John looks wounded. “You can’t do that! I’d die. I’d have to go to the hospital and they’d have to give me five-hundred cc’s of blueberry scones. Stat.”
“Kirby,” Minnie whines. “Can you tell your friend to stop joking around and help us pick out a cake?”
Whatever… Minnie adores John. She loves it when he comes into the bakery every morning, and she’s always got something waiting for him that’s warm from the oven, because she knows he loves that. It goes without saying that she likes him better than Ted.
John ends up loving all the cake samples. It’s not too surprising because John thinks Minnie is the best baker in the history of the world. Even though he’s always willing to sample my cupcakes, I can tell the reason he loves this bakery is because of Minnie. I can’t even be insulted because I know she’s about a million times better than I am at baking. She’s got a magic touch—something that I doubt I’ll ever be able to replicate.
We finally settle on the vanilla bean cake with fresh strawberry buttercream frosting. It was my favorite too, so I’m glad that John agrees. “Vanilla is Ted’s favorite too,” John says.
“It is?” I say.
John gives me a funny look. “Yeah. You didn’t know that?”
No, I didn’t. I didn’t know that. I’m a baker and I have no idea what my fiancé’s favorite cake flavor is.
But it’s not like I need to know everything in the world about my fiancé. There are some things that I’m sure I’ll learn with time. Sometimes it’s better if you don’t know too much about a person before you get married. This way there will be surprises.
“Gosh, it’s late.” Minnie looks down at her watch, her eyes widening. “I’ve got to head out. Kirby, are you going to stick around?”
I nod. “I wanted John to sample a couple more things.”
Minnie gives me a look that makes me uneasy. I can’t entirely interpret that look, but I’ve got some idea what it means. It reminds me a lot of my conversation the other day with Amy.
I look at John, who is currently licking off a bit of buttercream that’s still on his thumb. Ever since that night with Amy, I’ve been trying to sort out my feelings for him. All I know is that every time I look at him, I get a rush of good feelings that makes me want to smile. And when I look into his brown almond eyes, I feel all tingly.
God, maybe it’s better if John and I aren’t alone together. But it’s too late—Minnie is already out the door.
“I have to tell you, Kirby,” John says, breaking up the quiet of the empty bakery. “My sweet tooth is a little burnt out right now.”
I’ve been so focused on my feelings for John that I forgot the reason I wanted him to stay. And that reason is cupcakes. There’s something I want him to taste that I’ve been working on all week. I literally can’t wait another minute.
“There’s just one thing I want you to try,” I say. “Don’t say no.”
“Do I ever say no to you?”
I don’t know what to say to that.
“What is it?” he asks me.
I can’t suppress a smile as I think about my latest creation. “A bubble gum cupcake.”
He crinkles his nose at me. “Really? That sounds… um…”
“You can say it.”
“Disgusting. It sounds disgusting.”
“Right. And I’m going to change your mind.”
John looks rightfully skeptical.
I lift a pink-frosted cupcake off the display labeled “Kirby’s Kupcakes.” The pink is the exactly the color of a piece of pink bubble gum—I worked hard to get it perfect—but there are no other toppings or garnishes. The cupcake is wrapped in one of our cheap white wrappers that I use for all my test cupcakes. I lay the cupcake down on the counter and slice it into quarters. It’s pink on the inside too.
John frowns. “Do I get a veto?”
“No! Just taste it.”
He scoops up one of the quarters of the cupcake with his fingers. After a brief hesitation, he pops it in his mouth. He chews for a minute while I watch the thoughtful expression on his face.
God, he’s cute.
“It’s….” I hear him swallow. “It’s actually really good.”
My shoulders sag in relief. “Seriously?”
“Yeah.” He nods vigorously. “I thought it was going to be really sweet and gross. But it’s actually just the right amount of sweet. It reminds me of bubble gum, but it’s isn’t like having a gross mouthful of bubble gum in my mouth.”
I make a face. “The highest compliment.”
“It’s really good, Kirby,” he says again, gazing up at me with those penetrating eyes. “I really love it.”
I squeeze my fists together as I meet his gaze. “You love it?”
He nods again. “I really do love… it. It’s something I wouldn’t have thought I’d love, but… I do. It’s surprising and wonderful at the same time. And…”
John seems unable to go on. He keeps staring at me and my heart is pounding in my chest. I remember how I felt at the tuxedo store when he was leaning against me, and once again, I feel that tingling in my whole body. I want him to kiss me. So badly.
Oh my God, what’s wrong with me?
“We should probably go.” John breaks the silence between us, his voice cracking slightly. “It’s really late.”
I nod, grateful we haven’t done anything we shouldn’t have. Yet also disappointed. “Yeah.”
It actually is very late. I’ve never been to the bakery this late at night, and it surprises me how unsavory and desolate the neighborhood appears at this late hour. It always seems fine during the day or even early in the morning. I’m glad I’m not alone as we make the three-block journey to where John parked his Toyota.
“I hope Minnie is okay,” I say, feeling a flash of guilt at having let her leave alone.
John bites his lip. “I know. I wish I’d offered her a ride.”
“Well,” I say thoughtfully, “she knows the neighborhood better than anyone. And she only lives five blocks away.”
As if on cue, I hear footsteps behind us, growing louder. John doesn’t seem to notice and continues to wheel forward, but I turn in time to see a young man walking briskly toward us. I clutch my purse to my chest, unsure whether to be grateful we’re not alone or scared of this young man. I turn back to the street ahead of me, trying not to worry. I wish I’d taken my father’s advice and gotten some mace for my purse.
And that’s when it happens—so fast that I barely have time to think. The man comes along the side of John’s chair and shoves him so hard that the chair topples over, spilling John to the ground. I see the glint of a knife in the man’s hand and he growls at me, “Give me your purse or I’ll cut you!”
Chapter 34: John
It happens so goddamn fast. One minute I’m wheeling down the street, the next I’m tasting pavement.
At first, I can’t even figure out what happened. I’m dazed by the crash to the ground and I think maybe I hit an obstacle in the road and my chair pitched forward and dumped me out. But then I hear the guy yelling at Kirby to give him her purse and I know exactly what happened.
I’ve landed on my stomach and my wheelchair is toppled over next to me. Getting back into the chair on my own is an impossibility. Hell, rolling over is an impossibility. In bed, I use rails on the side of the bed to help me roll and maneuver and even sit up. On the street, I don’t have that. Also, I landed on my bad shoulder and it hurts like a mother when I make even a halfhearted attempt to roll over.
I’m totally fucking helpless down here.
The man is threatening Kirby, a knife glinting in his hand. “Give me your purse, bitch! Or else I’ll kill you and the cripple!”
I wish I could save her. I’ve actually got mace in my wheelchair, but even if I could somehow get to it, fat lot of good it would do me down here on the ground. All I can do is watch this man threatening the woman I love while she inexplicably clutches her purse. And now I can see his eyes fli
cking down to her breasts—this isn’t going in any sort of good direction.
“Give him the fucking purse!” I scream at her from the ground.
Kirby blinks a few times, as if coming out of a trance. She shoves the purse at the man, who thankfully starts running away. She’s lost her purse, but that’s just stuff. She’s not hurt. He didn’t rape her. I didn’t have to lie here on the ground, watching him violate her.
Kirby falls to her knees beside me. “John? Are you okay?”
Only my left shoulder and my pride. “Yeah. I’m okay.”
“Can… can you get up?”
“No,” I admit. “You should probably call the police now.” Then, realizing she probably lost her phone to the mugger, I say, “My phone is in the pouch on the side of my chair.”
Kirby manages to find my phone and call 911. The police say they’re on their way, although the guy with her purse is likely long gone. But they’ll come to take a report and also help me back into my wheelchair.
I try again to roll over while she’s on the phone. When I put weight on my left shoulder, it feels like a knife is stabbing me. All I can do is lift my upper body partially off the ground, but even that is a struggle. I feel like an insect that got flipped over and can’t right itself.
“Kirby,” I say when she hangs up with the police. “Could you…” I avert my eyes. “Could you help me roll over onto my back?”
I still remember that day at her house, when she refused to help me make that transfer from her sofa back to my chair. But today, she’s all in. “Of course. What do you want me to do?”
I give her instructions on how to lift my hip and fold my left leg over the right. With her covering the weight of my leg, I’m able to make it the rest of the way. Once I’m on my back, I can use the strength in my upper arms to sit up. I find my balance, mostly slumping forward as I use my arms to support me. I’m sure I look ridiculous and my shoulder is on fire, but it’s better than lying on the pavement.
“Are you okay?” Kirby asks me again.
“Fine,” I lie. “Are you okay?”
She snorts. “I’ve been better.”
I look down at my lap, at my gut jutting out in the awkward position I’m keeping myself in just to stay sitting up. “I’m sorry I couldn’t help.”
“John, come on…” she says. “I mean, the guy had a knife… what were you supposed to do?”
“He wouldn’t have attacked you if you weren’t with a guy in a wheelchair. If you were with some six-foot-tall guy with big muscles.”
Kirby doesn’t disagree.
I’m feeling really sorry for myself by the time the cop car pulls up. Two guys around my age get out of the car dressed in police uniforms. They see Kirby with her arms wrapped around her chest, and then me on the sidewalk, my wheelchair next to me.
“Everyone okay here?” the taller of the two men asks. “Do we need to call for the paramedics?”
“I’m fine,” I say quickly. Fuck, the last thing I want is to get more people involved. “I just need help getting back in my wheelchair.”
The taller officer holds me under my arms and the other one holds me under my legs, and they position me back in my chair. I hate being lifted that way, like I’m a sack of potatoes. But Christ, what a relief to be back in my chair. It’s the typical love-hate relationship of a quad with his wheelchair—wish I weren’t stuck with it, but what the hell would I do without it?
The shorter officer squints down at me. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” I say again, as I adjust my legs in the footplate.
“So what happened here?” the taller officer asks Kirby. “You said you got mugged?”
Kirby nods and tells him the story. I wince when she describes how I got thrown from my chair. I’d give anything to not have to relive this humiliation with the cops. The worst part is that they don’t even seem surprised that the mugger took me out that way. Of course he did, right?
They’re not optimistic about retrieving Kirby’s purse. The only positive thing is that her cell phone was in there, so they think maybe they can locate it that way. Who knows? At this point, I just want to get the fuck out of here.
“Do you need a ride home?” the taller officer asks us.
“No, we’re good,” I say. My car is only a block away. Hopefully, we can manage to make it there without getting mugged again. My biggest worry, actually, is how my shoulder is going to feel when I do that transfer.
Sure enough, the second I start wheeling toward the car, my shoulder starts hurting like a mother. I can’t fucking believe this shit. Wasn’t I in bad enough shape without this happening to me?
That’s the problem when less than half your body is functional. Just about any injury is enough to fuck up your life and take away your independence. If I can’t wheel my chair, then what am I supposed to do? If I can’t transfer myself, then I’m really screwed. I’ve got the number of a home health agency that I used once when I first came home from the hospital after a bout of pneumonia, but it sucks being dependent on an aide just to get in and out of bed. And bathing—if I can’t transfer, I can’t get onto my shower bench, which means I’ll need help for that too.
No, fuck that. I’ll just deal with the pain. It’s not that bad.
The transfer into my car is awful. The pain is so bad that I almost start tearing up. It takes me a few seconds just to breathe through it after I’m in the car. Kirby is sitting next to me, watching me. I know I’ve got to break down my chair to throw it in the back, but I can’t make myself do it. At least, I need a minute.
Kirby touches my shoulder—not the one that hurts. “John…”
“I’m okay,” I manage.
She seems to recognize that’s not actually the case. “What can I do to help?”
Well, she already helped me roll over. May as well go for broke. “Can you put my wheelchair in the back seat?”
I tell her what to do to break it down—pulling off the wheels and folding the backrest forward. I’m worried she’s going to fuck it up and break it, but she’s careful and does a good job. Once it’s in the car, I relax a little bit. And the pain has subsided enough that I can drive Kirby home.
“What do you think you’re doing?” she asks me as I start driving in the direction of her house.
“Driving you home?”
“Yeah? And how are you going to get your chair back out of the car?”
She’s got a point.
“Let’s go to your place,” she says. “I’ll help you out, then I’ll grab a taxi home.”
“I’ll pay for it,” I say weakly.
Kirby just shrugs. I wish she’d let me do something for her tonight. I couldn’t possibly feel more emasculated than I do right now.
I have to admit, it really helps to have her get my chair out of the back. I manage the transfer on my own, all the while praying that the pain will be improved by tomorrow. Kirby follows me into the elevator, then up to my apartment. Once we’re safely inside, I hand her my cell phone.
“I’m good now,” I say. “You can call a cab.”
She raises her eyebrows at me. “Are you sure?”
I hesitate, thinking about my entire nighttime routine and having to go through it with my shoulder hurting this much. Then again, what is Kirby supposed to do? Is she going to help me with my bowel program? Is she going to detach my leg bag and replace it with the larger bag that I hang off the side of the bed during the night? And she’s sure as hell not going to help me get undressed. In my dreams, right?
Goddamn it. This sucks. One idiot topples me out of my chair and my whole life is fucked up for fuck knows how long. Maybe forever.
“I don’t mind staying,” she says. She plops down on my sofa. “Hell, I can stay the night if you don’t mind. You’ve got a really comfy sofa.”
I wheel over to the sofa and it hurts like hell, but not as much as transferring back into bed will hurt. But I’ve been in pain of one kind or another pretty much
since the day I got injured, so what’s a little more?
“John,” she says quietly. “Are you… okay? You look like you’re in agony.”
I shrug. And even that fucking hurts. “I’m fine.”
Kirby reaches out and her fingers just graze my shoulder. I flinch, anticipating pain from her touch, but she doesn’t end up touching me there. Her fingers rest on my jaw, where a five o’clock shadow has sprouted in the last few hours. I may be half-Asian, but I grow a beard like a white guy.
“John…” she says again.
“I’m fine,” I say, although my voice wavers. That’s not because of pain though. It’s because Kirby’s touching my face. And because she’s leaning forward on the couch so that her own face is less than a foot away from mine.
I’m within kissing distance. All I’d have to do is lean forward and my lips would be on hers before she’d think to pull away. The last time I was within kissing distance with a girl I liked, I didn’t go for it, and that was probably a good thing, because in retrospect, I would have gotten slapped. I’d probably get slapped if I tried to kiss her now. After all, Kirby doesn’t want me kissing her. She’s gorgeous, she’s engaged to my friend, and I’m a fucking quadriplegic. She definitely doesn’t want me kissing her.
But then I’m not sure what it is. Maybe it’s the scent of bubble gum cupcake that clings to her skin, or the way her lips curve into the tiniest of smiles, or the fact that her tits are just… well, great tits is all I’m saying. I don’t know if it’s one of those things or if it’s something completely different. Something I can’t put my finger on. Something that I noticed the first time I saw her eying that apple tart at Barnes and Noble and fell instantly and stupidly in love.
But anyway, I kiss her.
For the first minute, all I can think about is how goddamn soft her lips are. They’re so soft that I feel like I could kiss her for hours, maybe for several years, and not even notice that a minute had passed. She’s so fucking soft.
And after I get over the wonder of how soft she is and how amazing it is that I’m kissing her, it occurs to me that she isn’t pulling away. She is, in fact, kissing me back.
The Best Man Page 14