The Way We Were : A second chance romance (Take Me Home Series Book 2)

by SJ Cavaletti

  “Oh, my fucking God!” A beautiful woman with wavy blonde hair in her late forties, one from the ladder, approached. “This thing is off the charts!”

  I smiled and looked at the rest of the camp mates, who all flooded out. Damn, there were quite a few hot women here. It was like El camped with two generations of Miss America. You had the two younger women, one who reminded me of Uma Thurman in Pulp Fiction, but shorter and the other a Hawaiian goddess. Couldn’t even be thirty? Then the two women in their forties. I guessed. Like Cindy Crawford and Heidi Klum or some other nineties supermodels had aged really well.

  Why did I care if El camped with a harem? I didn’t. Yes. I did. I wanted him to move on. Sort of. Well, not really. I wanted him to get a dog.

  Both literally and figuratively.

  At least I did in my darker, more spiteful moments.

  Suddenly, El walked out of an RV, looking down at a headlamp, oblivious at first to our arrival, but then he stepped into the shadow of the chariot and looked up.

  “Holy hell!”

  “Right?” One of his friends said.

  I needed names. I hoped El would get on with it. He did.

  “Guys, this is Liz, our chariot driver, and Simone…”

  They all waved. El continued, pointing at each one as he said their names, “Drake, you already met, and Maeve, Koa, Jasmine, Helena and Flick. And somewhere around here…”

  “No, the boys left,” Maeve said.

  “Oh, well, you missed Pika and Joey.”

  “Nice meeting you all. Sorry I don’t have room for everyone tonight.”

  As if they had all spoken about it and coordinated beforehand, Maeve, Drake, and El hopped on the platform.

  The one called Jasmine said to me, “If you get sick of these guys, you can drop them at the pirate ship later.”

  “Good to know,” I said. “If they aren’t wild enough, I can throw them to the pirates for child’s play.”

  Jasmine looked at El. “Oooh. This one is sassy.”

  Our new companions waved their friends off and I (fortunately) drove off smoothly. Only two streets away was the huge central Plain where Center Camp was and all the biggest art installations. Art was everywhere and yet nowhere, with large expanses of land in between. The site was enormous and once out on the Plain, with no streets or markings, it was like wandering the desert, searching for the next oasis.

  We drove for several minutes aimlessly… I wasn’t really sure what I was supposed to be doing.

  But still I drove. And asked no questions. And nobody asked me where I headed either. Because the chariot divided from the platform of horses, I could pretend I concentrated and felt somewhat exempt from conversation.

  But as I watched El looking out over the landscape, standing next to a carousel horse, the sun setting on his skin like taupe velvet, I realized I wasn’t ready for this. For El. For talking. For trying to mix my old life with my new. Even though I knew things had to be the way they were, my stomach still did funny things, and my mind didn’t even attempt to hide its dirty thoughts. Being friends over the web was possible. This was… a challenge.

  Things had been so neat before. With thousands of miles between us, it was easier to ignore that El and I had never found closure. And now that we were together, the way he glanced back at me every few minutes, the same soft look in his eyes. It was the last look I left behind when I moved out of our apartment in Seattle.

  Maeve and Drake (sadly for Simone her boy toy was taken) snuggled on one horse and Simone and El stood on the platform next to the other one. They spoke, but I couldn’t hear anything they said. I was pretty sure they spoke about me, though. It was their common thread after all and would have been the normal thing to do.

  El looked back for his tenth time as I drove and drove. I passed a couple pieces of art but didn’t stop. Probably, that was what I was supposed to do. Stop and let everyone off. Like a tour bus. But there were two things: one, I didn’t want to stop because then maybe El and I would talk. Two. I had no means of maneuvering. I’d left my wheelchair at camp. I wanted the excuse to buck off early.

  The next time El looked at me, and I didn’t look away fast enough. Our eyes locked. His lips twitched into a smile and he made his way the ten feet across the platform to stand at the edge of my chariot.

  “This thing is incredible,” he said. “Not surprised to hear you designed it.”

  “You know better than anyone. I get off where imagination meets reality.”

  Shit. Why did I say that? It was true, but so much damn innuendo. Of all the things I could have said…

  “Doesn’t sound like you do much of that these days,” he replied. “Inventing.”

  His tone was flat. I couldn’t read it. Was he simply making a factual comment? Because my days as an innovator in the medical space were far behind me. That was a fact. Was he disappointed that I didn’t create anymore? Because I created plenty… like creating better lives through inspiration.

  He continued, “Mind if I give you some advice? For a newbie Gypsy?”

  I nodded.

  “Just stop. Stop wherever and whenever you like. If you’re looking for somewhere to go, you’re already there.”

  And he smiled again. Bigger this time, so I saw those sweet, square teeth of his.

  Somewhere to go? I’m already there? I bet this time he was the one sweating inside that he’d said the wrong thing. Too much innuendo.

  Only this was El. He never flapped. He never looked like he didn’t know what he was doing. Making a career out of other people’s emergencies made the rest of life feel considered.

  “I might stop at the next installation,” I said. “But…”

  “You can’t get off.”

  Of course he knew. Of course he’d notice I didn’t have my wheelchair. Because he cared. Because he noticed everything. He wasn’t a handy guy. He couldn’t fix things if they went wrong. That had always been my department, but when it came to risk management, he was the boss.

  Prevention is the best medicine after all. Or at least that’s what he used to say

  “Well,” I replied, “I can get off, if I want to shuffle like an ape.” I wasn’t annoyed. But I sounded like I was.

  “Just hop on my back. I’ll take you around. Easy.”

  “You’ll quickly get tired of that.”

  “If I do, Drake will take over.”

  “I’m not comfortable wi—”

  “Stop Lizzie. What are you going to do? Be a bus driver tonight? That’s no fun.”

  Lizzie. Only El called me Lizzie. Especially now. In public, I was Liz. To friends and family, Liz. Only to El…

  I conceded. “You’re right. And thanks. Hope you can still muscle me.”

  El used to give me piggy backs in the early days. I weighed less than I did then. My leg muscles were completely gone now and so was the misery weight I’d gained after the accident. This, along with the fact that he’d clearly been working out…

  Damn it. Thinking about his body again.

  I called to the others, interrupting myself so I didn’t slide into one of those sweet old memories. “You guys want to stop somewhere?”

  Maeve called back, “Whatever you want. We’re just grateful for the ride.”

  Drake turned and said, “See those flowers up ahead?”

  He pointed north-east. Vaguely in the distance, there were three tall, thin structures that looked like stems and petals.

  “Yeah.”

  “We got to see those. It’s perfect timing, too. Sunset.”

  El tapped the edge of the chariot and said, “I’ll get you when we stop.”

  And he went back to chat to Simone.

  Suddenly I felt a green-eyed monster poking me in the nose. Far up my nostrils enough to make my eyes sting. Simone would never. El would never. But I wanted to be that girl right now. The one he had an effortless conversation with. The one that laughed at one of his dumb jokes and that he could talk to for more than a six sentenc
e exchange.

  The flowers were further away than I thought because they were absolutely enormous. Three stories tall, at least. They stood straight in the air, stiff and beautiful but lifeless.

  I stopped the chariot. Maeve, Drake and Simone hopped off. El got off, too, came around the back and put his back up against me at the stool. It was actually the perfect mounting block for getting on his back. But…

  To touch him. Ugh. I didn’t want to because I did.

  But with limited choices, I shoved away an inner sigh and placed my hands on his muscular shoulders.

  A million mornings came rushing back to me. His back turned in bed beside me, watching the breath come in and out of his beautiful torso. Wanting to touch him but waiting, observing every inch of his skin from behind.

  El wasn’t topless now, but that fabric might as well have not been there. I could still see every line of his shoulder blades… the two vertebrae near his neck…

  This flood of souvenirs pinched my tummy with annoying fingers of sadness, but I had no choice. I placed my hands on his brawny shoulders and he grabbed me somewhere underneath my butt and pulled me right on his back.

  “You okay?” I asked. “I’m not too heavy?”

  “Course I’m okay. You always used to ask that and the answer is still the same. Light as a feather.”

  He jumped down off the platform, still had the most amazing balance, and we walked toward the others.

  Simone turned toward me and El, a curious smirk hiding behind her eyes. “Drake was saying that these are supposed to have motion sensors in them?”

  “Really?” I asked, suddenly noticing how close my mouth was to El’s ear, his neck… his manly cologne. “We’re so far down though…”

  Drake waved his arms around in between something resembling dramatic dance moves. “Guys, come on. Shake your booties. Apparently, they’ll move if we do.”

  Simone raised her brows and shrugged her shoulders, then waved her arms about and skipped like a pagan princess at Stonehenge. Maeve and Drake followed suit, trying to provoke these motion sensors. Drake took Maeve around the waist and swung her around in a circle, like children making helicopters in the backyard.

  And me on El’s back. He gyrated back and forth.

  “Wave your hands in the air,” he ordered.

  I did.

  Just when I thought we needed some music, Drake started singing. His melody, a made up song. A sweet hymn for the magical flowers…

  “Oh flowers… wake up and see us…” he sang comically, but it still sounded amazing.

  Giggles bubbled in our “dance” circle as he sang, and just when I wondered if Drake had gotten a bad tip, the flowers moved. Three giant, whimsical poppies leaned down toward us. One orange. One pale yellow. One classic red. It was a slow process, and we kept swaying, one of my arms in the air, El two-stepping and Maeve, Drake and Simone, moving erratically to a silent disco as we watched the blooms dip down.

  El backed up, and the rest followed. The trajectory of the lean would not reach us so close to the stems.

  Awesome. In the true sense of the word. The sunset to our left, the soft glow illuminating all our wonder-struck faces. Soon, three beautiful blossoms bent all the way down to dance with us, the blazing colors of the Californian flowers so close it felt we could touch them, but they were still mysteriously far away, like the sun itself.

  I reached my arm out, knowing it was just an illusion, its size making it feel obtainable, though it would always be too far to caress.

  El sensed I reached and walked closer. He too, knowing that the effort was futile but still… he took those steps. He moved me ever closer to my object of affection.

  Suddenly he blurted, “Drake! Help me lift Liz up on my shoulders.”

  “No! El… I couldn’t never reach anyway…”

  But Drake ignored me, and so did El. Next thing I knew, Drake’s six-foot-something body pushed me up further onto El’s shoulders. My core strength was decent, but I wobbled. Insecure.

  “Don’t worry. I gotcha,” El said. When I looked down, he was rubbing my thigh.

  We walked ever closer to the red one. I reached. And strained. And gave it my longest arm, my most yearning, far-reaching fingertip. But…

  I just couldn’t touch it.

  16

  Elias

  Five and a half years ago

  Miami

  * * *

  “Knock, knock.”

  I rapped my knuckles lightly on a door though it was open. After a month in hospital, countless physical therapy, occupational therapy sessions and several operations, Liz finally home. She’d been back for three months but the rehab was hardly over. In more ways than one.

  Just back from a PT session, she looked tired lying in bed. So tired, in fact, that she didn’t even look up at me when I knocked.

  Propped up against three pillows, she faced me but her head flopped to the side and her eyes pointed to the ground, but looked at nothing. An empty gaze. I knew that gaze well. I’d seen it countless times in the eyes of patients I referred on for mental health evaluation.

  Depression.

  It was the look of a person who had vision only for the things in their head. And in their past.

  It was all understandable. This was the kind of depression that was impossible to solve. The same kind of depression that grief can cause. The loss of something irrevocable. A seemingly impossible barrier to cross. People with depression caused by grief don’t want to cross over into a new life. Somehow, their grief is their only connection to the thing they once loved.

  Liz’s legs were gone. When I saw them crushed by the ATV, I knew there was a long recovery ahead. Broken bones, tendons, ligaments… nerve damage. But when she said those words.

  I heard those words over and over in my dreams. My nightmares.

  “I can’t feel my legs…”

  They haunted me. And I’m sure they haunted her, too. Looking in her eyes, half the time it was like looking at a ghost.

  Paraplegia.

  The other word that likely haunted her. Though she hadn’t said it. Some random doctor in Arizona had.

  Like many men would, and every doctor would, I went right into problem-solving mode. I did research on wheelchairs. I altered our apartment the best I could. I interviewed countless physical and occupational therapists so Liz would have ones with the right attitudes. That she might actually enjoy going to see…

  With her body, I was the most capable partner she could ever have. With her mind, we both felt completely helpless.

  I went in to the bedroom and sat on the edge of the bed near her chest and set down on the nightstand a cup of tea I had made for her.

  She looked up at me as though she genuinely hadn’t noticed me knock.

  “Oh, hey…” she pushed herself up, trying to be more upright. She looked at the tea. “Thanks. Whew. I’m pooped.”

  A vacant smile.

  “I bet you are.”

  She grabbed the tea and took a sip. “Mmm. I love this blend.”

  Liz loved tea, and I had gone to a foofy tea shop with thousands of them to get ones to try. It was the closest thing to wine tasting I could bring home to her. Liz didn’t want to go out. I wasn’t sure if she was in pain, or just plain tired… or… didn’t want to be out in public in her chair.

  But she needed to get out. I needed to get out. WE needed to get out. Distractions. So many people say that when they are grieving, distractions work to pass the time until a new era dawns.

  “I was thinking,” I said, as she blew the hot tea; her huge blue eyes looked at mine. “We need to get out. So I got us tickets to a show at Laugh Lab.”

  I had spoken to a doctor at work. A psychiatrist who’d been working on gelotology. The study of laughter. She said getting Liz laughing would get her endorphins going. She led a laughter club clinic at the hospital and it intrigued me. It was experimental, but she told me it had positive results. And one thing this doctor mentioned, that I
selfishly wanted, was the connection. She told me laughter connects people. I wanted to reconnect to Liz so badly it wasn’t want anymore. It was need.

  “The Laugh Lab?” Liz asked, “That’s the comedy place on Second Avenue?”

  “Yeah. Highly recommended.”

  “I dunno…”

  “Liz. I know you don’t want to go. But I do.”

  She contemplated that statement. It was a sentence I hadn’t taken lightly. One I’d sat on for hours. I had considered using other arguments. Telling her about the laugh clinics and how they worked. Maybe bringing up endorphins, science Liz was familiar with. But this line? Telling her I wanted this? It was like using a safety word. It would produce instant results. Because I had never asked Liz to do anything for me.

  Liz squeezed her eyes shut. She really didn’t want to. And of my many hunches why I had another hypothesis. In one of my research binges, I saw that wheelchair users, especially those new to one, often struggled with clothing options. Liz had put on a few pounds to top off the other issues her clothing might present now that she was in a wheelchair all the time.

  Sure enough. She said, “El. I don’t have anything to wear.”

  Maybe I was right. And even though I’d researched some solutions, it also scared me to tell her I’d bought her some new clothes.

  “I bought you some new jeans.”

  She shook her head and pulled it back. Confused. “What do you mean?”

  “I got you some jeans that might be more comfortable. In your chair.”

  My heart stopped and my body waited in the syncopated beat between inhale and exhale. Her body looked as stunned as mine felt.

  Thankfully, she didn’t take long to reply. She took in a huge breath and let it out, noisy. “I’ll have to bite the bullet sometime. If you really want this, El. I’ll do it for you. I really will.”

  But I don’t want to.

  I knew she wanted to say those words, too. But she didn’t. Because Liz was too good. She knew if she said that, I’d retract my request. We were one of those sick, ultra-considerate couples that might ultimately self-destruct because of selflessness.