Love Is Beautiful (Chelsea & Max)

by Abby Brooks

  “Don’t have one that fits?” Or, you know, a long-sleeved shirt? I do my best not to judge because some people really do struggle to make ends meet. But Charlie’s mom has my cell phone number. All she needed to do is text me and ask if we could meet somewhere else. I hand him the hot cocoa and he holds the warm cup in close to his body. In that moment, he looks so small that my heart breaks.

  “Nah.” Another shiver. “See you brought the dog along.”

  “Sure did. I still can’t run.” I pat my knee. “Made my physical therapist mad at me last week by playing too hard.”

  “Physical therapist? What’s that?”

  I think for a minute, trying to find the right way to describe the job to a kid. “She’s kind of like a doctor, but she knows how to make injuries get better faster.”

  Charlies nods. “You could have just said doctor, you know.”

  “I could. But she’s not really a doctor.”

  “She pretty?” Charlie looks up at me, the wind lifting his hair from his forehead.

  “Very,” I say without thinking.

  He grins and damn, if it isn’t marvelous. “You got her ball?” He gestures towards Reagan with his chin. The second she hears that word, she tilts her head and perks her ears. “Hey!” Charlies grins again. “She knows what I said!”

  “Of course she does.” I dig in my pocket for her favorite toy. “She’s no dummy.”

  “Nope. You can tell just looking at her. She’s like me. Too smart for her own good.”

  I take Charlie’s hot cocoa from him and hand over the ball. It kills me to see his thin arms exposed, his pale skin looking slightly blue. “Hey. Tell you what. You take my jacket for a bit. You’ve been out here longer than me.”

  The kid doesn’t hesitate. “You sure? It’s gonna be so big.”

  “Just like you, huh?” I take the thing off and hand it over. It’s huge on him, of course. As big as he might be in the future, he’s just a scrawny kid now and I actually am big. We roll up the sleeves as best we can and I send him out to play.

  He’s good with the dog. Fast, too. Gives her a run for her money if they’re both going for the ball at the same time. I watch them play and it makes me smile to see him fighting with my jacket. Well, until I start worrying about how long it might be until he gets a jacket that fits. Then I stop smiling altogether and my teeth start grinding together. I understand not being able to make ends meet. I really do. I understand that sometimes, people have to decide to do without. But how long will Charlie have to go without a jacket?

  The decision’s made before I even realize I’m making it. I call him back over and he sprints towards me, both boy and dog grinning widely. “Wanna go get a jacket?”

  “Really? Like right now?”

  “Yup. This very instant.” His enthusiasm warms me.

  Charlie looks at me, eyes wide and glimmering with excitement. “You mean a new jacket? Like it’s mine and no one else’s?”

  “Yours and no one else’s.” Talk about an icepick to the heart. It kills me to think about the life this kid is living. We pile into my car and head to the mall. I might go a little overboard, letting him pick out a jacket, and a coat, and a few long-sleeved shirts. I keep my eye on the time so we can be back at the park in time to meet Charlie’s mom who is—of course—late. We munch on some soft pretzels while we wait, Charlie swinging his legs happily while he throws bites to Reagan.

  “So are you gonna ask that doctor out on a date or something?” Charlie asks around a bite of pretzel.

  “Doctor? Oh you mean the physical therapist?”

  “Yeah. The pretty one that’s fixing your knee.”

  I shake my head and laugh. “Nah.”

  “Oh.” Charlie nods knowingly. “I get it. She’s pretty but she’s not nice.”

  “Actually, she seems very nice. And she’s brave. Her friend was getting picked on by some guy a lot bigger than her and she stepped in and helped.”

  Charlie shrugs. “Just not into her?”

  “How old are you? Ten or twenty-three?”

  “Ten, silly.” Charlie tosses Reagan another bite. I wish he’d eat more. He looks about ten pounds underweight.

  When his mom finally shows up—chatting away with someone on her iPhone, digging through a Coach purse with her manicured hands—she’s almost half an hour late. She gestures at Charlie, barely sparing him a glance, and my gut churns. I get having to do without, but I don’t get buying luxury items while your child doesn’t have a properly fitting jacket. Charlie hops off the bench and waves.

  “Hold on,” I say and wait for his mom to notice that he’s not at her side.

  “Charlie,” she snaps, her overly made up eyes glinting angrily. “I ain’t got time to wait on your slow ass.”

  And that’s about all the patience I have left. I stand, putting myself between Charlie and his mom. She finally sees me, all six foot three inches of me, and she licks her lips while her eyes travel greedily across my body. “Call ya back,” she says into the phone and ends the call, her long fingernail clicking on the screen. “What’s up?”

  “I bought Charlie a few things.” I wrap an arm around the boy when I realize he’s hiding behind me, peeking out at his mom like he’s afraid she’ll bite. “I only meant to get him a jacket, since it was so cold today. But I ended up grabbing him a new coat and some shirts. He was just so thankful, it made me want to do more for him.”

  The woman eyes me, sizes me up, then unleashes a wide, red-lipped smile. “That’s very kind of you. It’s hard to keep him in clothes, he grows so fast. And what with me only able to find part time work, money just gets so tight.” She gives me a shrug and a look that says what can you do. I can think of a few things she could do without, that’s for sure.

  What kills me the most? The way she barely looks at her son. The way the light died in his eyes the moment he saw her. The way he’s clutching his bag of new clothes like he’s afraid she might just snatch it away. I had my fair share of shitty foster moms, but my real mom was an angel. At least I always had that to fall back on. From the looks of it, poor Charlie doesn’t even have that.

  “Thanks again for taking him off my hands.” His mother looks me over again, trying to play it all cool and sultry but there is no way in hell I’m buying what she’s selling.

  “I had a good time today, Charlie,” I say to the kid, careful to meet his eyes and let him see that I mean it.

  “Me too, Max. See you next week?”

  “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Charlie’s mom takes off without another word, without even looking to make sure he’s following her. I watch them go with bitterness rising in my chest. I’m not a family man. I won’t do it. After all I went through, I’m afraid I won’t be capable of much more than Charlie’s mom. But damn. My heart is breaking for the boy. In this one instant, I want to swoop him up and tell him it’ll all be okay. That he’s wanted and appreciated and worth so much more than used clothes and caustic words.

  I watch them as they walk into the parking lot, towards a beat up Trans Am that looks like it hasn’t been cleaned or cared for in the last ten years. Charlie turns and waves at me, smiling big. Then his mom barks something at him and he loses the smile. His face goes cold and he climbs into the backseat without another glance my way. Maybe I should see about seeing the kid more than once a week.

  Reagan whines at my side, sensing my mood. “It’s okay, girl.” I rub that spot between her ears she loves so much. “Just feeling protective, that’s all. You know how I get about strays.” I watch the Trans Am pull away and see Charlie’s face pressed to the glass. I stand and wave so that the last thing he sees before he goes back to whatever he’s got waiting for him at home is that someone cares.

  10

  Ever since I realized that I have a crush on Max Santoro, I’ve been simultaneously looking forward to and absolutely dreading our next appointment. I’m so keyed up about it that I can barely my eyes off the clock, counting
the minutes until he shows up. Hudson has most definitely noticed.

  “You haven’t even commented on how well I’m leading with my heel,” he says. It’s the end of our appointment and he’s up on the massage table while I work on the tissue around his Achilles. “And I was so sure you’d be impressed with the progress I’ve made.”

  “Or you could just take my silence as a compliment in and of itself.” I find a knot in his calf and dig in with my thumbs. “Tender here?”

  His eyes roll back and he nods vigorously. “I’d prefer a more direct approach to the compliments, thank you very much,” he says through clenched teeth. “I’m not much on only receiving criticism.”

  “Why am I not surprised?” I roll my eyes and check the clock again. Ten minutes. Max isn’t here yet and he seems like one of those early types. What if he doesn’t come?

  “You have an appointment or something? You’re awfully distracted.”

  “Nope. Just keeping an eye on the time so I’m not late for my next patient.”

  “You mean the scowling man who looks like he should be on the team but isn’t?”

  “That’s the one.”

  Hudson flashes me one of his patented dimpled smiles. “You dog. Are you angling to get another one of your patients to ask you out? What? You have a thing for big, strong, broken men?”

  I push extra hard on that knot in his calf and he drops his head back and grunts. “Actually, I’m more of a business man with his shit together kind of gal, thank you very much.”

  “If you say so. But first me, the poor injured football player. Now this guy, the poor injured … what’s he do?”

  “He’s a cop.”

  “Ohhh. A control freak. Look at you.” Hudson wrinkles his nose and I can’t help but smile. He really is adorable.

  “First of all. I didn’t ask you out. You asked me out. And I think we can both agree that, Sloan incident aside, the evening wasn’t exactly going the way either of us hoped. Second of all, I don’t have a thing for Max.” But I do! I really, really do! “I just want to take the time to give him the proper care he deserves. You’re almost totally rehabilitated. He’s not.”

  “Aha! So I am leading more with my heel! I knew it.” Hudson smiles and drops the subject. I get him finished up and scan the area for Max, wondering just when exactly my interest in him went from casual to ‘but I do! I really, really do!’ Hudson strides towards the locker rooms—his gait really is much improved—and passes Max on the way out. He spins, drops me a wink and gives me the thumbs up. So of course, I’m blushing and totally flustered as Max arrives in front of me.

  “Good morning, Mr. Santoro,” I manage, a little overly bright.

  “Thought I told you to call me Max.” If I’m overly bright, he’s gone the other way, his voice gruff, his eyes clouded.

  “You sure did. Just didn’t want to presume.” Or show you that I’ve apparently developed one hell of a crush on you by being too eager to use your first name. “So, let’s try this again,” I say. “Good morning, Max. How are you?”

  He looks me in the eyes and smiles. “Better now. How are you, Chelsea?”

  My toes curl hearing him say my name, that’s how I am. “Better now,” I say and blush again. I clear my throat. What am I? Sixteen again? “How’s the knee?”

  “Better.” He laughs. That’s a sound I could get used to. It calls to some basic part of me and makes me feel like I’ve come home. It’s like I recognize something in this guy. Something that I don’t see in other people.

  “Oh yeah? ‘Better’ as in you don’t want to admit you’re still hurting and nothing’s changed or better as in you followed my instructions and it’s actually improved.”

  “The second one.”

  Thankfully, he’s wearing shorts today, so there will be none of that awkward giggliness when I have to roll up his pants leg like last week. I have him hop up on of the massage tables and take a peek. “You’re right, this does look much better.” I prod around the joint, looking for any pain points. Not that he would admit to one if I found it, but I like to think I’m good enough at my job that I could feel the problem even if he didn’t say anything.

  “So, you approve? I did good by sitting around on my butt all week?”

  “You sure did. Best butt-sitting results I’ve seen from anyone.” I ask him to hop down and lead him over to a row of stationary bikes.

  “Great,” he says when we come to a stop. “More butt-sitting.”

  I laugh and roll my eyes. “Baby steps. Gotta crawl before you can walk and all that.”

  “Not me. I come at everything full tilt. Let me on the treadmill, woman.”

  “Wait, which one of us has the bum knee? And which of us has the doctorate?” I smile as he shakes his head. “Oh yeah. That’s right. I’m the one with the doctorate. And I say up on the bike, gimpy.”

  “Gimpy?” Max looks appalled.

  “Yep. Gimpy.” I had hoped to make him laugh but that doesn’t seem to be doing it. Not a fan of silly nicknames. Noted.

  “You’re not going to make a habit of calling me that, are you?”

  “Nope, just trying it on. Now, Max…” I emphasize his name and make a delightful little impish face. Or, at least what I hope is a delightful little impish face. “Would you please hop up on the bike so we can get started?”

  He complies without complaint or any recognition of how cute I tried to be. Come on, Chelsea, dial it back a notch, I think to myself as I set the program on the bike and step back to watch his knee work. Most physical therapists rely on patient testimony and touch to understand the injury. I see it somehow. Always have. It’s part of what makes me so good at my job. At first, I thought everyone was like me. It took me a long time to realize that a lot of therapists are operating blind. I try to capitalize on my gift as much as I can, but that means I’m way more hands on with my patients then a lot of my colleagues.

  For instance, any other therapist in the place would leave Max alone to do his thing while they worked on a second patient or started on paperwork. I never double book myself because there’s no way I can give one person the kind of specialized attention I’m capable of if I’m trying to multi-task. It took me awhile to prove to Cincinnati Orthopedics that this was best, though. There were more than a few years of me running myself ragged trying to balance multiple patients at once before they saw that I actually am quite good at what I do.

  His knee looks better than it did last week, that’s for sure, but even as tough as he is, he’s still dealing with a hefty dose of pain. I can see that without question. I watch for any more abnormalities, arms folded across my chest, leaning in to get a better look, totally oblivious to the fact that he’s watching me.

  “Find anything of interest down there?” he asks.

  “You’re still hurting,” I say, still staring at his knee. “And it aches up into the iliotibial band, doesn’t it?” I step in close to him and run my hand up the side of his thigh. “Here.” I look up and realize just how close we are. I get a whiff of his cologne, rich and spicy. Watch his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

  “Yes. It does.”

  I pull my hand away from him and step back. Whatever that was, as professional as I meant it to be, it was anything but appropriate. “Okay then,” I say, nodding quickly. “How about you finish that bike ride and I’ll be back to check on you in a few minutes.” I don’t wait for his response. I just do a quick about face and make my way towards the restrooms where I stare at myself in the mirror, willing the strong and in control version of me to make an appearance.

  I’m at home making dinner, singing along very loudly to Pandora, enjoying the pop and sizzle of homemade fajitas on the stove, when I get a text from Maya.

  Turn on the TV. Channel 7.

  Without asking why, I turn on the television in the living room as another text comes in.

  I think they’re talking about you.

  Onscreen, June is tearfully talking about that night in Aura. W
hoever styled her is a genius. She doesn’t look at all like the vapid moron I remember from that night. She looks humble. Modest, even. The bruise on her neck is still visible, as is the one around her mouth. The fact that I healed so quickly makes me wonder if Sloan even managed to hit me with all he’s worth. I shiver, remembering the explosion of pain that night. If that was only a taste of what he’s capable of, I don’t want to think of what June went through before I showed up.

  “I was done for,” she says onscreen, her voice wavering tearfully. “I don’t know what would have happened if she hadn’t shown up.” June shakes her head. “I take that back. I know exactly what would happen if she hadn’t shown up.” Tears overtake her and she stares at her hands while she regains her composure. “Anyway, I wasn’t going to file charges until I found out she had. I owe so much to this woman and I don’t even remember her name.”

  I take a seat on the edge of my couch, transfixed by the TV. How did she find out I pressed charges? The only way she could have found out is if someone told her. And if someone told her, they would surely be able to tell her who I was. I mean, they only people who even know I went to the police are Hudson, my sisters, and Max.

  It had to be Hudson. I can’t imagine it was anyone else. But why is she making such a big stink of it on TV? What’s she getting at here?

  “The long and short of it is,” June continues. “Whoever she is, she’s a hero. She saved me from a bad man.” Her voice breaks. “And when that bad man came after her, hitting her in the face and pushing her down, she didn’t just take it. She fought back. I owe everything to her.” June’s looking in the camera, her wide, blue eyes sparkling with tears. Her blonde hair falling softly to her shoulders. She looks incredibly beautiful, incredibly wounded, and absolutely genuine.

  My phone buzzes in my hand. Maya calling.

  “Was that her? Was she talking about you?”

  I race into the kitchen and pull my fajitas off the stove before they burn. “That was her.”