Her eyes light up. “You have?”
I nod. “Yes.”
“Oh, that’s…” Her smile is more genuine this time. “That’s wonderful, Alex. I’m so glad to hear that.”
She doesn’t ask me the name of my new girlfriend, which is a damn good thing since she doesn’t exist. There are no women in my life other than my mother. Nobody since Isabelle. There’s not even a possibility of a relationship right now. Not even a girl I know who I’m thinking about asking out for drinks.
Nobody.
“Anyway, I’m heading back to London tomorrow,” she says. Yes, Isabelle still loves to travel. Of course she does. She’s the same as she always was. “I’ve got a bunch of business trips I’m squeezing in before the wedding. But if you decide you want to come, just shoot a message to me or Parker.”
At the mention of Parker’s name, I see red. Parker fucking Ashmont. How could Isabelle be marrying Parker? What universe am I living in where something like that could come about? A pulse throbs in my temple, and all I want to do is punch the wall.
I look down at my right hand, half-expecting to see it balled into a fist. No, that’s a lie—I don’t expect to see a fist. Three years ago, I might have made a mistake like that, but not now. Now I know when I look down at my right hand, it will be exactly where it was this morning: lying quietly in the armrest of my wheelchair. A Velcro strap secures both my hands in place, because they have a frustrating tendency to curl up on their own volition.
If my hand were to ball into a fist, it would only be because my aide didn’t stretch me out enough this morning. It wouldn’t be because I chose to make a fist. I don’t make choices like that anymore. I can’t make a fist. I can’t move one millimeter, much less punch a wall.
“Anyway, I should probably go,” Isabelle murmurs, rising off the sofa in my parents’ living room. She brushes imaginary lint off her skirt. As if perfect Isabelle would ever have actual lint. She’s wearing a black pencil skirt paired with a crisp white blouse in a combination that’s patently Isabelle.
As for me, I’m wearing my eternal outfit of a T-shirt and sweatpants because I had no idea my ex-fiancée was going to show up at my door today. I never used to be a sweatpants kind of guy before, but now I’ve got a pair in every color on the grayscale. They’re the perfect clothes—not likely to rub against me in a place I can’t feel and easy for whoever is dressing me to pull on over my rigid limbs. And it’s not like I need to dress up for the company I never entertain. If I knew Isabelle was coming today, I damn well wouldn’t have worn a T-shirt and sweatpants—not a chance.
“It’s been good seeing you again,” Isabelle says.
“Yes.” I lift my head to look at her now that she’s leaving, which is hard because my neck is fused and the muscles in my shoulders are weak. Lucky for me, I’ve got a sturdy headrest. “Great seeing you, Isabelle.”
I didn’t mean for it to sound sarcastic, but somehow it came out that way. Oh well.
“Um…” Isabelle clutches her Prada purse. I wonder if that asshole Parker bought it for her. Or maybe she got it as a freebie from Macy’s. “Do you need… help with anything?”
I shouldn’t be angry at that one, but I still am. It’s not an unreasonable question though. My mother went out to do some shopping to give me and Isabelle privacy, which means when Isabelle leaves, I’ll be all alone. I can be alone for short periods, but not before having things set up for me.
The truth is, I’d love to ask Isabelle to put on my Bluetooth headphones. But I’m trying to maintain a little dignity here, so instead, I say, “I’m fine, thanks for asking.”
My phone is mounted on the chair and I’ve got “Hey, Siri.” I’ll be fine.
Isabelle nods. “I guess I’ll go then.”
“Yes, you already said that,” I say through gritted teeth. I’m trying to turn over a new leaf and not be an asshole to her. I swear it. But I can only take so much.
Isabelle heads in the direction of the door. I lower my lips onto the control for my chair, which is a tube that I blow into or suck air out of to get it to me. Puffing air hard into the tube means the chair moves forward, while a hard suck moves backward. A soft puff turns right and a soft suck turns left. I can also use the sip and puff controls to operate my computer or the television.
If you think this is easy, let me relieve you of that delusion. It’s fucking hard. I ran over my therapist’s foot once because I thought I was going right but I went forward. (She was in a walking boot for a month.) I’ve turned in circles when all I wanted to do was go forward. After three full circles in a row, you can bet I wanted to punch a wall.
But now? I’m good at it. I puff into the tube and follow Isabelle across the living room, where the furniture is sparse for just this reason. An ordinary living room would be a nightmare for me, but as long as the spaces aren’t too tight, I can manage without a problem.
“You’ve really gotten good at that,” Isabelle remarks.
“Yeah,” I say, looking up at her. I used to be half a foot taller than she was. The days of me being taller than people are long gone.
A smile plays on her lips. “Really! Remember how you kept running into the walls?”
“I remember,” I say, but I can’t smile. I’ve come a long way since then, but this isn’t happy nostalgia for me. I doubt it ever will be.
Isabelle just stands there, her fingers gripping that purse so tight, they turn white. What is she waiting for? Does she want me to hold the door for her?
“It was nice seeing you,” I finally say. “Congratulations to you and… Parker.” Fucking Parker.
She nods, still not saying anything or budging. I wonder if there’s something else she wants to say. Because there’s so much more I want to say.
I pushed you away.
I was an asshole and you had every right to call it quits.
I don’t have a girlfriend. You’re the only woman I’ve ever loved.
It should be me you’re marrying next month.
I fucked up, Isabelle.
I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry.
But why say it? It won’t change anything. She’s still going to be Isabelle Ashmont at the end of the month.
Chapter 4
Nellie
“The assholes have landed. Table Seven.”
I groan as Eve, the hostess, gives me the information with a smile plastered on her pink lips. Not again. I’m not in the mood for this tonight.
“Why do you always put them in my section?” I complain to her. “You could put them anywhere else…”
Eve’s grin widens. I think she enjoys seeing me get tortured. “What can I say? They like that table. They specifically requested it.”
I groan again as I survey the corner table I cleared off only moments earlier, now filled with men in their thirties wearing expensive suits. The investment bankers. That’s the problem with waitressing at a sports bar within throwing distance of the financial district. All the damn bankers. It’s nonstop on weekdays.
I tug at my skirt, which is too short, but a required part of my uniform. But that’s not the worst of it—at barely five foot two inches, my legs don’t tend to attract too much attention. The bigger problem is the light blue T-shirt, which is so agonizingly small, I’m certain my nipples are going to rip holes in the material.
Fine—it’s good for tips. And Table Seven will probably help me pay a good chunk of this month’s rent, because stand-up comedy sure ain’t paying the bills yet. But there are limits to what I’m willing to endure to make money. I mean, prostitution is a pretty firm line in the sand, but there’s a bunch of gray area between that and my job description.
I approach the table, reminding myself over and over it’s only temporary. It’s all only temporary. I’m getting more and more paying gigs—maybe soon I can give up waitressing for good. My buddy Jake got that gig on Jimmy Kimmel and now he’s turning people down. I just need one big break. One break and I can kiss this stupid job goodbye
.
And that’s my daily pep talk. It’s what gets me through a night serving jerks at a sports bar.
“Hey, it’s Wednesday!” yells one of the guys at the table. That’s Chief Douchebag. Okay, that’s not his actual name. I’ve heard the other guys call him Parker, but Chief Douchebag somehow just fits so perfectly. There’s always one guy who is worse than all the others, and usually, it takes me all of five seconds to figure out who it is.
This guy is particularly obnoxious though, partially because he’s so damn good looking. People ought to resemble their personality, so we know straight away what sort of person they are. Chief Douchebag should be butt ugly with ear hair coming out of his nose, a giant bald spot, and a pot belly hanging over his belt.
Instead, he’s gorgeous. He’s all white teeth, gleaming blond hair, and a perfect jaw. I was never into jaws, but whenever I see this guy in profile, I think to myself, “Wow, look at that jaw!”
“What’s up, Wednesday?” he asks me.
The Wednesday thing. It’s because last time he was here, he decided I look like Christina Ricci, who played Wednesday in The Addams Family movies. I suppose it’s not an unfair comparison, but that doesn’t mean I enjoy being called Wednesday.
“Hi, Cousin It,” I say to Chief Douchebag, trying to be a good sport and play along. “Hi, Pugsley. Morticia. Uncle Fester.”
And now I’ve exhausted all my knowledge about the characters from The Addams Family. I think there might have been a hand who had a name. And wasn’t there a Frankenstein’s monster? Or maybe that was The Munsters. I can’t keep it all straight.
Chief Douchebag doesn’t take his eyes off me while I’m joking around with the other guys. It’s disturbing. “I like your top, Wednesday. It’s a nice touch.”
“It’s my uniform,” I say. “I didn’t pick it out.”
And now every single one of them is staring at my tits. Lovely.
I clear my throat loudly, hoping to bring their attention back to my face. Or anywhere else besides my nipples, even though it’s probably a lost cause. “So what can I grab for you guys?” I ask.
“I don’t know about these guys…” the chief of douchebags flashes me a wide grin that I bet most women find very hard to resist. “But you can grab my dick for me.”
The other guys think his comment is hilarious, not surprisingly. Is it too much to ask that there be one decent guy in the bunch, who might tell his buddy to shut up? Or am I going to have to take care of myself yet again?
I smile sweetly at him. “I’m so sorry. I forgot to bring my tweezers.”
So much for a big tip.
Chapter 5
Alex
On the one hand, I’m grateful for voice recognition software. Without a program like Dragon Naturally Speaking, my prospects for employment would be a lot more limited. I can’t type. But over the last four years, I’ve gotten adept at navigating a computer with voice software, which has allowed me to land a decent sales job that I’ve had for a year now. I wouldn’t be able to do that without Dragon.
On the other hand, sometimes I think Dragon might give me a stroke.
At the moment, I’m trying to write an email. “Trying” is the key word here. I want to discuss a prospective sales client with my boss, Zachary Milton. But I’m stuck on the first line.
Hi Zachary, is what I want to say.
Hi snack machine, is what is on my screen.
My boss is not going to understand about an email riddled with errors. For starters, he doesn’t know I’m a quadriplegic with zero use of my arms. I’ve never met the guy, and since I do all my work either online or on the phone, I found no reason to disclose it. It’s not in any way relevant to the work I’m doing. So if I send him an email with lots of mistakes, it just looks like I’m sloppy.
“Correct ‘snack machine,’” I say. The program highlights the words, and now I have to say the correction. “Zachary.”
Hi that’s great, is what it now says.
“Shit,” I say aloud, which Dragon helpfully dictates for me. Damn it. “Scratch that. Correct ‘that’s great.’ Spell that.”
It would be really helpful if I could reach out and quickly type the word “Zachary.” I know there are people with carpal tunnel syndrome who use Dragon, but they’re capable of typing if the need arises. I’m not. I have to use Dragon for absolutely everything I need the computer to do.
“Z…” I begin. “A… C… H…”
The cursor is hovering on the screen. I hold my breath, hoping this doesn’t mean it’s crashed. If any other program crashes, I can use Dragon to open the task manager, shut it down, and restart it. If Dragon crashes, I’m fucked.
Dragon has crashed.
I do have a stick with a mouthpiece within reach, so I can use that to hit the power button. The CPU is pushed to the front of the desk just so I’d be able to reach it in this situation. But thankfully, my mother strolls into the room at this moment, which is the best option. She can restart Dragon for me without needing a reboot.
“Mom,” I say. “Can you restart Dragon?”
“It’s dinnertime, Alex.” Without asking, she reaches over to pull the Bluetooth I use as a Dragon headset off my ears. “The food is ready.”
There’s no arguing with my mother.
Back in the old days, the best part of the night would be hitting up a bar with the other guys from work and getting a greasy, fatty meal to wash down with a beer. I used to have a great metabolism and an impressive alcohol tolerance. These days, my appetite is minimal, which is a good thing because I don’t burn calories by walking around anymore. I’m usually lucky if I can finish half of what’s on my plate.
But that’s not what I hate most about meals.
Okay, imagine this: You’re out with some of your friends. You’re joking around with them, having a nice, normal conversation. Then the food arrives. And everyone starts digging in, but the problem is, you can’t move your arms. So one of your friends who you were trying to have a conversation with like everything was normal now has to take your fork and start feeding you your food, bite by bite, like you’re an infant. Pretending like it’s still normal and not painfully awkward. While everyone in the restaurant stares at you like they’ve never seen anything so fucking fascinating.
Needless to say, I don’t go out much for meals anymore.
As usual, there’s no chair at my end of the table. I steer my wheelchair into the open space, and my mother grabs the napkin off the table to tuck it into my collar. The napkin is very much needed, especially since tonight is Dad’s turn to feed me. I used to throw a shitfit if anyone referred to that napkin as a bib, but I’ve mellowed out since then. Hell, sometimes I call it a bib myself. That’s what it is, after all.
Tonight’s dinner is chicken and mashed potatoes—Mom’s specialty. Three plates of food are set up on the dining room table, on the sky blue tablecloth. My chicken has been pre-sliced into bite-sized pieces, so you could tell which place setting is mine even if the chair wasn't missing.
“Is Doug coming for dinner?” I ask Mom as she settles into the seat beside me.
This is one of the two nights a week Doug usually comes to join us for dinner. In the year after my injury, Doug moved in with us to help out and commuted into the city every day. But now he’s got his own place again, and he just drives to Mineola twice a week to help with my bedtime routine and give my mother a break, since Dad’s got a bad back and can’t help me. It’s a break for me too, because I’d rather have Doug helping me than anyone else—he’s the only one I can joke around with about the whole thing. He’s two years younger than me, and we’ve always been close. And it’s not like any of my friends stuck around after I got hurt.
“He’s having dinner with his girlfriend,” Mom says. “But he said he’d come after. For dessert.”
“Oh,” I say.
And my mind is spinning. A few months ago, Doug started dating a girl named Alyssa, and it looks like she’s gotten upgraded to “girlf
riend” status. Thanks to me, his love life hasn’t exactly been jumping the last several years, so I’m happy for him that he’s found someone he likes. He deserves it.
But on the other hand, my thoughts are selfish. What does it mean if Doug gets serious with Alyssa? Does that mean he’s still going to come here twice a week to help me? I can’t imagine she’d be okay with that indefinitely.
“Alex,” Mom interrupts my thoughts.
I blink a few times and look up at her. “Huh?”
“Alex, would you like to say grace?”
Mom’s gotten more religious as she’s gotten older. Her devotion used to be something Doug and I used to tease her about, but it’s not funny anymore. She takes it very seriously. She doesn’t expect a lot from me, but she expects me to go to church with them every Sunday.
“Sure.” I lower my head and close my eyes. “Bless us, Lord, for these gifts which we’re about to receive from your bounty. In Christ’s name, we pray. Amen.”
I open my eyes in time to see Mom cross herself. I don’t cross myself for obvious reasons, and Dad doesn’t either, for less obvious reasons.
Dad spears a piece of chicken and holds it in front of my lips. I lean forward just a bit to take a bite, and the fork scrapes the bridge of my mouth. That’s par for the course when Dad feeds me—Mom never does that.
“So how is Isabelle doing?” Mom asks me while Dad takes a bite of his own food.
I turn my head to take a drink from the long straw that attaches to the water bottle on the side of my chair. I shouldn’t tell my parents what happened today—the outpouring of sympathy will be more than I can handle. I should just tell them Isabelle stopped by to say hi and that’s it.
“She’s getting married,” I say.
Oh well.
“Married!” Mom cries. “So soon?”
“It’s been over three years since we broke up,” I remind her.
“You expect the girl to become a nun, Carol?” Dad says.
“It seems soon to me,” Mom sniffs.
My Ex's Wedding: A Fake Boyfriend Romance Page 3