Walking Away

by Xavier Neal

  Gwen settles herself at my side. “This is amazing, Jason! Did you really do all this by yourself?”

  “Hudson had to take me to the hardware store and help me with a couple of things, but all the craftsman shit is completely me.”

  Our little office project inspired me to create a work space in what was the empty portion of our three-car garage. I’ve got tools, a work bench, and other supplies spread out in the area all at convenient chair level. I know I won’t always be in it, but I also understand it’s most likely going to be awhile before I won’t. Even with the constantly increasing sensations in my legs, learning to walk again will be a completely new mountain to climb.

  “How did I not know you were this good with your hands?” my wife coos, fingertip brushing the darker painted tips of the pig’s ear.

  “Good question, Gwenny,” Hudson chimes in, plopping down on the other side of me. “Did you forget already how hard he makes you come using just his fingers?”

  That should be an impossible thing to forget considering most mornings she wakes up with them wedged between her thighs.

  “I meant outside of the bedroom you, asshole.” He chuckles at the same time she adds, “I don’t remember you ever building shit like this before now.”

  I shrug. “I didn’t.”

  “Why not?” Hudson quickly asks.

  His question furrows my brow as I’m forced to actually think about the answer. Another shrug escapes. “I don’t know. I guess…it was just one of those things I didn’t have time for. Growing up, you know, my mom taught me how to garden, and my dad taught me how to do shit like this. They both felt obligated to instill in me to do things that required I use my hands. That a real man knew how and wasn’t afraid to.”

  “Which is how you ended up in construction,” my boyfriend points out.

  “Easy fit. But doing that shit didn’t exactly leave me feeling inspired to wanna come home and do more.”

  “I like that you do this now,” Gwen states warmly. “I think even once you’re back on your feet, you should keep at it.”

  My attention shifts to her. “Really?”

  “Absolutely. People love ordering shit like this for their kids. Plus, you get to work from home. Make your own hours. Your own prices. You get to be your own boss, which I know is something you always hoped you’d get to do one day.”

  I hum my consideration over the idea.

  Maybe it’s not a bad idea. I do like all of those things. Plus, it would be nice to be able to have something to focus on when both of them are working late nights at their jobs.

  Gwen quietly questions, “Think you’ll make one of these for our kid some day?”

  My heart slams unexpectedly hard against my chest.

  That is not a conversation we’ve had since…well since my dick took a vacation, a vacation might I add it’s now trying to return home from. While I’m still not sporting full functioning wood, I’m in the fucking vicinity. Having their hands graze and squeeze on my cock for the few seconds it shows itself have been heavenly. Like my legs, I now expect it to fully work again someday.

  “Our kid isn’t having a fucking wooden rocking pig,” Hudson declares. “It can have something normal like a wooden rocking horse or sports car or some shit.”

  I’m not given the opportunity to retort.

  Gwen’s face leans forward to peer around my body. “You want kids?”

  “I want them with you,” he replies and lets his eyes wander to me. “And you. Not this very second, but down the line? Yeah.”

  She begins to beam. “You still want kids, babe?”

  My face tries not to glower from conflicting thoughts.

  Did I used to see myself chasing my kids in our backyard, teaching my son to throw a football, and suffering through ballet lessons with my daughter? Without a doubt. But what kind of a fucking father would I be now? How can I play catch when I can barely move quick enough to retrieve the ball? How can I pick her up from practice when I can’t even drive? And then there’s the idea, the very fucked up idea, that I don’t have any right to call them mine when it’s not my sperm who made them. I know deep down inside it takes more than just knocking a woman up to make you a father, but part of me wonders if I would resent Hudson because it was him who got Gwen pregnant and not me. If the possibility for us both to knock her up existed, that would be one thing. That could be an idea, a reality I could learn to adjust to. I could learn to adapt around that. Knowing it’s their child and I’m only around as a spectator? Not sure I could live with that.

  “We can adopt, Blondie,” Hudson announces as if he can hear the war waging inside my head. He bends his legs and lets his arms drape over them. “They don’t have to come from us to be ours.”

  “I was adopted,” Gwen sweetly reminds us. “And I turned out to be kind of a badass.”

  “With a bad ass.” Our boyfriend wiggles his eyebrows.

  We lightly laugh, and afterward, I say, “I wouldn’t mind our family expanding someday….But, I’d like to hold out until….Well until there’s been a little more progress with me.”

  They nod their understanding.

  All of a sudden sharp pains race through my left leg causing me to cringe.

  The idea of getting the feeling back in my body is one thing. The actuality of it is an entire other. It’s much more fucking painful than I pictured. Ever since the spark we experienced at physical therapy two months ago was ignited, we’ve done everything we can to flame it. I can now wiggle my toes, though holding anything between them is still a challenge. I can feel most sensory applications on my feet, but my legs themselves are infrequent in response. My legs now spasm, twitch, and occasionally allow me to move them at random intervals. Gretchen is excited and impressed just like we are. As much as I hate the random pain, especially the days it brings tears to my eyes, I appreciate what it implies.

  Two hands land on my shoulder blades and stroke simultaneously. Their solidarity in support of me swells my heart.

  Luckiest. Man. Alive. Even without fully functioning legs or a dependable dick.

  I let out a deep exhale in an attempt to push past the pain. “So, you two think I did a good job then?”

  “Oh yeah,” Hudson swiftly says.

  “Whoever this Clint Shaw kid is, I’m sure he’ll love it,” Gwen agrees.

  “But why the fuck a pig?” Our boyfriend grumps. “Seriously.”

  “I don’t know.” More chuckles are exchanged. “I just did the job I was asked.”

  “This was...the neighbor at the end of the block, right?” Gwen’s free hand gestures. “Blake?”

  “Yeah. He was jogging by one morning a few weeks back, saw me in the garage messing around, and stopped to chat. One thing led to another, and he was asking if I could make this gift for his nephew.”

  “He’s a nice guy,” Gwen hums. “He used to offer to help me bring groceries in when I was struggling.”

  Hudson’s grumble is audible. “Should I be fucking worried this guy is trying to steal you both away from me?”

  Gwen and I laugh over the idea, yet it doesn’t ease the concern.

  I playfully bump into him. “Relax. Blake’s married.”

  He gives me a pointed look. “So were the two of you.”

  Nodding at his fair point, I offer, “Happily. He’s a happily married man.”

  “How do you know that?” Hudson inquires. “Some people are really good at pretending. Keeping up appearances.”

  “Because you can see it in his eyes. Hear it in his voice when he talks about her.”

  “Which he does almost anytime you talk to him,” Gwen interjects.

  “Just like you can see it in our eyes and hear it in our voices any time we talk about you.”

  “Which again, we do almost anytime you talk to us,” my wife slyly adds.

  Hudson smirks and tucks his jealousy away. “Want me to help you take it to him?”

  “Depends. Are you offering to help because you wann
a actually help or offering to help so you can threat assess?”

  His laughter returns. “Little bit of A….Little bit of B.”

  “We can all go together,” Gwen suggests at the same time her head rests on my shoulder.

  “Together,” I echo seconds before his does too.

  Together. The way our lives should always be.

  Fuck. Tennis.

  Fuck this stupid sport, all this fucking running, and the fact this is how I have to spend the first half of my birthday.

  “That’s….That’s….” I wave my racket back and forth, completely out of breath. “Game over.”

  The bald man prepares to exit the court prompting me to jog over to him.

  All this fucking exercise makes me want to sit in Jason’s lap and just let him roll me around for a week.

  “Good game,” he compliments as we exit through the gate. “I appreciate a worthy opponent.”

  “As do I.”

  “Drink?”

  His offer is exactly what I hoped for. “Sure. My bag’s already saving me a table. We can just sit there.”

  He nods, offers his racket to a young Asian male who has been following him around, and joins me at the patio table.

  I flag over a waitress, place my bag on the table, and begin rifling around in it. “You were practically pro level out there. Ever thought about it?”

  My flattery is well received. “I used to. In my younger years. Not enough money in the sport. Well, in playing the sport.” He chortles and orders us both a brandy. “What about you? You still seem young. Fit. Have you considered it?”

  No. Not in this fucking life time or the next. Aside from my ability to look graceful doing it, I loathe the sport. It’s boring as fuck.

  I begin placing objects from the bag on the table making sure to cover as much space as possible. “Not really. I’m like you. Not enough money.”

  He hums his approval. “Smart man.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Your intelligence flow over to things of actual value?”

  “Such as?”

  “Stock assessment like I overheard Bill mention?”

  “You heard that, huh?”

  “He was practically shouting it to the entire club.”

  “Yeah, he’s always had quite the issue with his volume after a couple shots of tequila.” More objects get pushed closer to him. “I guess the answer to your question would depend on who you ask.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “I think I’m phenomenal at what I do.”

  “Is that an air of confidence or arrogance?”

  My tone remains light. “Perhaps both.”

  His hand motions to my props. “I’m leaning on the side of arrogance at the sight of your disorganization?”

  “For you, Mr. West,” the petite blonde coos.

  “West?” I question as she attempts to hand me my own drink.

  “You can call me Nicholas.”

  “Nicholas West.”

  “The one and only.”

  Conformation check.

  She motions the beverage at me once more, but I pretend not to notice.

  “And you are?”

  “Hudson.” My free hand extends to shake, but I make sure to brush off a few items on its retreat. “Damn it.”

  “Do you not believe in traveling light, Hudson?” He picks up the fallen unopened package of golf balls and places it back on the table. When his hands wrap around the file, he adds, “Or a proper office?”

  An arrogant smirk crosses my face. “Life is my office, Nicholas West. And you have officially been served.” I snatch my cell phone from the table to take his photo. “Your divorce papers are now in your hands in front of a witness with photographic evidence now in hand.” Sliding my phone back into my pocket, I state, “The personal photo was just in case you attempt to pay off the staff to erase the footage of this exchange.”

  Nicholas sneers.

  “You can rest assured I will be filing the appropriate paperwork when I vacate the premises, because as I previously mentioned, I am phenomenal at what I do.”

  He growls and crumbles the file in his clutches. “Phil!!!”

  I turn to deny the waitress the beverage she’s still offering. “I will not be drinking that, but Mr. Nicholas West on the other hand may be looking to drown his sorrows from losing his beach house in Maui.”

  “You sonofabitch….”

  Packing the items back in my gym bag, I shrug. “My mother was a bitch when she was alive, so that insult doesn’t hurt at all.” Once everything is back inside, I offer him another nod. “Enjoy your afternoon. Unfortunately for me, waiting for you to show up here all day, has put a major cramp in my ability to celebrate my birthday today. Then again the bonus on my check for bagging you should make up for it.”

  His middle finger flies into the air as I begin to back away from the hostile situation.

  Not the best birthday gift, but I wasn’t kidding about the bonus making up for it. Maybe I’ll use the money to take us on a vacation. There’s something we’ve never done before. Not even a weekend getaway. I love the idea of the three of us locked away together where the only things for us to do are fuck, eat, and repeat. I especially love the idea after spending the last week not being able to make our schedules mesh. It’s been miserable coming home only to discover they’ve already gone to bed and even more miserable to have to crash at my apartment because I don’t have the energy to drive all the way home. I think my birthday wish will be for the three of us to not get out bed for a week.

  After filing the proper paperwork and gloating in Francis’ face, I haul ass home with just enough time to get showered and changed for dinner. Originally, we had planned to have my aunts over sooner, but shit just kept coming up. Gwenny suggested we invite them over as part of my celebration, which didn’t exactly send me jumping for joy. I would’ve preferred it be the three of us naked, on the couch, watching Die Hard, but this way does kill two birds with one stone. They would’ve insisted on having me over for dinner to celebrate and by bringing them over instead, they finally get to meet the people I love and celebrate my birthday the way they want. My only true requirement was that I get to have Gwenny on the table for dessert.

  From the moment my aunts arrive the evening feels like smooth sailing. Everyone greets everyone else warmly. There are no awkward stretches of silence or disapproving expressions. We laugh. We drink. We laugh some more. Gwenny busts her ass to play hostess despite me and Jason’s efforts to help. She repeatedly insists we sit and remain comfortable while tending to the food.

  Once bowls of chicken fettucine alfredo are in front of us, she finally takes her seat at the head of the formal dining room table, which allows for Jason and I to fold our hands in her lap. She instantly relaxes under our touch and sighs, “Hope everyone enjoys it.”

  “Looks amazing,” Aunt Whitney insists.

  “Tastes even better,” Aunt Lindsay adds, already working on a forkful.

  Gwenny blushes. “Thank you.”

  “You know I can make this,” I brag as I twirl the pasta around my utensil.

  “Doubtful,” my aunts state together before snickering.

  “Do you hear this shit?” My jovial tone remains. “Even on my birthday they give me a hard time.”

  “You wanna talk about hard times? Should we tell your boyfriend and girlfriend stories of the hard times you gave us growing up?” Aunt Whitney pokes.

  “Like the awkward talk we had to have with you about porn after the babysitter caught you watching it?” My other aunt announces.

  “Or the time we caught you in the back yard with your face pressed to the fence trying to watch Mrs. Underwood sunbathe naked through the cracks?”

  “Don’t forget why we stopped taking him to waterparks.”

  “Hey!” I practically squeak. “How about we don’t make me sound like a sexual deviant in front of my boyfriend and girlfriend?”

  “Why not? It ain’t exactly a
mystery to us,” Jason jokes and the group joins in on the laughter.

  “Uh-huh, laugh it up.” Shoving a forkful into my mouth, immediately distracts me from the taunting nature. “Holy shit, Gwenny, this is better than normal.”