by S. C. Megale
I rolled my eyes and slumped my chin into my hand, scrolling down more.
The page’s accompanying image loaded onto my screen.
Then I choked. My eyes popped wide.
I recognized that building, those steps. The ice cream sign in the window.
And guess who sat stranded at the bottom of those stairs, looking forlornly up into the ice cream parlor, framed as the epitome of rejection, exclusion, and misunderstanding?
Me.
I flipped out a cuss word so loud the gamers in the corner jumped and the dice skipped off the edge and across the floor.
She must have stalked me there! She’s fucking after me!
François was next to me in the photo, and Mags. Elliot hadn’t walked out yet with his second milkshake.
My mouth dangled open and I tried to shake my head but I’m not sure if I did.
What the hell does she think she’s doing? What’s so special about me, besides the obvious? I can’t have my picture plastered on this pathetic Caring Whatever Magical Wheelchair Place. Who the hell do I call about protesting it? The ADA SWAT team? The only emergency number I had in my phone was Elliot’s phone sex number, and that was by accident.
“Maeve?”
I looked up, still numb. The young clerk with round black gauges in his ears and a white nametag had returned. Kinda hipster, but it worked for me. Although he raised an eyebrow at my outcry, he didn’t reprimand me.
Instead, he pushed a heavy script across the table at me.
“Is this what you were looking for?”
I clicked off my phone screen and looked down at the script. Then I swallowed, because it was.
Beauty and the Beast.
11
I gripped the cap of the perfume bottle later that night and tried to twist. My hand wouldn’t lock on it; the slick plastic cap kept sliding through my palm. I grunted and tried again. The muscles in my wrist, fingers, and arms shook as I pressed against it in a stalemate. Finally, I puffed a curse and relaxed.
I lifted the perfume and glared at it.
Buzz!
My heart hammered. I shot him the address and nothing more. Trying to be cool.
Was that okay okay? Like, he didn’t spell it out entirely. Did that mean he’s dreading this?
I set the perfume on the desk in my room and texted Mags.
Outside my bedroom door, I could hear Mom on the phone trying to get the insurance to pay for that BiPAP mask Dr. Clayton recommended. I’d been holed up in here for two hours now, getting ready. Cole and I were meeting tonight for dinner at one of those restaurants attached to the mall. He was driving almost forty minutes from work for this. For me.
And I couldn’t open a damn perfume bottle for him.
Another text came in.
I grabbed the bottle and slammed it against the edge of the desk. The cap loosened.
The cap finally popped off with my last jerk. Now I had to squeeze the damn thing. It was like practice for a later hand job, if I got lucky.
I groaned.
I was smiling at least. I squeezed and shook the perfume bottle hard enough that some sweet-smelling liquid squirted out and trickled down my wrist. I tried not to imagine an accompanying masculine grunt in my head. The tips of my trembling fingers spread the perfume around me.
I glanced at the clock on my laptop, next to the Beauty and the Beast script on the desk. Mom or Dad agreed to drive me in ten minutes to meet “a friend,” even though our reservation wasn’t for another two hours. I wanted to be early.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to normalize my voice and expression as I exited my room.
Mom hung up the landline on the insurance company.
“Ready?” she said. “I’m taking you. Daddy’s going to finish the lawn before it gets dark.”
I remembered not to frown. Truthfully, I was sort of hoping for Dad to drive me, just in case Cole happened to intersect with us in the parking lot. Dad is usually a little less inquisitive about these things. But I was leaving early enough that I didn’t intend for Cole to ever know I didn’t get there alone.
“Yep,” I said. “Ready.”
“Are you taking François?”
Good question. I liked the cute cuddly advantage of a dog with me. But …
“I think I’ll leave him home today.”
François, curled in his dog bed by the window, lifted his head at me and perked his ears.
Really? he seemed to say. Will you be all right?
Yeah. My heart warmed. I’ll be with Cole.
François rested his head back on his paws, but his eyes continued to stare up at me.
He didn’t seem sure.
* * *
I waited outside the restaurant doorway, the indoor mall entrance, gazing at my phone because I’d look stupid and ridiculous just sitting there. Mom and I had made great time, so I had more than an hour to kill before Cole arrived. That was about how I liked it. He didn’t need to witness me rolling across the parking lot like some Walmart scooter heading in to buy more microwave burritos. I looked a lot more chill, a lot less in-your-face, already settled inside the building and waiting for him.
Mom had left, but not before piling a jacket over the back handles of my chair, because it was chilly. Normally, I’d fight it, but it got her to leave quicker.
I flicked through my Facebook newsfeed, and then my Google calendar. I had next Tuesday after school blocked off for a confrontation with Wheelchair Charity Woman …
Technically, I couldn’t tell my parents about the whole Caring Hands Camp photo thing. They thought I was, you know, studying when it was taken in front of the ice cream parlor I ditched physical therapy for. But I’d popped open the camp’s “Calendar” tab and saw Patricia was speaking at an Investors Club in Quinten’s nursing home next Tuesday.
I’d be there. I’d get to the bottom of things and have Quinten threaten his former federal agent weight on her.
Should be good.
“Excuse me, miss?”
I looked up. A man in his thirties with neatly combed valedictorian hair and the just-came-out-last-week smartphone in his hand stopped beside me. He looked like the kind of guy my older sister would date, if I had an older sister. But I’d probably hit it too.
“Hey.” I smiled.
He smiled back. “Do you need help?”
For some reason, everyone thinks I need help when I’m just sitting somewhere doing nothing.
“No, I’m fine,” I assured. “Just waiting for a date.”
Really, Maeve?
He laughed, not in an unkind way. “Nice. Well, you look great.”
“I don’t know about that.” I smirked.
He just waved—“Good luck!”—and sauntered off, head hooked back down to his phone again. Just like that, gone into the current of the world and never to meet me again.
Hmm.
Maybe I did look all right. Maybe.
Nerves stretched through my stomach, and I tried to return to my phone, but I’d sort of run out of things to do on it.
The ambient noise of mall chatter soothed me. Beside me was the hostess podium and a bar area for those waiting for tables. An aquarium threw turquoise light onto the floor. It was the sort of restaurant that looked fancy and quiet but where you could order reasonably priced pasta dishes. A few steps rose to the greater dining area, but I’d reserved us a table in the smaller nook on the first floor—more privacy.
I kept swallowing, kept trying to distract my thoughts. He should be here any minute.
Then I felt heavy steps behind me. Something felt different about those steps. I glanced up from my phone and straightened.
He walked around me, a great white shark rounding in out of nowhere. Hands in his pockets. Cole Stone cocked his head and cracked something and stood in front of me. My heart pulsed through my whole body. I shoved my phone away.
“Hey.” My voice was level and smooth.
“Sup.” His, loud and deep. He swayed side to s
ide on his feet the way he does. Affection flooded into me.
Was he … nervous?
He still wore his Verizon nametag and red collared shirt, but a black nylon jacket was over it, unzipped. His beard was the perfect length—I liked more than scruff. The lanyard with his car keys dangled as always from his belt. Polished black shoes. He’d raced from work to get here, I knew.
Now what did we say?
“Did you have a rough ride?” I asked.
“Not bad.” He pivoted and looked around at the mall crowd, still swaying. I grazed my eyes along his strong forearms and the hair covering them. It was amazing that one second I was alone, the next, he was here. My words tripped on happiness.
“Thanks for coming so far.”
“I’ve done worse.”
He suddenly made eye contact with me. Gripping, intense contact. Then his eyes were off again.
I laughed politely. “Wanna head in?”
“Sure.”
Well, now was the time. I had to make my damn chair move. Had to hear the motor click. But when I did, when my wheels turned, Cole didn’t even look over. Did he hear? He walked next to me without casting his gaze my way.
“I heard this was a pretty good place,” I said.
“Is it?” said Cole. He still didn’t look at me.
“They have good reviews.”
“Do they?”
I glanced at him. He was still absorbed in the new atmosphere, looking around.
The young hostess peered over the podium at us. Her gaze lingered on Cole as she shuffled laminated menus.
Once we were behind the table, I felt better. We both were sitting now. We both were stationary. Cole never took off his jacket.
He leaned on his elbows on the table and shook his knee. He wasn’t talking much. I was extra nice to the waiter, trying to make a good impression, and ordered a water. Cole ordered a sweet tea. The waiter left.
It was just us.
There was nothing else to do. And I couldn’t help it. I grinned at him. He kept his gaze on me, and a small smile rested on his mouth.
“You look really happy,” said Cole. His voice was amused.
“Sorry,” I said. “I might be.”
“Maybe,” said Cole.
“Sort of.”
He just kept watching me, half smiling. God, I’d die under that gaze. Or under other things. “I like your hair too,” he said. Um, repeat? Was that chair, or did he just compliment my actual looks?
“Chair or hair?” I blushed.
“Hair. But your chair is cool. You could put rockets behind it.” He stared and shook his leg. I relished the chance to study him up close now. The silver necklace hanging onto his shirt swung forward as he leaned on the table. I could finally decipher it. It was a pendant indented with a wolf’s paw print.
“So, is the union going to be on our case?” I said, opening the menu.
“Union?” said Cole.
“You know, director dating her actor…”
“Nah.” He said it a little too loudly and looked down at his menu.
The waiter thumped our glasses down. I took one look at mine, tall and coated with condensation, and knew I’d never be able to lift it. Usually I’d ask for one of those tiny plastic kids’ cups to use, the ones decorated with, like, humanoid meatballs playing tennis with a random dolphin in a chef’s hat. I couldn’t do that now.
The waiter asked if we were ready to order and I realized this was all happening way too quickly. Cole held out his menu, knee still rocking fast beneath the table. “Brick-oven pizza,” he said. “Thanks.”
And I ordered something safe: grilled chicken whatever.
When we were alone again, I paused. Cleared my throat. “Maybe you’ll get invited into SAG after our little Seefeldt High School student project,” I said.
“I dunno, their membership fee is kinda high.”
“Save up!”
“No!” said Cole. I was smiling now, because the more he bantered, the faster his knee rocked back and forth. “I already gave ten bucks to a homeless guy at a gas station tonight.”
“Coooole,” I said.
Cole shrugged. “He looked like he could use it.”
I studied him with a trickle of warmth, but he was reading the back of an olive oil bottle.
“So how was work? What’d you do today?” I said. Dammit! Boring questions!
“Nothing,” said Cole. “No one came in. I just watched YouTube videos.”
“What do you like to watch?” I said. “Any, uh, things you can’t find on YouTube?” There we go. That felt more like me.
“I watch magic tricks.”
I laughed. “What?”
“Yeah, I’m trying to learn a bunch.”
“Why?” This made me even happier.
He shrugged again. A pause. “Wanna see?”
“Fuck yes.” I cleared the salt and parmesan from the table center, and he whipped out—!!!—a card deck from his pants pocket.
I homed in on his hands, his rough, male fingers. They held out a handful of cards. “Pick one.”
My arm struggled to make it that far. He rose a little off his seat to meet my reach. I picked one—the four of diamonds—and put it back. Then he dealt several rows of cards.
Cole was super-focused on his tricks, like a mathematician counting cards in blackjack. He showed me three tricks, then asked if I wanted to see the first again. I, of course, said yes. Usually he could pick out the card I chose. I didn’t tell him when he didn’t.
“All right,” I said, “I got one.” I motioned for him to gather the deck and hand it over.
I only knew one. Dad taught me it a long time ago on a cruise for my grandparents’ fiftieth anniversary. Naturally The Admiral (Mom’s dad) wanted to spend it at sea. I remembered being annoyed I couldn’t figure the trick out. A few years later, I’d looked it up and performed it on Dad—I hoped I could recall how it worked now.
Cole leveled his gaze on my hands as I conducted a similar introduction, inviting him to choose a card.
The trick’s mechanics came back to me as I went along. I shuffled them around and laid out five cards on the table between us. Then I hovered my left, stronger hand over one.
“All right. I’m about to show you your card,” I said. “Lay your hand on mine, and I’ll say the magic word.”
My hand shook in the air. Cole raised his eyes to me. Skepticism touched his expression—he knew I didn’t need him to touch me. I looked back at him and blood rushed to my face.
Slowly, he reached out his hand.
“Brick-oven pizza?”
We jumped. The waiter was next to us, holding our plates on a black platter on his shoulder. He looked winded.
Cole leaned back. He cleared his throat, and the waiter set his meal in front of him, and then mine before me. I brushed Cole’s cards aside, still facedown, so they wouldn’t be stuck under our plates.
We caught eyes one more time and then lifted our silverware.
The restaurant got busier, later-evening dates of older, career couples passed our table. They wore a lot more expensive and sparkly things than a Verizon uniform and twenty-five-dollar perfume. Cole and I ate in more elongated silence. Our game was forgotten as we made small talk about our families and school. I told him about how I wanted to get a film degree at UCLA, but that I’d probably end up here at the community college. He said he’d probably end up at the community college too since he meandered without a plan for a year since his high school graduation. But after a pause, he added that he’d want his UCLA degree in theater if he were lucky enough to go.
When the bill came, he offered to pay. I insisted we split it. I left my water at the table, untouched. Cole hadn’t noticed.
“So,” said Cole, as we strolled out of the restaurant and into the mall entrance. The exit to the parking lot was to our left. “I’m excited to reshoot.”
“Yeah?” I said. I looked up at him. God, I loved how far I had to tilt my head.
“Yeah.” He gazed down at me. A long silence followed.
“Cole,” I said.
“Yeah?”
Oh God. Why did I begin that sentence?
“Can I…” I swallowed. Too late to go back now. “Can I give you a hug?”
Oh God, why! My heart was practically fucking my throat. Heat swelled through my skin, but it was done. And I wanted it.
Cole hesitated. His eyes hung on me as he continued to look down. The beat was excruciating.
And then I heard the material of his black jacket shift. Cole lowered.
I shut my eyes when he enclosed me. Suddenly the sounds of the world around me sucked away. All I could hear was his breath leave him and his cool jacket ruffle. His prickly beard tickled my neck. He smelled male.
Cole drew back to his full height. Over in a flash. He took my breath with him.
I cleared my throat and recovered. “You gonna be okay riding home?” I said. Then I did something I wasn’t even aware I was capable of doing. I nudged my wheelchair just softly enough to prod the side of his leg gently. An affectionate bump.
“I’ll be fine,” he boomed. Goose bumps shivered over my body at his voice. He zipped up his jacket. “How about you?”
“My ride will be here any minute,” I said. “Then I’ll head out.”
Cole studied me. “Do you have a jacket?”
“Yeah, but I don’t need it,” I said.
“It’s cold.”
“Really,” I said. “It’s—”
He spotted my jacket hanging off my chair and tore it off the handles. Then he threw it over my shoulders.
“I had fun.” He poked my temple with his finger and then swaggered off for the exit, striding in that careless, slightly duck-footed way I loved. His phone was already alight in his hand as he pushed open the exit door and walked towards the parking lot.
It was night outside, and cold air wafted in. I vibrated with giddiness and excitement and relief—I’d survived my first date—and watched him swing into his beat-up Lexus sedan in the parking lot and rev the engine. It had super-black windows and a random stripe of spray paint three shades darker grey than the body color, used to cover up some dents.
