This Is Not a Love Scene

by S. C. Megale

“Your mother and I have been saving to hire a personal aide to take care of you while you’re in school,” said Dad. “It’ll take some planning, and we’ll need to live with you for the first week or so to teach the nurse things, and we need you to call every night—”

  “And you’ll have to fly home with the aide to see Dr. Clayton once a semester,” said Mom.

  “There are a lot of nasty germs at universities,” said Dad, “so that means you’ll be—”

  “No way.” I actually laughed. “Are you serious? I can go away to college?” I could actually go to film school at UCLA with Elliot and Mags and maybe Cole?

  “If you can keep your grades up and get yourself in, Mom and I will figure it out.” Dad smiled at me. “We’ll just miss the shit out of you.”

  I rammed into the couch to hug them and the whole sofa jostled about half a foot backwards.

  “Whoa there,” said Dad. He and Mom laughed.

  “Thank you, guys,” I said, and they both leaned forward to hug me.

  “Thank us at your first Golden Globe,” said Mom.

  20

  My phone buzzed once on the TV dinner tray and made François jump back from licking the fork on the edge of the table. It was later that night, and after I spent about two hours in my room working on my video reel for the UCLA application and had ALL CAPS CONVERSATIONS with Mags and Elliot to let them know about the big news, I was watching reruns of The Bachelor with Mom. She massaged my head with her hand in my hair and then sat down with a mug of Campbell’s soup.

  Juan Carlos really needed to send some of these girls home. He jetted them out to scuba with him in Bali and they basically flipped out switchblades to snip each other’s oxygen when he wasn’t looking. Spanish guitar music played in the background whenever the cameraman did some nice tilts on his biceps. I wondered what they’d zoom in to on me if I were the Bachelorette. Wheel spokes? Sexy polyester upholstery?

  I picked up my phone.

  My heart skipped. He saw my Twitter account? For whatever reason, it was otherworldly to picture Cole—all frustratingly masculine, six-foot-a-thousand of him—pulling up his phone and ending up on my Twitter account. It was only live for a few hours before I committed infanticide and killed it. Play it cool.

  Well damn. I smirked.

  Juan Carlos lifted one of the girls onto his shoulders in the scuba training pool. She squealed, and they splashed around. The other women took that cue to remove clothing pronto.

  Shit. Playing disinterested now. New achievement unlocked.

  “Can I get you anything, honey?” Mom rose to take her mug into the kitchen.

  “I got it,” said Dad, taking the mug. “You rest.” He added it to the pile of dishes in the sink. The faucet ran as he scrubbed.

  I pursed my lips. Did I have to tell him? I promised myself I’d never lie to him.

  “Do you think these women get paid?” said Mom. They were now mini golfing on the Bali resort in dental-floss bikinis. Juan Carlos rolled up in a golf cart to whistles and bouncing curls.

  “Millions,” said Dad from the kitchen.

  “Maybe I should sign up,” said Mom. “Dad would understand.”

  Dad opened the refrigerator to stash the leftovers. “Take one for the team, baby.”

  There was a pause while I thought about this.

  I really did smile down at my phone. I know it’s weird. But I loved that he had no damn clue.

  Just as the final selection ceremony commenced, Dad walked in drying his hands on a towel. Before Cole could reply, I texted him again.

  Subconsciously, Dad bent to untie my shoes, eyes still on the TV. I stopped him just after he pulled loose the first lace. He looked at me, confused.

  * * *

  So back when I was, like, eight, there was this enormous puddle on our block that formed without fail whenever it rained. Something about the way the pavement dipped and the gutters ran and the houses shielded the sun just right. Nothing blew the mind of Little Maeve more than plunging all four wheels into the water and reveling in the splash and ripples they’d make. I’d hang a U-turn and charge into it again and again. Then one day, the community noticed the fuss I was making and thought I was mad at the puddle or something (so I attacked it with my wheelchair? I don’t know what they were thinking). They repaved and leveled the puddle and I grieved its loss until maybe last January.

  Looking at the putt-putt course now, I felt a lance of that same annoyance. Where there used to be six, maybe seven holes of peeling green fabric and a few dollar store windmill birdhouses decorating the perimeter, there now were a full eighteen courses heated with Astroturf grass and mechanical alligators opening and closing their jaws. But worst of all …

  “Hey, um, miss?” I rolled up to an employee.

  “Hey.” She turned to me, holding a clear bucket of those little pencils. Of course, she looked like one of the reality show women stepped through the screen and followed me here. “Can I help you?”

  “You guys didn’t have those bricks bordering the courses before. Are they removable?”

  She turned to follow my pointing at the circle of single-file bricks outlining every hole.

  “Oh. No, I’m sorry. They’re glued down to keep the balls in.” Okay but my new love life goal is to get the balls out, so. Not helping.

  I guess her tone was genuine. She got the bigger meaning. How was I going to get my chair over every border?

  Since Mom dropped me off here ten minutes ago, and I kinda had to beg her to spontaneously give me a lift before our show was even over, I couldn’t change the meeting location now. Maybe Cole and I could just … watch people golf.

  Shit, no, that’s lame. Maybe I should text him and give him a heads-up so he can cancel if he wants, and then I could just sit here and pretend I met someone until it was believable to call Dad to come get me. I opened my messenger app to Cole’s name and started to—

  “Hi.”

  I jumped.

  Cole was there. He stuffed his hands in his jean pockets and swayed side to side as he gazed around at the place, pivoting once to take it in. His hair and beard never seemed blacker than in the course lights. His shoes were frayed, soft-looking grey flats with black laces and white rubber soles. I immediately recognized his unique, masculine smell and wondered if maybe only I could detect it.

  “Cole,” I said. “Hey.” I inched towards him and bumped the side of his leg with my wheelchair affectionately, the way I did in the mall. He didn’t yet look down, even when I bumped him, as if it were normal to him. But his arm fell over me and engulfed me.

  “This it?” he said. Finally his eyes met my gaze. They were a little sleepy, a little removed, but something about the way they didn’t waver made me weak.

  “Yep, this is it.” I gestured to the course. “This is my childhood. Ruined.”

  “Uh-oh.” He shoved his hands back in the pockets.

  “They renovated it,” I said. “I’m really sorry, but I don’t think we can play.”

  “Why not?”

  “They added bricks around the course.”

  “So?”

  “So my chair can’t get over them.”

  “It’ll be fine,” boomed Cole.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on.”

  He moved forward, and the lanyard on his belt jingled with his keys. At the club rack, he grabbed two balls and the longest putter they had. I grabbed the shortest. Then we approached the bricks.

  “So…” Nerves and embarrassment shook my voice. “Are you thinking about—?”

  I felt a tug on my wheelchair from behind. “I got you,” said Cole. “Go.”

  I revved my joystick forward and Cole forced down the back of the heavy chair to pop a wheelie as I clattered over the bricks. He didn’t even grunt.

  My wheels surged over smooth turf and I grinned. Cole stepped over the brick and tilted his head to stretch his neck. He wasn’t winded at all.

  “We don’t have to do the other
holes,” I said, but I was still smiling. “We’ll just do this one.”

  “Nah,” said Cole.

  “You sure?” I wasn’t about to question how many holes he could, uh …

  He stared at me, and his mouth was cocked in the most perplexing smile. Demure. Relaxed. But not going anywhere.

  I batted my club against the Astroturf. “All right, then. Hope you’re scared.”

  Cole pretended the putter was a driver and swung it hard with his whole back. The club whipped through the air and stopped over his shoulder.

  The way everything moved at his force, the way he shrugged to fill all of whatever space was around him, everything I can’t do, can’t be, he was. I wondered if I was anything he couldn’t be.

  He dropped the purple golf ball onto the grass and nodded at me. His dark, visceral eyes pinned me. Parallel parking, I cruised my chair into position and gripped the kiddie club tight with both hands.

  It gave a satisfying clop when I hit the ball. Cole and I watched as the ball curved around a little hill and glided right into the hole.

  We paused. Then we turned to each other with a long look.

  All together we clambered over eighteen borders of brick. Cole always hit too hard; his ball skipped over the holes. Once, I hit mine backwards underneath the tunnel of my chair between the wheels. I turned to see it just graze the hole and roll past. Cole watched with his hands slung on either side of his club across his shoulders. For some reason, I thought of how KC would probably have nudged it in before I could see.

  We did the whole damn course together.

  “I like that you use the big club,” I said. There was a little juice bar we sat at minutes later.

  “Do you?” said Cole.

  “Yeah,” I said.

  When he couldn’t sway, he bobbed his foot. One rested on the prong of the bar stool; his other reached the floor. He wedged his credit card back in his wallet, having paid for our games despite my protest. I noticed a Best Buy gift card, a membership card to the local paintball arena, and his driver’s license photo—it was less grim and more boyish than I thought it would be. He was smiling in black and white.

  “So guess what?” I said.

  “What?”

  “My parents said I could apply to UCLA.”

  “Did they?”

  “Yeah,” I said, and wobbled the empty bar stool next to me with my good hand. “I’m stoked. Are you still going to apply for the theater program?”

  “I might.” His eyes sparkled at me, but the set of his mouth gave nothing more away. If I could lift my arm far enough to reach him, I’d try to graze his chest and feel the heat of his skin. I couldn’t imagine what his muscle would feel like against the lack of mine.

  I couldn’t imagine the things I would do with him in a college dorm.

  “Your shoelace is untied,” he finally said. I looked down. Only one was—the one Dad had undone.

  “Oh.” I chuckled. “Yeah, I, uh … I can’t tie a shoelace.”

  When he didn’t comment, I got self-conscious and regurgitated more. “I can’t reach my foot, but even if I could, I don’t know how to tie a shoe because I never had to.”

  Cole nodded.

  “And I don’t trust everyone with my feet. Because they’re brittle. From, like, disuse.”

  Oh my God, stop!

  “I would trust you with my feet,” I said.

  I’ll just see myself out. The silence was horrifying.

  “There’s a SpongeBob episode about that,” said Cole at last.

  “What?”

  “He couldn’t tie his shoelaces.”

  “I’m in amazing company.” There. At least I was quick.

  The holes were closing one by one with lights shutting off as a last party of fifth graders snaked their way to each one. They obnoxiously whacked their clubs against each other’s like lightsabers and shouted.

  “Do you like kids?” I said.

  “Maybe,” said Cole.

  “Under certain circumstances?” Why did I always need to tug the conversation along?

  “Sometimes.”

  He passed an investigating gaze to me. Foot still bobbing.

  “What?” I said.

  “Why are you asking?”

  “Just curious. Being observant.” A little color rose to my skin. Suddenly I wasn’t sure that was the only reason I asked.

  Cole studied me for another beat. Then his hand ran down my hair. I shuddered at his fingertips. Everything loosened and trembled. He withdrew it just as fast and took a drink of water. My glass sat next to his. Untouched. Too heavy.

  “So,” said Cole as he lowered his glass, not yet looking at me again. “What’s our next production together?”

  A loaded question. If it were up to me, we’d be playing with a green screen in some million-dollar LA or Atlanta studio; lights, cranes. And every camera rolling Cole Stone.

  “I was thinking, like, a Michael Bay remake of Love Actually,” I said. I could already see the American jet fighters streaking across the sky as a boring middle-aged couple giggled under the mistletoe.

  “Sounds like a lot of stunts,” he said. “Am I going to have to jump out of a helicopter?”

  “Yeah, but I’ll just bring my mattress for you to land on.”

  “That’s one way to get me on it.” He looked at me.

  My throat caught. I looked at him too. God, what would it be like to one day be carried to bed … and then joined in it?

  “Cole,” I said. Oh no. I was doing that thing again where I said his name and a reckless vomit of words followed. He didn’t look over yet.

  There’s this hotel nearby …

  Don’t say it.

  That’s so cliché.

  You guys can’t afford these waters, how are you affording a hotel?!

  “Do you want to sleep with me?” said Cole.

  Excuse me? He played with the ice in the drink.

  “What did you say?” My throat was dry.

  “You heard me.”

  “Yeah,” I blurted. “I do.”

  “One day?” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “What if you get pregnant?”

  I told him we’d make sure to be safe and test ourselves for STIs if we decided to be active with each other, and that I was on birth control. With everything else involved in my care, adding monthly menstruation was kind of messy. Mom had started me on it years ago.

  But I loved this. I loved that he didn’t hesitate or question my ability to conceive. It was not even a thought for him. Most just look at me and are certain I’m not healthy enough to carry my own life let alone a second.

  “Hmmmm…” said Cole. He leaned one strong arm on the bar. That smile started to creep back.

  Throat still dry (other parts not so much), I swallowed. Then Cole moved.

  I thought he was going to kiss me. I thought this was it.

  Instead, he lifted my glass of water and held it out to me. Close enough for my mouth to meet it.

  Did he remember from our last date that I couldn’t pick it up? He watched me. I watched him. And I took a gulp. Water dripped down my lips.

  “Maybe we should…” I began.

  As soon as I did, the lights cut off at the bar.

  They were kicking us out.

  * * *

  Dad had arrived a minute later because Mom had gotten worried and looked up the time the mini golf closed and was 100 percent certain my phone had died and I had been sold into slavery where they would use my chair to till fields until it broke and they sold it for parts.

  Cole drove away as jerkily and fast as always. Dad never saw him come or go.

  I lay in bed that night. Happy. But thinking.

  The rules say I should have waited. Instead, I texted him.

  There was a good sixty-second wait.

  Another long pause, as if he worried he was in trouble.

  I smiled.

  21

  Because I can’t raise my arm ove
r my head, Mrs. Chadwick in organic chem gave me this little orange flag to wave when I needed something. I flapped it around like I was landing a plane.

  “Maeve?” she said.

  “Can I go to the bathroom?”

  “Yes,” said Mrs. Chadwick. Then she nodded at Mags three rows behind me.

  Mags’ seat scraped, and she rose as I wound my way to the exit with François. A fresh waft of custodian’s soap met us in the hallway, and we closed the door on Mrs. Chadwick’s slow, droning lecture.

  “You were early today,” said Mags.

  “I was falling asleep.” I stuffed the flag into my footplate as we headed for the girls’ bathroom.

  It’d been three days since my last date with Cole, and he hadn’t texted. My patience in general was thin. At least hallway monitors didn’t dare ask us for a pass when they got a look at Mags escorting me with a dutiful stride.

  Inside the bathroom, Mags hopped up on the counter next to the sinks. The mirror reflected her pretty red hair. I edged closer to her, and she reached down and crossed my foot over the other the way one would cross their legs in an armchair.

  “You know,” she said, “one of these days, if you really do have to go to the bathroom, I can do that for you.”

  I chuckled. “No way. Too weird.”

  “Seriously! I go to the gym. I’m strong enough.”

  “I know, it’s just—”

  “And if we’re going to travel together one day, I want to help you do all the stuff. We don’t want your parents there all the time.”

  I worried about when my parents wouldn’t be there anymore more than she knew, but warmth tickled through me.

  “Thanks.” I blushed and imagined the idea of letting her do some of the things required with helping me use the toilet.

  “It’s not that big of a deal.” It was as if Mags could read my mind.

  Instead of me actually going to the bathroom and her actually “helping” me like every teacher in Seefeldt High School believed, we came here once a day during the predetermined boringest class and hung out. That it takes us a half hour to “manage the bathroom” is entirely believable. It could theoretically take that long for someone as petite as Mags to get me dressed again.