by Annie Kelly
We reach the kitchen, then a door just past the island that I’d assumed was a pantry when Rainey and I had spent the night. When he pulls the door open, though, I realize I was wrong.
Wyatt’s two bedroom apartment is really a two bedroom–plus. And the plus is about the size of another apartment itself.
I look around at the rehab equipment that’s filling up the vast space. For all intents and purposes, it’s an in-home gym, but one for someone who’s recovering from an injury. There are parallel bars along one side of the wall and a shallow ramp/step setup over in the corner. There are some freestanding full-length mirrors and a rack of weights and kettle bells.
“This is pretty kick-ass,” I say quietly. I begin to walk around and look at the equipment. I can feel his eyes on me as I run a finger along the end of an empty shelf.
“I don’t know about all that,” he says. Then he gestures to my left. “By the way, this is Wanda—Wanda, this is Carson, my tutor.”
In the corner of the room, the very large and very imposing woman who answered the door is racking several sets of free weights. When she finishes, she comes over and gives me a powerful, albeit sweaty, handshake.
“Good to know you, Carson. Wyatt’s said you’re going to be a big help to him.”
I smile a little nervously. This woman is beyond intimidating.
“Thanks—I hope I can be everything he needs.”
Her brow arches and I realize exactly how that sounded—slutty as hell. I try to consider how to backpedal, but Wyatt’s already wheeling over to the side of the room where there’s a desk and desk chair, along with a stack of books.
“Carson, if you want to set up here, I’ll just be a minute.”
“Sure—of course.”
I head over to the desk as Wyatt and Wanda move to the far end of the parallel bars. At first, I try to keep my eyes averted, to look at the books or the walls or anything but Wyatt as he shifts forward in his wheelchair. Wanda places a walker in front of him, and I watch him push forward and up to standing. Wanda braces him on one side; his feet are rooted to the floor in almost unnatural angle. I feel compelled to run to the other side. To hold him up. But something tells me that Wyatt’s got a strategy here that I know nothing about. And for some reason, he’s letting me watch it happen.
The walker has tennis balls on the back legs and black plastic wheels on the front that creak as Wyatt slowly moves forward toward the bars. I realize now that I’ve never seen him standing, which gives me a far better indication of how tall he is, which is to say oh-my-God tall. I can picture him standing next to me or in front of me, looking down into my face.
At this point, I’m not even pretending not to watch. Instead, I’m reveling in the fact that Wyatt is not wheelchair-bound for the rest of his life. That Wyatt is, in fact, beginning to walk again.
Wanda was clearly a strategic choice in therapists because she’s large enough to handle Wyatt, to help him shift his grip from the handles of the walker to the parallel bars themselves. There’s a shallow ramp that leads up to the walkway beneath the bars and, once Wyatt’s adjusted, he holds himself there completely still. I’ve never seen anyone look so strong. Like, literally strong. His arms are taut and muscular, clearly cut and chiseled by this work he’s been doing. His face is clearly strained with the effort, but it allows me to see the sinew in his neck and shoulders, his broad pectoral muscles and how they bulge beneath his sweat-damp T-shirt. I’ve never seen anyone work this hard. I’ve never seen anyone give something their all, right in front of me.
This here is the definition of perseverance and I am nothing but awed by it. Wyatt was a kick-ass drummer before. Now he’s a completely different kind of rock star.
“Take your time, Sands,” Wanda sort of growls. She places both hands on the left bar, but doesn’t touch Wyatt. Not when he levers himself up and presses forward. He grunts a little and I can see the sweat glistening on his temples. His teeth are locked in a grimace now, but the expression is almost a grin. Almost triumphant. It has every right to be.
He takes one step and the way he moves his feet forward is like a shuffle or a drag. He takes another step and then another. I’ve stopped breathing, holding in all my air and high hopes and positive thoughts. In some circumstances, when you see someone strive for greatness, you call out their name or cheer for them. Not now. Right now, this moment is all about the quiet of the room and the sound of Wyatt’s entire body and mind coming together for a single purpose.
Wanda must see some sort of indicator that he’s done because in a flash she’s under the bars and behind Wyatt, grabbing him around the chest in a reverse bear hug. She maneuvers him around, bypasses the walker, and helps him settle back in his wheelchair. For a long moment, the only sounds in the room are grunts and heaves of heavy breathing. Finally, Wanda rocks back on her heels and crosses her arms over her chest with a grin.
“That’s three steps today, man. One more than last week.”
Wyatt sort of shrugs and gives an “aw, shucks” smile, but I can see through his bluster that he’s actually proud. I feel like I’ve witnessed someone giving birth or creating art or crossing a finish line. Nothing has ever been this impressive. Or this glorious.
Until Wyatt lifts up his shirt to wipe his brow with the hem and I get a glimpse of his taut, toned washboard abs.
Yeah. That’s pretty fucking glorious, too.
“So, I’ll see you tomorrow, Wanda?” Wyatt asks his trainer.
“Same time, same place.” The woman chortles, then gives me a sort of a salute as she exits back out into the main area of the apartment.
And now we’re alone.
I wipe my sweaty palms over my jeans, feeling incredibly ill equipped to comment on what I just witnessed.
“That was—that was amazing,” I finally say.
Wyatt shrugs. “It’s getting there. Like Wanda said—one more step this week. Last week it was only two.”
“I don’t think I realized that you’d be able to walk again. I mean, I wasn’t sure how serious the injury was or . . .” I trail off. Wyatt smiles, then wheels over to a nearby locker, placed low to the ground.
“Well, people don’t ask questions because they don’t want to be rude, I suppose.” He grabs a white T-shirt from the locker. “Basically, at this point, all of my lack of walking is actually on me. Or, at least, on my body. The doctors have cleared me to use the walker once my legs cooperate. Most of the tremors I deal with are more in my hands, so the walking should be an easier task to accomplish.”
“Rather than, say, writing?” I ask.
He touches his nose. “Exactly.”
And then he grabs the hem of his very sweaty shirt and pulls it up over his head.
God in heaven. I’ve never wanted to touch anything as badly as I want to get my hands on those pecs.
Either he has absolutely no idea of the effect he has on me or he doesn’t care—either way, he pulls on the white T-shirt and tosses the other in a basket in the corner.
“You ready to get started, Teach?”
Oh, fuck. That nickname is only gonna get me in trouble. I’m picturing business suits and being bent over a desk.
Not good, Cars. Not good. Focus.
I turn around and, now, we’re sitting face-to-face, eye-to-eye.
“What do you want to work on first?” I ask, attempting to sound professional. Attempting to feel professional.
Wyatt shrugs. “Psych, I guess. I’ve got that annotated bibliography due next week.”
I give a curt little nod, then reach down for my laptop . . . and realize it’s in my bag still in the other side of the apartment.
“I’m going to run and grab my stuff.”
“Sure thing—hey, do me a favor? Grab me a bottle of water from the fridge?”
“You got it.”
But when I reach the door, it’s locked. I try it again, then again, then jiggle it with absolutely no rhyme or reason. I can feel the early flutters of my anxiety d
emons begin to crawl up my throat, tightening it with each second.
“Carson.”
Wyatt says my name like a prayer—quiet and soft, almost a whisper. I glance up at him, only now realizing I have tears in my eyes.
“It’s locked,” I say moronically. Wyatt just smiles and shakes his head.
“Wrong door, doll. It’s this one.”
He gestures to another, almost identical door that’s about ten feet to the left on the same wall.
I am such an idiot.
“I’m sorry,” I start to mumble, but Wyatt grabs my hand and squeezes, which effectively shuts me the fuck up.
“It’s okay. Are you okay?”
Which is when I realize the tears are running down my face. I am completely mortified as I swipe them away with both hands.
“Yeah—uh . . . it’s my anxiety. I get nervous in tight spaces.”
“More than nervous, I’d say.”
I force a grin and shrug. “Yeah. Sorry about that. I can be a little overdramatic.”
I try to avoid his gaze as I walk to the second door and open it.
“Why do I think that’s not true?”
I look at Wyatt then, taking him all in. His golden skin still carries a sheen of exertion, of work, in its flush and perspiration. His eyes are flinty and quick, sharp. His gaze paralyzes me as he assesses me. I can’t move and I don’t want to.
“Why do I think you’ve never been overdramatic a day in your life? That, if anything, you play shit down so that you don’t cause trouble?”
I blink at that uncannily accurate portrayal of pretty much my entire adult existence, then shrug.
“I’m going to get my bag.”
And I’m through the door and away from his gaze, his focus on me. It’s a good thing because I swear, it’s burning through me. Through all my walls and all my reserve and the guard I’ve kept up so well for as long as I can remember.
Chapter Eight
“Now, were you planning on focusing on a certain type of therapy for the bibliography?”
I look up at Wyatt over my computer screen. He’s gazing out the window and chewing on his pen cap.
“What does the assignment say again?” he asks. I click off the open Word document and over to the guidelines for his annotated bibliography.
“Pick one or more methodology that is used therapeutically in healing practices,” I read aloud. “Research all types of this method, including but not limited to Western medicine, Eastern medicine, cognitive strategies, and neurological approaches. Find at least five sources and build a thesis around your collected evidence.”
Wyatt narrows his eyes a bit as though deep in thought. “Well, what I want to do is music therapy—the whole music-for-healing movement.”
I nod. “I mean, I’m sure that’s well documented. You’ll find a ton of research.”
He grips his handbrake levers with both hands, then releases them and starts to wheel over toward the window.
“I’m sure I will. Not really the point, though.” He glances back at me over his shoulder. “I’m not entirely sure I would have gotten through all of this . . .”
He trails off and I swallow. I feel frozen, watching his profile contort in very obvious anguish. And I’m absolutely clueless as to what to say. So I say nothing and wait. The silence is sort of deafening and heavy. Somewhere in the room, a clock is ticking methodically.
Wyatt turns then to meet my gaze and I see a sheen of tears there that he’s valiantly trying to blink away.
“Anyway. Music therapy. That’s what I want to research.”
“Of course.” I look down at the computer and start plugging some terms into the school library’s website. “Okay, let me show you this.”
I place the laptop on the desk and swivel it so he can see the screen.
“This is the database search page on the BCC website—basically, all of your research can be done here. You type in the terms you’re looking for and it only gives you scholastic research. So no random blog posts by a guy who lives in his parents’ basement or whatever.”
Wyatt stares at the screen for a second, then looks at me.
“What if I want to hear from that guy?”
I blink at him. “Are you serious?”
He shrugs. “Maybe. I mean, if that guy is living in his parents’ house because he’s been injured or because he’s disabled and musical therapy has helped him with pain management. If that’s the case, I do want to hear from him. I want to know everything he has to say.”
I open my mouth to argue—to say something about reputable sources, but I stop myself.
“You know what? You’re right.”
Slowly, I close the book in my lap and place it up next to my computer, then press the laptop screen down until it clicks shut.
“Let’s chat for a second.”
Wyatt raises a brow. “What do you want to talk about?”
“I’m curious—why did you build your own rehab facility up here instead of using the one downstairs?”
Wyatt looks down at his hands. I do, too—at the black leather racing gloves he always wears. Right now, they’re clenched into fists. I can see his fingers flexing and releasing, even when he shoots me that self-deprecating smile.
“I got a huge settlement from Zeb’s insurance company. Guess it just felt like I should spend it on something that would make me feel better, not worse.”
“Zeb was your friend that died?”
He gives a curt nod. “He was the best. Lead singer of the band, friends since we were kids, introduced me to my wife—ex-wife,” he says, correcting himself. He goes silent for a long moment, then shakes his head. “Motherfucker could drink like no one I’d ever met. Could get behind the wheel and drive that car like a boss. The only way you’d ever know he was wrecked was with a breathalyzer.”
I don’t say anything to that. Wyatt looks up at the ceiling, then exhales hard.
“Fucking sucked losing him—was a shitload worse considering I was in a coma for the funeral and all. I missed the mourning period. By the time I was back in the land of the living, people were trying to heal. I wasn’t ready for that shit.”
“Seems like you are now, though,” I say quietly. He smiles at me and the corners of his eyes crinkle a bit.
“I’m getting there. Little by little.”
“And so you built a crazy ass home gym up here? Because you’re ready to heal?”
He frowns a little. “I mean . . . I guess so . . .”
I narrow my eyes, then cross my arms over my chest.
“Bullshit.”
Wyatt blinks at me. “Huh?”
“Bullshit,” I repeat. “I call bullshit. Tell me why there’s really—what? Ten . . . maybe fifteen grand worth of shit up here that is only two floors below us and perfectly good.”
He exhales, then mutters something under his breath that sounds a whole lot like “pain in the ass.”
“Fine.” He wheels closer to me and stops a foot away from my chair. His brown eyes are a little darker as he sighs, then shrugs. “Yeah—I’m avoiding the inevitable a little bit. I don’t really like being around people or being out as much as I used to. I mean, compared to how things used to be. I hate even being around the other people here, when I used to go out every night. Now . . . I’m just not as into being around the same crowd.”
I chew my lip, thinking. “Why do you think that is?”
He shrugs. “Because I’m not the same person. Because I’m not sure I even know how to be the same guy I was before. The guy who hit the bars every night, who drank like a fucking fish, who played drums the same way he would breathe—naturally and with very little effort. The guy who could walk.”
I lean back in my chair and cock my head, watching Wyatt. He rubs his thighs through his jeans, then cups his knees. I wonder if he can feel that or if it’s habit.
“Do you think you’re avoiding seeing your old friends because of the wheelchair? Because you aren’t walking?”
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Wyatt’s brow furrows a bit and I feel the uncontrollable urge to reach out and smooth my thumb over the wrinkles he’s self-imposing.
“I mean, that’s part of it, I guess,” he finally says. “But walking is in my future. It always has been. It’s just a matter of getting my body to cooperate.”
I nod and he gestures to a walker over in the corner.
“And frankly, I’d much rather go out in the chair than use the walker. With this, I’m an expert. I know how to maneuver around a room, I know how to work with it. The walker is foreign.”
“Yeah, I get that.”
I stare over at the walker, then glance back at Wyatt. I notice that he’s starting to smile. The grin takes over his mouth from one corner to the other. I cock an eyebrow at him.
“What’s that dopey grin for?” I ask. He shrugs.
“I was just thinking—what if we went out together? I mean, out to the bar? I avoid it like the plague since my accident. Let’s say that we hit up The Factory on Friday night. It’ll be a reward.”
“A reward?” I repeat.
“Mm-hmm.”
“A reward for whom?” I ask, eyes narrowed. Wyatt shrugs again.
“Both of us. It’ll get us both out.”
And then he wheels closer to me until our knees are touching. His expression is earnest.
“And it will give me the opportunity to get to know you a little better, Carson. That’s something I’d really like to do.”
I blink at him and my lips part slightly.
“Yeah?” I murmur. He nods.
“Yeah.”
I bite my lip then. “I haven’t actually been there since I stopped using. I’m not sure . . . it might be hard for me.”
Wyatt grabs my hand then and squeezes. He opens his mouth to speak, then closes it, then shakes his head.
“It might be hard for me, too. But honestly, Carson, don’t you think it would be easier to face our demons together than alone?”
I shoot him a half-grin.
“You mean, like the buddy system?”
He barks a laugh at that.
“Yeah, the buddy system.”