Just Love

by Prescott Lane

  “That good, huh?”

  “It was me. I wasn’t ready. Then there was this other man.” I look into Rhett’s pale blue eyes. “It was after I saw you at the rehab center. I stopped at a hotel bar. I was looking for trouble.”

  God, he looks so disappointed. I have no reason to feel guilty, but I do.

  “Guess you found it,” he says quietly.

  “Finding it was easy,” I say. “Going through with it was harder.”

  His eyes dart to mine, and I shake my head, letting him know nothing happened. “Goodnight, Rhett,” I say.

  “Same time tomorrow?” he asks.

  This is the exact way we started. Are we starting over?

  “Tomorrow,” I say.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Remember my love.

  A. Rose

  RHETT

  I should’ve been knocking on Ainsley’s door with Sadie at least thirty minutes ago. I can’t stand her up. It’s just a walk with Sadie, but I can’t do that to her. It’s just been a shitty day—all the reasons I pushed her away before, coming back with full force.

  It used to be my routine to have a preventative jerk off before our walks. If only that were my biggest problem these days. I still get to hold my dick a lot, only now it’s to cath myself. Yep, every four to six hours, I get the pleasure of inserting a catheter and emptying my bladder. If I go too long, I can leak or worse, get infections. I usually get up at least once a night to go, but there’s still a hospital pad under the fitted sheet on my bed just in case.

  Sometimes I think the bladder and bowel management that goes along with my injury is worse than not being able to use my legs. It’s humiliating. I hated being in the hospital when the nurses would do it for me. It’s not like I enjoy doing it myself, but if someone has to stick their finger up my ass, it’s gonna be me. Yep, I get to do that, too. It was a special day when Ainsley let me do that to her. Unfortunately, it’s now part of my bowel management routine.

  I’ve got my gut pretty much trained. I go every other night with the use of mini enemas, plastic gloves, and my finger.

  I don’t want this for her. I don’t want her to see me like this. It’s the same old shit. The same feelings I had in the hospital, right after I was hurt. God help me, if I ever get her back into my bed, I don’t want her sleeping on a piss pad or worse, waking up wet because I’ve leaked.

  I love her. I don’t want that for her.

  Then there’s sex and children and all the ways I can’t fuck her anymore. I should’ve listened to my instinct after my accident and left her alone.

  It’s been so long since I’ve had sex. I lost count around the three-hundred-day mark. I still remember the last time. It was that night. The night I was hurt, before I left to go to Brody’s bachelor party. I came out of the shower, finding Ainsley on my bed, doing something on her phone. She had her own party to get to, but she wasn’t ready yet. The only thing she had on was one of my old shirts. When I pounced on top of her, her giggles filled up the room.

  Most people probably don’t consider when they are having sex that this could be the last time. I guess we take it for granted. I won’t do that again. I’m thankful I remember.

  Yesterday, having her at the game, the restaurant after, and having ice cream, I was on such a high when I got home. But having to manually stimulate yourself to take a shit has a way of humbling a man.

  This isn’t romantic or sexy. I should just take Sadie for her walk by myself. I know there are couples that don’t so much as pass wind in front of each other. Women who don’t let their guys see them without makeup. I can’t hide this. It’s part of my life, but I don’t want it to be part of hers.

  Same shit, different day.

  My phone dings. It’s probably Ainsley wondering where I am or telling me to go to hell for keeping her waiting. I look at her message:

  Swamped at work. Probably be here most of the night. Rain check?

  I send a quick response that it’s alright then look at the clock. It’s almost eight, which means she’s already been working close to ten hours. I know Ainsley, she’ll stay until she finishes. She could be there until the early morning hours. The idea of her walking the streets of Charleston alone—no fucking way. It’s only a few blocks from her shop to the condo, but still. I don’t care how charming and pristine our town can be, I still don’t want her walking the streets alone. Not sure how threatening I look these days, but I’d roll over the fucker who tried to hurt her.

  Putting Sadie’s leash on, I head out the door, fully aware that this could just be her blowing me off. I don’t think so. At least, I hope not. Ainsley isn’t the type. If she wanted to get rid of me, she’d tell me upfront. And even if she is trying to ditch me, I’m not going without a fight.

  First, I need to arm myself, stopping by a local sandwich place, picking up her favorite. Sadie and I then make a beeline for Ainsley’s shop. Her lights are still on, shining brightly on the street, and I see her inside at her dress form, hands on her hips, head tilted, like the fate of the universe depends on what she does next. I love that about her—her passion. I used to be on the receiving end of it. I miss that.

  I stop pushing the wheels of my chair, sitting on the sidewalk. I’m literally and figuratively at a crossroads. I could go back home, leave her alone. Twenty minutes ago, I was debating doing just that. Now I’m sitting across the street from her shop.

  If I do this, make this play for her, try to win her back, then I can’t go back. I can’t let my demons and doubts back in. I can’t play with her that way. Sadie looks up at me, whimpering a little. I’m not sure if she’s anxious to see Ainsley, or if she just wants a piece of the sandwich.

  Placing my hands on the wheels, there’s only one direction for me to go, the direction I should’ve always been going—toward her.

  Suddenly, I can’t get across the street quick enough. Sadie can barely keep up. I reach for the door handle, but it’s locked, my attempt to open it creating a little rapping sound. Looking through the glass, I see Ainsley’s cute little confused smile. Hopefully, I’m scoring some points with my small gesture.

  She places her sewing needle down, walking toward the door. She’s got on a long, flowing dress that moves when she walks, her hair in a knot on top of her head. She unlocks the door, opening it. “What are you doing here?”

  “Dinner,” I say, holding up the sack with her sandwich. “Sadie needed her walk anyway, and I thought you probably hadn’t eaten, so we decided to drop something off for you.”

  “We?” she says, bending down to give Sadie some love. Where’s my love, I wonder? “You didn’t need to do that. I could’ve just ordered something to be delivered.”

  “You could,” I say, “but would you have?” We both know I’ve caught her. She would work through without so much as a snack break. “What’s got you working so late?”

  She opens the door wider, inviting me in. Well, at least I made it through the door. She starts telling me about this bride who she’s doing a rush order for because the fiancé is in the military. Originally, the bride didn’t want any beading, so Ainsley thought it would be a little easier, but then the design changed, and now she’s totally stressed out trying to finish on time.

  I hand her the sandwich bag, saying, “Looks beautiful the way it is.”

  “I think that’s my problem,” she says. “I don’t think it needs anything else, so every time I try to place a bead on it, I hate it.” She twirls the dress form around, showing me the back, or lack thereof. “I was thinking maybe lining the scoop of the back.” She holds up a string of crystals then tosses them aside. “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Maybe you should eat,” I say. “Don’t look at it for half an hour then see what happens.”

  She nods, collapsing down onto a little sofa, facing away from the dress. “Thanks for dinner,” she says, tearing open the wrapping. Sadie tries to jump up on the sofa but doesn’t quite make it, panting heavily. “Oh, poor thing,” A
insley says, helping her the rest of the way up. “You had a long day, too. Didn’t you, girl?”

  “A long day of napping.”

  “Don’t listen to him,” Ainsley says, taking a bite of her sandwich.

  I motion to the dress in her front window. “That’s a replica of your mom’s?”

  Ainsley doesn’t know that I know that’s the dress she designed for our wedding. I’m not trying to make her uncomfortable by pointing it out, but I want her to remember how happy we were together, plus I’m more than a little curious to see if she’ll be honest with me.

  “Yes,” she says, finishing a bite before adding, with a sad look in her eye, “It was supposed to be my dress, too.”

  “When did you make it?”

  “While I sat on your parents’ front porch hoping you’d see me.”

  Fuck me! Why the hell did I open this wound for her? I wanted her to remember the good times, not the horrible ones. My instinct is to tell her I’m sorry again, but last time I did that, it wasn’t received so well. “I’d like to see you in it,” I say. “Would you try it on?”

  She places her sandwich down, staring at me. I have no idea what’s running through her mind. Most guys don’t know what a woman is thinking, but this is beyond that. I’m sure Sadie knows her thoughts. A dog can tell everything about a person with one sniff—illness, pregnancy, how they’re feeling. I’ve got all five of my senses working and don’t have a damn clue.

  “I’ve never had it on.”

  “Why not?”

  She simply whispers my name, ever so softly.

  “Aren’t you curious? Don’t you want to know what it looks like on?”

  She glances at the dress, getting to her feet and walking toward it. Gently, her fingers run over the fabric, the pale roses at the bottom. “It feels like it would be bad luck.”

  The old wives’ tale says the groom shouldn’t see the bride in the dress before the wedding. Does she still think of us as the potential bride and groom?

  “I think we’re way past bad luck.”

  She eyes the dress, whispering, “It’s not like I’m ever going to wear it.”

  Hearing her say that fucking hurts. In her mind, I suppose we are really over. I wonder when that happened. I know it wasn’t when I threw her out of my hospital room. Was it when she stopped waiting on my parents’ porch? Was it when she came to see me in Atlanta? When was it exactly that I lost her? Does it really matter at this point? It’s over for her.

  But in my heart, she will always be mine.

  She removes the gown from the stand, her hands slowing undoing each button, one-by-one, until she’s carrying the dress across the shop and disappearing into a fitting room in the back. I’m not sure what I said that convinced her to try it on, or if it was even anything I said. I suspect she always wondered what the dress would look like on her, and perhaps the little nudge from me was the excuse she needed.

  Staring at the fitting room door, I try not to envision her naked, what color panties she has on, if her bra matches.

  “Rhett,” she says, opening the door a crack. “I forgot getting in and out of a wedding dress is a two-person job. I can’t fasten the buttons in the back.”

  “Open up,” I say. “I’ll do them for you. I still have use of my hands.”

  “That’s what I’m worried about,” she teases, giving me a smirk.

  “I’ll keep them to myself.”

  She hesitates for a moment before opening the door. Her back is to me. She’s holding the dress up with one arm and yanking the skirt on it forward with her other hand, making room so I can wheel close enough. The perfect skin of her back is exposed, not a bra strap in sight. What I wouldn’t give to lightly trail kisses down her spine.

  Instead, I reach up, careful not to touch her skin at all, and begin to fasten the delicate white buttons, one at a time. I don’t rush the moment, having not been this close to her in so long. When the last button is fastened, I roll backwards out of the room. I want the full view when she turns around. I want to see her walking toward me like I should’ve seen her from the altar.

  She turns, taking her first steps toward me. If I was ever going to regain use of my legs and stand up, it would be right now. She’s absolutely glowing, sexy, sweet—all at once. Her hair messy, no makeup, no veil, and it’s exactly the way I would’ve wanted to see her.

  She does a slow spin, showing me the back. When she turns around again, her eyes are right on mine. There is absolutely nothing unlucky about this moment, about seeing her in the dress. I haven’t lost her. She can say there’s no hope, but that’s definitely hope in her eyes.

  My eyes wander down the curves of her body, the soft color of the roses catching my attention. When I saw the dress through the window before, I thought I noticed the color coming from a faint handwriting, and now I know I was right. I lift the skirt slightly to try to get a better look.

  “Did you write on your dress?” I whisper.

  “Calligraphy,” she says, holding my gaze.

  “I won’t ever let go. A. Rose,” I read aloud, making out the script.

  “My vows,” she says softly. “Each rose is a vow. My promises to you.”

  She’s literally sewn her wedding vows to me into her dress. There must be close to a hundred roses. I pick up another, making out her words to me, my heart in my throat. All the things she wanted to say those nights she waited and waited for me are right here. All the love that I denied captured forever. She takes hold of the dress, pulling it slightly, so it falls from my hand, her promises literally slipping through my fingers.

  “Almost every stitch was made through a tear,” she says, looking at me. “But I still love it.”

  Am I like the dress? Does she still love me after all the tears I made her cry?

  If I could use my legs, this would be the time I pull her to me and kiss her hard. But paralysis has seriously affected my game. So I take her hand, holding her eyes, urging her to me. Slowly, she moves closer, bending down slightly. I’m not playing fair, having her dress like she was supposed to marry me. I knew that would stir feelings in her, but I’ll do whatever it takes.

  We inch toward each other, and her eyes land on my mouth. Christ, I want to rip her out of that dress, pull her into my lap, and bury myself deep inside her. Even if I can’t feel it, she can still feel me.

  Here’s the thing about being paralyzed—my brain isn’t. All the desire is still there. I still daydream about sex. I still have all the drive that I always did. I still want her as much as always. Plus, I have all the memories. That part of the body doesn’t shut off or even lessen in any way.

  My hand slips to her waist, moving her closer. Suddenly, she stops. “I know what I want to do.”

  “Me, too,” I say, trying to pull her back to me.

  “The dress,” she says, ignoring me. “I know what to do about my bride’s dress!”

  I force a smile. “Great,” I say, feeling anything but.

  Lying in bed, I stare down at my erect penis, making a tent in my sheets. Seriously? To think when I first got hurt, I thought he was dead and gone. I guess I shouldn’t complain at this point because, depending on your level of paralysis, some guys have a harder time than others achieving and maintaining an erection. I’m lucky.

  It’s just at present, I need to get to sleep, so laying here horny as hell isn’t helping. I stayed with Ainsley for several hours, handing her beads, encouraging her, keeping her company. I made sure to see her back to her condo, but that was over an hour ago. Even Sadie has gone to sleep, choosing to isolate herself to a corner of my bedroom, surely irritated that I’m keeping her awake.

  If this were before my accident, I would’ve rubbed one out and gone to sleep, but it’s different now. I know I can get hard, but orgasm and ejaculation are different stories. No one knows what an orgasm will look or feel like for me now. Everyone is different. I’ve been told that, for most men in my situation, ejaculation is almost non-existent. Sperm count i
s still good, but if I ever want to have children, it most likely won’t happen the old-fashioned way. All that knowledge has led me not to try.

  Honestly, I’m afraid to try. So what used to be a daily occurrence—jacking off—has now become the thing that scares me the most. I don’t want to know if I can’t. I don’t know what that knowledge would do to me. Would it send me into some dark hole again? It’s hard to admit I’m afraid, especially of something involving sex. Men are trained to deny their fears. We aren’t supposed to openly admit them. Still, Sadie’s the only one here, so I guess my secret’s safe with her.

  But I don’t beat off because even on a great day, it doesn’t hold a candle to being with a woman. I figure my best odds for succeeding are to be with a woman, at least the first time. That’s part of the reason why I asked Ainsley that day at the rehab facility. I knew I could trust her. If anything could get me off, it’s her. Not to mention, I love her more than anything.

  I’ve heard all the lectures about how you have to “redefine” intimacy. Be open to new ideas, toys, and so on, but more than anything else about my situation, this is what scares the piss out of me. I’m a man. I’m sorry, but a man is supposed to get hard, fuck hard, please his woman. That’s just the way I see it. I can’t seem to get over that notion.

  I try to remind myself how lucky I am. One poor kid I met was a virgin when he was paralyzed. Another had to have a penile implant.

  My eyes close, remembering the feel of Ainsley’s mouth on me, the way her head moved up and down as I watched her. We’ve all seen and heard about women who can have a “mindgasm,” think themselves off, but it doesn’t work that way for men. Sex might be just as mental for women as it is physical, but for men, it’s all physical. We don’t need to love the woman. Hell, we don’t even need to like them.

  But that’s not what I want. If it was, I would’ve had Jay hook me up with one of those women that have wheelchair fetishes.

  My phone dings, lighting up my bedroom. It’s the middle of the night. Middle of the night calls are either tragedies or booty calls. I see it’s Ainsley, so hopefully it’s the latter.