask her to cover a shift so that they could go to obstetrical appoints to coo over the sonogram images of their future offspring.
Ugh! Callie needed to shake up her life before it came to that.
She was distracted from this grumpy reverie by a whispered curse behind her. Callie turned to see Stella Lazarus with a jar of cherries in one hand and a tipping tray in the other. From the tray, limes rolled and dove onto the floor. Reaching out, Callie relieved Stella of the jar of cherries. Setting it on the bar, she slid off the stool to help the younger woman retrieve the limes which were scattering across the floor like so many marbles.
“Thanks,” Stella huffed, gathering limes in her apron.
“No problem,” Callie said, catching one that had rolled under her bar stool. When she’d walked in earlier, Callie had been more than a little surprised to learn who Travis’s new employee was. She had no idea why Stella would go from foundation work to wiping down tables. There was probably a story there, but Callie didn’t know Stella well enough to ask.
It was obvious, though, that Stella didn’t seem have a lot of waitressing experience. This was the second little disaster that Callie had witnessed inside of half an hour. As she’d taken her seat at the bar, Stella had greeted her and then immediately dropped a martini glass on the floor.
“Heads up.” Travis tossed Stella a basket for the fruit, and to catch it, Stella almost lost control of the limes in her apron.
“Ack,” Stella sighed, setting the full basket on the bar. Ducking under the pass-through, she joined Travis in back.
“Now wash them,” Travis prompted her. “Those are going to end up in the drinks.”