Just Love

by Prescott Lane

  I made her swear she wouldn’t tell Rhett about the dress. I wanted it to be a surprise when he changed his mind. And I truly did believe he’d change his mind. He had to. I loved him too much for him not to. There were no other options in my mind. Today of all days, I thought he’d want to see me, but the day is almost over. Does he even know what today is—or would have been? I don’t usually stay this late, but I have to see this to the bitter end.

  It’s so much easier to measure fabric than to measure love. With fabric, you can cut the exact size you need. Love isn’t so easy to measure. Sometimes it’s too little, you feel neglected. Sometimes it’s too much, you feel smothered.

  How do you know if a person’s love is the right fit for you? How can you measure it? Is it the number of times they say it? The number of times you make love? The number of days you wake up in their arms? You can’t measure it. It would be so much easier if you could.

  Love is immeasurable.

  But when it’s the right fit, you just know. I thought that was Rhett and me. I was sure of it.

  I hear the door open behind me. I can tell by the slow creak that it’s Diane, and she’s not bringing me good news.

  Without looking up, I ask, “How is he?”

  She takes a seat beside me on the porch swing and says, “Same.”

  Even though he’s been out of the hospital for months, he hasn’t accepted his new life, choosing instead to sit and stare at the television all day. He does the minimum he has to for self-care, believing his life is over. He’s in a dark place. I know he doesn’t want me there with him. I know that’s what this exile is about.

  Diane runs her fingers over the fabric of my dress. She had this whole shindig planned for her son and me. A big wedding here at their house, in the backyard. She talked of tents, dance floors, bands, flowers. Rhett and I weren’t engaged for long before his accident, so none of the plans were firm, no deposits set, but in her mind and mine, the wedding was a dream about to become a reality. Of course, it’s all lost now.

  “You know what I pray for at night?” she asks.

  “I’m sure it’s the same thing I pray for,” I say.

  “Yes, for Rhett to get better,” she says. “But beyond that, what I want for him most isn’t that he goes back to work, or learns to drive a car. My biggest dream for him is the same one I’ve always had. The one I think most parents want for their children. I want him to find someone. I want someone to love him. Someone who can see beyond his injury.” She grabs my hand. “That’s you. I know it in my heart, and it tears me apart to see him treating you this way.”

  All I can do is nod. Holding in my tears takes too much energy for anything else.

  “Enough,” she says. “Come inside the house. I’m going to make him see you.”

  In all these months, she’s never invited me inside, respecting her son’s wishes. There were times I wished she would’ve, but I realize that’s not really what I want. I want Rhett to ask for me, to want me, not to force myself back into his life.

  “No,” I say. Releasing her hand, I slip my engagement ring off my finger, sliding it into the palm of her hand. “Please make sure Rhett gets this back.”

  I hear her whimper next to me, but I can’t look at her. I need to be brave.

  Tying off the last piece of thread, I hold the dress up in the moonlight, the pale pink color of the roses that adorn the bottom of the dress shining under the stars. It’s done. And so is my heart. All this time, I could accept his injury, but I couldn’t accept life without him.

  As midnight comes, I know I have to.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  PRESENT DAY

  AINSLEY

  Rhett opens the door to the one place I haven’t seen on my visit—his room. My heart races as I follow him inside. It’s a nice setup—a desk, small sofa, a great view of the green space outside, the bed anchoring the room. Sadie walks in and lays down on her dog bed in the corner. It’s silly for me to be so nervous. We practically lived together before his accident, but there’s a sudden awkwardness—alone in a bedroom after all this time apart.

  “You can relax. It’s not like I can jump you or anything,” Rhett laughs.

  I smile. He always did have a way of putting me at ease. “I can’t believe you’re making sex jokes.”

  He rolls his chair closer to me and takes my hand. “I wanted to hold your hand all day, but can’t roll and hold hands at the same time.” He looks away. “It’s the small things that bother me the most.” I look down at our joined hands. Rhett’s thumb lightly strokes my knuckles. “It’s just me and you. You don’t have to be nervous.”

  I slip my hand away from him. “It’s been a long time.”

  “I know,” he says softly.

  Stepping away, I glance at some books and pictures on a shelf. One of me blowing him a kiss, in front of all the others. “So tell me what you do here. What’s a regular day like?” I ask.

  “Several hours of different therapies each day to maintain muscle tone. We have classes on simple things like how to get dressed, bathe. How to play different sports and learning to drive a specially equipped car. Then there’s all the talking. We each have individual counseling sessions three times a week. Then there’s groups for spouses and children. We have group sessions, too, where we meet with people out in the real world who talk to us about everything from discrimination, to how to travel on a plane, to . . .” He looks into my eyes. “To how to be intimate.”

  Be intimate? That’s not a phrase I’ve ever heard Rhett use before. Fucking was his word of choice. My stomach clenches, remembering Rhett throwing a bouquet of roses at me, screaming that he’d never be able to make love to me again, that we’d never have children, yelling for me to get out, that I wouldn’t want half a man. That was the last time I saw him. All those nights outside on the porch, I was so close to him, but he never would see me. I never went inside. I close my eyes tightly, trying to exorcise the last image of him burned into my brain.

  “I’m sorry about that day. About all the terrible things I said,” Rhett says.

  “I know you were hurting,” I say, not wanting to relive it, not wanting to get upset or angry.

  “Come here,” he says, trying to pull me into his lap in his chair, but I tense. “It’s okay. This is a perk of being in a chair. No one thinks twice about your fiancé sitting in your lap.”

  “Won’t I hurt you?” I ask, letting the fiancé comment slide. He can’t possibly still think of me that way.

  “I won’t feel it if you do.” He laughs again, encouraging me onto his lap. “How long are you staying?”

  “I didn’t think about it. Tomorrow, I guess.”

  “I’m glad you’re here now,” he whispers. “Will you dance with me? I can’t step on your feet now.”

  He reaches out and turns on some music on his phone, whirling me around in his chair. I giggle, and he smiles at me, slowly swaying me with the chair. Somehow, it feels just the same. I lean my head on his shoulder, and he wraps his arms around me as the music plays. I lift my head, and he cups my face in his hands, rubbing his thumb on my cheek.

  He whispers, “I love you. I never stopped. I was just so angry.”

  I give him a little nod that I understand. I always have. He slides his hand to my neck and pulls me to his lips.

  “I’ve missed you,” he groans as his tongue finds mine.

  Feeling like my world has just turned upside down, I stop. Before I have time to process what just happened, I feel it.

  I pull back, my eyes darting down. A raging hard-on stares up at me. Do I still do that to him? Is this simply a reflex? Surprised, my eyes dart to Rhett’s, a devilish grin on his face.

  “Still works,” he says.

  It’s stupid, but I start to cry. I’m crying happy tears over my ex’s erection. This is one for the record book. I’m unsure what to say. Congratulations doesn’t seem appropriate. “Rhett, I’m so happy for you.”

  “Happy for us,” he sa
ys, searching my eyes. Confusion sets in, and he senses it. “It won’t be like before,” he says sadly.

  “Rhett, I . . .”

  He cups my cheek. “Please, baby, I want to try to make love to you. It’s all I think about.”

  I’ve never had a panic attack, but now seems as good a time as any—my head starting to spin, my heart pounding, my legs going weak. Will I have to be on top? What if I hurt him? Will he be able to orgasm? Will I?

  “It’s okay to be nervous,” he says. “I’m scared to death, but I need my paraplegic virginity to be lost to you.” I can’t help but giggle. “You’re the only person I trust to do this with. Make love with me, Ainsley,” he whispers as his lips land on mine.

  Suddenly, I realize this is why I’m here. This is why he called me, what he wants from me. The tiny flicker of anger erupts into a fire storm.

  Giving him a hard shove on his chest, I leap off his lap. “Looking for a little fun?” I bark. “That’s all I’m good for?”

  “You know . . .”

  “You know what I know? I know I waited for you every day for months, telling myself you’d change your mind, want me. I told myself I’d wait until our wedding day. I was sure you’d see me.” I open the door, and Sadie follows me, clearly taking my side.

  “I thought I was doing the right thing, letting you go,” he says.

  I turn back to him, reaching down to pat Sadie one last time. “I would’ve loved you the rest of my life.”

  “I didn’t want that for you.”

  “So you threw me away,” I say, fighting back tears. “Guess what? I will still love you the rest of my life.” He rolls toward me, but I step away, motioning between us. “But this? What you just did? I can finally let you go.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  PRESENT DAY

  Your name means advice—wish you’d take some.

  A. Rose

  RHETT

  If I still had use of my legs, I’d kick my own ass. I moved too fast. Clearly, I’m out of practice with the opposite sex. My legs aren’t the only thing paralyzed, my game is now non-existent. Shit!

  “Ainsley!” I call out to her, following her out of my room and down the hallway.

  I’m prepared to roll behind her car all the way back to Charleston if I have to. A hand lands on my shoulder, stopping me.

  “Let her go,” Jay says.

  “It’s not like I can run after her,” I say, hitting the tires of my chair.

  “Wheels are faster than legs.”

  No one could replace the friendship I have with Brody, but Jay has come pretty close. He’s one of the physical therapy assistants here, but he’s way more than that. He was the first person I met when I came here. I didn’t like him much at first. He told me all the things I didn’t want to hear—beginning with, stop feeling sorry for myself. He told me point blank I was being a dick. It took a little bit for it to sink in, but slowly it did. Before I knew it, we were friends.

  I look at the door Ainsley disappeared through, wanting to chase after her, but knowing she’s gone. I only have myself to blame.

  “Let’s take Sadie for a walk,” Jay says.

  Sadie knows the “w” word better than she knows her own name and brings me her leash, just like she has since she was a puppy. I bend down to attach it. Even walking Sadie has changed since my injury. She has to be on a shorter leash now. We’ve tried all kinds of attachments and different gadgets, but in the end, she wanted me holding her leash, or else she wouldn’t go anywhere.

  I’ve gotten the hang of it now, but it took some time. Sadie’s gotten used to the tires of the chair now, and knows a safe distance to keep so she doesn’t get hurt. It helps that she’s older. She doesn’t really dart after every squirrel or cat that crosses our path anymore, or get excited at every smell.

  I’m not the only patient here who has a dog. Most are service animals, though, trained to do everything from pick up dropped stuff, to turning on the lights, and even pulling a wheelchair if need be. They tried to put Sadie in some classes by herself, to see if she could be an actual service dog, but she flunked out. I guess you can’t teach an old dog new tricks. She refused to do anything unless I was with her, so we’ve basically just figured it out on our own.

  The door opens to the outside, and I immediately look for Ainsley. I know she left, but my heart still searches for her. It won’t ever stop looking for her. I’ve been a total ass to her. I know that, but being an asshole doesn’t mean you don’t love someone.

  “What did you think would happen?” Jay asks as we make our way down a little sidewalk.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What did you want to happen?” he asks.

  My mind flashes to Ainsley naked in my bed. I’ve got no idea how sex will be now. We have couples come talk to us. It was awkward as hell to listen. We even watched a video one time. You haven’t lived until you’ve watched handicap porn. Yeah, I know I’m not supposed to use that word, but I’m not sensitive about it. Call me whatever you want. God knows, I’ve called myself worse.

  “Seriously, man,” he says, shoving my shoulder. “Tell me you didn’t go there with her.”

  “I didn’t plan it,” I say, trying to defend myself, but knowing there is no defense.

  Jay sits down on a bench, rubbing his leg a little. We have different injuries, but we have the same fucking phantom pain. It’s a bitch.

  “You want to get laid,” he says. “I can sneak a woman in here for you tonight.”

  I know it happens. Apparently, there’s a whole network of women and men that see it as their calling to offer themselves to the newly disabled. They consider themselves some sort of saints. Then there are those that have certain fetishes, and actually get off on fucking an amputee or paraplegic.

  Those options don’t appeal to me. Truth is, I want Ainsley. She’s the only woman I’ve wanted since that night on the patio. I love her. I always have. I just haven’t done much of anything to show her I love her recently. She doesn’t know that when I lie in bed at night, visions of her carry me to sleep. She doesn’t know that she’s the first thing I think of when I wake up. She has no clue that I wear her engagement ring around my neck, or that when things get really hard, I whisper her name for strength.

  “No, thanks,” I say.

  “Can I ask you something?”

  “You just offered to hand deliver me a piece of ass. I’m pretty sure you can ask me anything,” I say with a grin.

  “Why’d you finally call her?”

  I don’t really have an answer for that question. I know it wasn’t just my mother chastising me. “It was time.”

  “Time for what?” he asks. “Fucking? Or something else.”

  “Time for . . .” The word that pops into my head is everything. Time to give her everything. I didn’t call her to get her into bed, although that would be a bonus. I didn’t call her to simply apologize, although I know I need to—many times. I called for one reason only. “I want her back.”

  Jay grins. “You’re not worried about all the things you can’t give her anymore?”

  “No, I still worry about that,” I admit. “About what she’d be giving up to be with me.”

  He reaches for his wrist, unbuckling the band of his watch. “I know that feeling,” he says, holding out his arm, the jagged scar on his wrist a telltale sign of a suicide attempt. “It doesn’t lead to anywhere worth going.”

  All this time I’ve known him, I had no idea. Jay’s the one that seems to have all his shit together.

  I would’ve never thought his struggle was so bad, he’d try something like that. I’m not sure what the suicide rate is for people like Jay, who have lost a limb. But the suicide rate for those with spinal cord injuries is significantly higher than the general population. For those of us that still have use of our upper body, poison and slashing of wrists are the methods of choice. Others choose to slowly kill themselves by refusing to take care of themselves.

  I’m not goi
ng to lie. I thought about taking myself out, mostly because I thought it would be easier on everyone else if I’d just died that day. Ainsley could mourn me and move on. My parents wouldn’t be spending their retirement on my care. It just seemed like the easier choice. At one point, I even convinced myself that I would be doing it out of love.

  Why didn’t I take a gun to my head?

  Every day, there seemed to be a reason not to. Sometimes they were silly, like who would rub Sadie behind the ear as she likes, or wanting to live long enough to see who won the Super Bowl. Not exactly inspiring reasons to live, but they’d get me through the next hour, and in those early dark days, that was all I could hope for.

  I give Jay a nod, and he puts his watch back on. I get the feeling there aren’t many people he’s ever showed that scar to.

  “Ainsley seems like a good woman,” he says. “But you better be sure about what you do next. Don’t try to win her back only to change your mind again.”

  “I’m sure I love her.”

  “You have to be sure you can let her love you,” he says.

  What does it mean to let someone love you?

  Since when did Jay become a fucking shrink? God knows we have enough of those in this place. I let Ainsley love me. She loved me on the patio, in bed, on the sofa, the floor, the shower. Basically, she loved me everywhere.

  And I loved her. The difference is, when I think about the ways I loved her, they aren’t the same ways I let her love me. Sure, I fucked her. But that’s just one way I loved her. The ice cream during her time of the month was me loving her. Helping her with homework when she was a teenager was me loving her. Holding her when she cried was me loving her. The nights she laid in my arms, and I listened to her sleep was me loving her. That terrible drawing of a rose I left her—that was love.