by Marie Sexton
It’s meant to be played. It won’t break.
I hit the key hard this time. At the exact same moment, the water in the bathroom turned off. The note rang out, loud and vibrant, yet still alone. Still in need of accompaniment.
I felt silly, especially when Nick appeared in the doorway wearing sweats and a T-shirt, his hair still wet. “You play?”
Teasing a bit, but there was nothing malicious behind his words, so I laughed. “Yeah. You’ve now heard the full extent of my repertoire.”
“You should do something about that.” He picked up his bottle of water and headed for the kitchen. “You can practice while I cook. I’ll call you when it’s ready.”
Within moments the homey sounds of cooking began to fill the kitchen—pots clanging and water running, a knife on a cutting board, the oven door opening and closing. I sat, comfortably nursing my beer.
And I played the piano.
It wasn’t playing the way Regina had played. It probably wasn’t playing by any reasonable definition. But as the alcohol began to warm me, I grew bold. I tested the keys, from the solemn low notes to the chirpy highs. From the bright white keys to the oddly discordant black ones. I played the one song I knew how to play over and over again—a simple, one-handed version of “Frère Jacques,” taught to me by my paternal grandmother when I was a kid. I should have felt ridiculous, a one-armed man playing piano, but somehow I knew Nick wouldn’t mind.
I knew he wouldn’t laugh.
Half an hour later, dinner was ready. He served me broiled fish, a medley of steamed vegetables, and fresh fruit salad. I stared at it, wondering for a moment how insulted he’d be if I went back for my chicken potpie.
“I guess I should have warned you, I’m a bit of a health nut.”
I looked at him, bulging arms and all. “I should have known.”
Although it wasn’t the tastiest meal I’d ever eaten, it was undoubtedly the healthiest one I’d had in ages. It wasn’t until we’d finished eating and I was starting my third beer that Nick leaned forward on the table, bringing himself closer to me.
“So tell me, Owen. Why do you live like a hermit?”
I’d just taken a drink and I paused, surprised by the question, my mouth full and my beer bottle frozen halfway between my lips and the table. I felt vulnerable. I swallowed hard and set the bottle down carefully, afraid my shaking hand would tip it over. I found myself holding my left arm close to my body, hugging myself with my right arm in an attempt to hide my stump. It was an old habit. It was something my mother had hated. “I thought you were going to wait until I was ready to talk about it.”
“I think you are ready. I think that’s why you brought it up in the first place.” When I looked up at him, I found him slightly amused, but there was no mockery in his eyes. “I’ve been there, you know. I’ve shut myself in.” It was hard to believe. He seemed so well adjusted. So normal, if there was any such thing. But there was no denying the quiet compassion I felt from him. “What is it? Social anxiety disorder?”
It seemed he wasn’t about to let me off the hook a second time, so I answered. “Not really. At least, I don’t think so.”
“So, you’ve never been diagnosed?”
“No. It’s not really that acute. It’s not like I panic or anything. It’s just something I’d rather not do. It makes me uncomfortable.”
“Okay. But why?”
“It makes me self-conscious.”
“About what?”
“My arm. And my stutter.”
His eyebrows went up. “You don’t stutter.”
“Not often. Not anymore. But when I get nervous, it starts to manifest.”
“I see.” He leaned back in his seat again, indicating the interrogation was already over and we were returning to less embarrassing topics. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“There’s a new Greek restaurant in town. I hear you get to break plates. Will you come with me?”
My heart skipped a beat. Was he asking me out? Like, on an actual date? “Why?”
“Why do they break plates? I don’t know. Must be a Greek thing.”
“No, I mean, why are you inviting me?”
He shrugged. “Why not? I get tired of cooking. And I get sick of sitting home alone. I’m guessing you do too.”
That was true, but I was still hesitant. As much as I liked being with him, the idea of going out in public made me nervous. “I don’t know.”
He shifted in his seat, not meeting my eyes, suddenly looking uncomfortable and embarrassed. “I don’t mean a date or anything.”
Was that why he thought I was balking?
I didn’t know how to reassure him that whether or not it was a date really wasn’t the issue. Instead, I took a deep breath and asked, “What time?”
Chapter Three
THE FIRST thing Nick did when I opened my front door the next evening was point at my left arm.
“You actually use your prosthetic? My sister always hated hers, although she’s talking now about having a mountain bike outfitted for her.”
He’d asked a question, but he didn’t seem to expect an answer. He was already leading me out the door to his SUV. Still, he’d made me conscious of my prosthetic. My mother had bought it for me when I left for college. I’d wanted something practical like a basic hook, but my mother had always cared more about appearance than my comfort. The fake hand hanging below my cuff looked almost real, but to my mother’s dismay, I’d never learned to use it well. Some newer replacement limbs could do amazing things, but mine tended to hang forgotten at my side. Under my long-sleeved shirt, leather straps around my shoulders helped hold it in place. They were also designed to assist in movement, but it was a skill that required practice. Mostly I’d worn it so as not to have an empty sleeve or an unsightly stump for my date with Nick.
Even if it wasn’t a date.
I was uncomfortable in the car. The straps around my shoulders felt too tight. It had been so long since I’d worn it, I’d undoubtedly gained weight and hadn’t bothered to loosen them. I shifted in my seat, trying to alleviate the pressure across the top of my back. My stump began to itch. I caught Nick glancing sideways at me as I squirmed and fidgeted, and I forced myself to hold still.
This was a terrible idea.
Let’s get takeout. Let’s go back home.
I wanted to say the words, but I was too much of a coward.
The restaurant was downtown, just past the Light District. The parking lot was full.
“I saw a spot a couple of blocks back. How do you feel about walking?” Nick asked.
“Fine with me.”
It was a great night for it, really. The breeze was chilly. Dry leaves skittered before us across the pavement, rustling and crackling. We walked side by side in silence, our footfalls somehow in sync.
The restaurant was a rude awakening. It was packed and absolutely deafening. I used my right hand to hold my prosthetic against my body so I wouldn’t bump people with it. We had to stand for a long time, waiting for a table. It was too loud to talk. I felt claustrophobic. I was sure everybody must be looking at my arm, although I was too embarrassed to actually look around and see. I stood there, huddled between Nick and the wall, wishing I had enough nerve to say, “Let’s go someplace else.” They finally seated us across from each other at a tiny table. Each spot held a dinner plate, a bread plate, flatware, and two glasses, one for water and one for wine. There was also a bottle of olive oil, one of ketchup, salt and pepper, and a flip chart of appetizers and desserts. And a wine list.
“Where the hell is the food going to go?” I asked. There was barely an inch of open space.
“What?” Nick asked, cupping his hand behind his ear.
I sighed and said in a near shout, “It’s really loud in here!”
“It is. I had no idea it would be this crowded.”
I nodded, unsure what to say. The waitress stopped at our table long enough to po
ur water and wedge a plate of bread between our glasses. Not sliced bread, but one big hunk with a serrated knife stabbed into the center like some kind of ritual killing. I stared at it, hating it. Why couldn’t they bring sliced bread? Had they ever considered how hard it was to slice bread with only one hand?
Of course they hadn’t. Why would they?
Nick was already browsing the menu, which was roughly the size of a newspaper. I tried to scoot my chair back to give myself room to open mine without being dangerously close to spilling my water all over the bread, but there was no room behind me to move into.
The waitress stopped at our table, pad and pen in hand, looking frazzled. I suspected her hair had begun the night in a tight twist, but it was now coming loose and falling around her face. She had smudged mascara and a run in her stockings. “Are you ready to order?”
“We’ll start with the sampler appetizer,” Nick said. “And I’d like a mineral water.”
They both turned to me, and I felt my throat begin to clench up. Restaurants were one of my biggest triggers. “This is the real world,” my mother used to say. “You have to be able to interact with people. You’ll never get anywhere in life if you can’t even order dinner.” My mother always made ordering dinner feel like a test. If I stuttered, I failed. If I didn’t stutter? Well, I’d probably find some other way to fail. The night was young and ripe with possibilities.
“Uh…,” I said stupidly.
The waitress blew her hair out of her eyes. “House red’s on special until seven. Want to try that?”
“Y-yes. Sure. Th-thank you.”
“You like wine?” Nick asked when she was gone.
“Not really.”
He cocked his head at me in confusion. “Then why did you order it?”
Because it was the easy way out. But what I said was, “I thought I’d try something new.”
He seemed to approve of that sentiment. “I don’t eat out often. Restaurant food is loaded with sodium and empty calories. But every once in a while it’s nice to splurge.” He looked down at his menu. “I’m thinking lamb chops or moussaka.”
“No broiled fish?”
He laughed. “Definitely not.”
I finally managed to open my menu, although I knocked over my wineglass in the process. I counted myself lucky it was still empty. I scanned the menu, thinking less about what sounded good and more about what would be easy to eat. Pasta was always a good bet, as was fish, except we’d had that the night before. Not steak, because it could be hard to cut. Nothing from the Two-Handed Sandwiches section, although I laughed to myself at the title. At least they’d given me fair warning.
The waitress stopped again to set down our drinks. I’d assumed she’d pour the wine into the glass in front of me, but instead she brought a new one, although she had to carefully rearrange everything on the tabletop to make room for it.
She blew her hair out of her eyes again and pulled her pad and pen out. “You ready?” She didn’t even look at us. Her gaze flitted around the room, taking note of what needed to be done next—who needed water refills and who needed their check. She was hurried and weary, and her impatience made me self-conscious in an all-too-familiar way.
Nick ordered—lamb chops and moussaka—and then it was my turn. And in that instant, I knew I was doomed. I felt the panic clawing at the back of my throat, making my mouth unresponsive. “I-I-I’d like the b-b-b-b—” I stopped and took a deep breath, feeling their eyes on me. My cheeks burned. I couldn’t possibly look at Nick. I kept my eyes on my menu and tried again. “The b-b-b—”
“The bruschetta?” the waitress asked. “Or the baked penne?”
“N-n-no. The b-b-b—” I stopped again. In that moment, I hated her. I hated the damn restaurant. I hated my nerves for making me stutter at the worst possible moments.
“Why don’t you give us a minute?” Nick said.
My relief at being granted a reprieve was overshadowed by my embarrassment. “I’m s-s-s-s—” I couldn’t even get the word sorry out. The frustration was like a weight in my chest. I had the sudden urge to cry. I tried to stand up, but there was no room to move my chair back, and as I stood, my menu fell forward, knocking over glasses. I reached for them, instinctively, with both arms, but I’d forgotten about my prosthetic. I wore it so seldom, and in my panic, I didn’t account for the extra eighteen inches of metal and rubber attached to my stump.
My false hand crashed into the Tetris puzzle that was our tabletop. Wine spilled everywhere. So did Nick’s mineral water. Two of the glasses fell to the floor, shattering with a crash that silenced the chaos around us. Everybody turned our way, and I imagined their surprise and their quiet snickers when they saw who was responsible.
“I have to go,” I said, without meeting Nick’s eye. “I’m s-s-sorry. I j-j-j—”
“Owen?”
He reached across the table for me and I jerked away. I looked up and saw the waitress headed our way with our appetizers, annoyance written all over her face. “I n-n-need to l-leave.”
“Okay,” he said, his voice calm and reasonable. “Wait for me at the car, okay? Give me a minute to pay the bill.”
I nodded, but the only thing that held me to that promise was the fact that I didn’t have keys to his SUV and it would have been a long walk home. I’d made a fool of myself, and in front of Nick, no less. I leaned against his vehicle and covered my eyes with my good hand. When I finally heard him approach, I couldn’t even look at him.
He stopped directly in front of me, ducking down a bit to try to force me to meet his eyes. “Are you okay?”
No, I wasn’t okay. I was a mess. Embarrassed and ashamed. “I’m s-sorry,” I blurted out. “Jesus, I’m so sorry!”
“For what? The whole reason we went there was so we could break things.”
I thought I heard the smile in his voice, but I couldn’t return it. “Still—”
“Owen, stop.” He put his fingers under my chin and lifted it, forcing me to face him. To see that he was indeed smiling at me with a kindness that went a long way toward soothing my embarrassment. “You don’t need to be sorry. If anything, I should apologize for bullying you into coming out tonight. And I picked the worst possible restaurant. We should have left the minute I saw how crowded it was.”
“I feel like a fool.”
“Don’t,” he said simply. “There’s no reason.”
His easy acceptance of my neurosis only made me feel worse. “I’ll pay you back for the wine and whatever else was on the bill.”
He waved his hand at me. “Don’t worry about it.” He gestured down the street toward the Light District. “There’s another place we can go. Nothing fancy, but it won’t be crowded like that Greek place. It’s called the Vibe. Do you know it?”
“No.” I didn’t know any of the places in town that didn’t deliver.
“It’s sort of an aging-hippie sandwich joint. Sometimes they have live music in the back. We can walk down there and check it out, and if you don’t like it, we’ll take the sandwiches to go, okay?”
I could have hugged him for making it so easy on me. “Okay.”
But instead of turning to lead me away from the car, he took a step closer to me. “First things first, though.” He reached up and pushed my coat off my shoulders.
“I’ll freeze without my coat.”
“I know.” He pulled it free and tossed it onto the hood of his car. “You’ll get it back.” Then, to my surprise, he began to unbutton my shirt.
“What are you doing?”
“What we should have done before we left the house.”
He finished with the buttons and pushed the shirt off my shoulders. I wore a T-shirt underneath it, under the straps that held my arm in place, but it still felt strange to have him remove my shirt. “Undressing me?” I asked. My voice shook. I was painfully aware of how close he stood. Of how good he smelled. Of the gentleness of his hands as he helped me remove my prosthetic from the sleeve. He left my shir
t on the hood of his car, just as he’d done with my jacket.
He reached for the buckle on my right shoulder. “Getting rid of this.”
I blushed, but I stood still as he undid the strap. He was close enough I could easily have kissed him if I’d dared. He finished the first buckle and began to undo the one on the other side. “I feel silly,” I said. Silly and ridiculously aroused, but I opted to keep that latter bit to myself.
“Why?”
“I just do.”
“Well, stop.” He pushed the straps off my shoulders and reached for my arm, but I pulled back, thinking of the wrapping underneath, of the sweat and the way my skin was always red and inflamed after wearing the prosthetic.
“Don’t. You don’t want to do that.”
“I’ve done it a hundred times for my sister.” He laughed. “Probably more. Anyway, I’m a doctor, remember?”
“I’m not a dog.”
“I’m aware of that fact,” he said. And then his laughter seemed to fall away and he added, in a quieter voice, “Excruciatingly aware.”
I wasn’t sure how to take that. I wasn’t sure if it was a compliment or an insult or neither. I stood speechless and confused as he carefully released my arm from my prosthetic. He turned away from me to unlock his car, and while he did, I pulled off the rubber sleeve that fit over my stump. He took that from me too and tossed it like a discarded sock into the back seat of his SUV with my arm. I stood there shivering, watching him, wondering about his sudden change in mood. Wondering if he knew how intimate the past few minutes had felt to me. If he did, he gave no indication. He smiled at me. “Aren’t you freezing?”
“As a matter of fact, I am.” He waited while I put my shirt back on and rolled my left sleeve up to the base of my stump so it wouldn’t flap loose while I walked.
“Do you want me to do the other side to match?” he asked. Blunt and honest, yet practical, since I couldn’t roll it up myself.
