by Toni Blake
“Are you serious? You don’t know the song? The famous, classic song ‘Suzie Q’ by Creedence Clearwater Revival?”
She just shrugged. “Maybe. I’m not sure. I didn’t live in dinosaur times.”
And at this, he threw back his head and laughed. He didn’t know if she was for real or just making fun of him for being more of a classic rock guy than most people his age. But regardless, he couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually laughed.
Though he also couldn’t let this go without arguing. “If you really don’t know the song, you should.” He snatched up his phone and did a quick search, turned up the volume, and listened as the old sixties’ tune filled Suzanne’s little cottage.
She said nothing from where she stood in front of the stove, but before long her hips swayed back and forth to the catchy, twangy guitar beat. He watched the way her ass moved in faded blue jeans as she broke eggs into a pan, then laid some sausage links in another, all without missing a beat—literally. Soon she was flipping the eggs with a spatula and dancing her way to an overhead cabinet to pull out plates and glasses.
She had a nice ass. He’d never noticed that before. But the blue jeans curved over it in a way he suddenly couldn’t stop noticing.
And only as the song ended, the music fading into quiet, did it hit him—this was the first time since the accident that he’d thought about anything else, the first time he’d found something that could steal his focus from it. He couldn’t have imagined anything having the power to make him forget, even for a second. But somehow, seeing Suzanne dance around her kitchen while she cooked had grabbed his attention, made him laugh, made him feel something again.
“Glad you liked the song,” he told her as she carried two plates of food to the table.
The table. Ah. She was pushing him hard already. Acting as if it was normal for him to come to the table to eat when, so far, he’d had every meal in the wallowing comfort of this pullout couch.
“It was all right,” she replied with another shrug, returning to the kitchen for glasses of orange juice.
Fine—he’d go along with it. He reached for the crutches, dragged them over, maneuvered his legs to the floor, steadied the good one, tried to ignore the bad.
“It had a catchy beat,” she went on, “but it was pretty old-school.”
Using the crutches, he pulled himself up onto his left leg, then nearly lost his balance—but caught himself in time. And informed her, “Your hips tell a different story, Suzie Q.”
“Quit calling me that,” she said, her eyes swinging over to him—but then they changed, the rebuke leaving them entirely as her voice softened. “You stood up by yourself.”
“Well, I wouldn’t say by myself.” He looked down at the two sticks under his arms.
“I would,” she told him.
He tried for a small smile, even if standing suddenly reminded him of the challenges he faced, even if the limp leg he dragged along made him feel weak all over again. “All those trips to the bathroom on these things are paying off, I guess.”
Being watched made him feel overly scrutinized—usually she stood beside him when he did this—and he wondered how clumsy he looked from her dining table. But she didn’t come to help him, and somehow her faith that he could make it on his own was a balm to his bruised ego. She let him take those hard, heavy, unstable steps himself, until finally he landed in a chair and set the crutches aside.
“Looks good,” he said, eyes falling to his plate as he reached for a fork and knife. And if he was honest with himself, it felt good, too. To do something as common as sit at a table, on a chair, ready to eat a hot meal.
Suzanne peeked over at the man across from her. And she considered extending the conversation—whether it be about rock music that pre-dated her, or crutches, or eggs—but instead she just let the silence lie comfortably between them. It felt delicate, this mental move forward. If she pushed too hard, she might break it—and she didn’t want to risk that.
The oddest part? It was the most pleasant one-on-one exchange she’d ever had with Zack since meeting him three years ago. Others had been forced, with the underlying obligation of being nice for Dahlia’s sake or the underlying accusation that he treated Meg like crap. Now that was all gone, because there were bigger fish to fry...or bigger fish to accept not catching because he would never work Lake Huron again.
Only after they’d both finished did she broach a practical matter. “Your medication was due a couple of hours ago. How’s your pain?”
“There’s a little,” he told her. “But I’d rather feel it.”
She nodded, understanding. “Are you ready for exercises?”
He looked up from his plate, eyes wary. “Are you gonna torture me, Suzie Q?”
She blew out a perturbed breath. “I might if you don’t stop calling me that.”
A half grin snuck out of him. “Probably a good thing I’m tough then.”
* * *
HALF AN HOUR LATER, Zack had reverted to the grouchy, grumbling man she’d come to know. But he was letting her guide his body through the exercises, and grumbling because she was pushing him was a far cry better than grumbling because his leg wouldn’t move.
She tried to ignore the intimacy. Since, like helping him to the bathroom, this required touching. At least you’re not pulling his pants up. She squelched a burst of sensation at the memory. Of the awkwardness. And his butt.
“Ow, damn it,” he groused. She sat beside the bed as he lay on his side facing her. She supported his injured leg with one hand on his thigh and the other below his knee, lifting the knee toward his chest.
“Only nine more to go,” she told him. “On this side. You can do the other side with less help from me.” Then she lifted the knee again.
“Jesus,” he muttered.
“For someone who can’t feel this leg, this seems to be hurting you a lot,” she said pointedly.
“It hurts other places,” he snapped. “My back, for one—my ass for another.”
She bit her lip, kept her thoughts inside—that such pain might be a positive sign. Of course, it could also mean only that he’d been lying here sedentary too long or had pulled a muscle. So instead she said, “No pain, no gain—don’t be a baby.” Then lifted the knee again.
This time he stayed quiet, but she could tell the silence took effort.
“That’s better, tough guy,” she told him. And lifted again. And in his silence...became more aware of his thigh beneath her palm. Like his butt, it was...nice. Of all the people I never expected to be touching...
After ten lifts, she instructed him to scoot to the other side of the bed to exercise the other leg, as well. “It’s about balance, and keeping the muscles active and strong.”
He didn’t object, moving himself over—until she placed her hands back on his thigh and calf. “I can do this one on my own, remember?” he said.
“I still need to guide you—to make sure you’re doing it right, at the right speed.” Her reply was entirely true—the only secret part being that she didn’t really mind helping him. His flesh was warm through his soft sweatpants, his muscles sturdy. This is sad. It’s been so long since you’ve touched a man that you’re enjoying giving one physical therapy.
But don’t beat yourself up. You’re doing what’s best for him. So if you’ve become slightly aware that touching him isn’t repulsive to you, it’s just a normal, human reaction.
Though maybe life had been easier back when she’d convinced herself she was content without men, or sex. Beck Grainger had reawakened desires in her that had gone dormant after Cal’s death—and this was a hell of a way to be reminded she missed a man’s touch.
Soon they moved on to other exercises—ankle rotations, which also involved a hand on his thigh, and toe rotations, which kept her down by his feet and felt less intimate, and mostly like a relief but
also slightly like a disappointment. Because she was farther away from him and his thighs. Which is crazy. Snap out of it. Be professional here. And remember that you and Zack don’t even like each other. And that you have serious doubts about him as a human being.
“Please tell me you’re done with the torture, Suzie Q,” he said afterward.
“Almost,” she said, still cringing a little at the name without quite knowing why. He’d always called Meg by a nickname from an old Rod Stewart song—Maggie May. Perhaps this seemed too similar. Maybe it seemed like...flirtation. Like if she’d advanced to earning such a nickname from him, it meant something.
But it didn’t. And it wasn’t flirtation. In fact, at the moment it seemed a whole lot closer to bellyaching. “Almost? There’s more?”
Yep, definitely bellyaching. Though maybe the few exercises they’d done seemed like a lot under the circumstances. “These will be easier,” she promised. “I just want you to do some curls to keep the muscles in your arms strong.”
She reached for free weights she’d dug from a closet yesterday, glad she’d hung on to them. “We’ll start with just five pounds,” she said, handing them over.
“Suzanne, I could lift five pounds with my little finger. I work on a fishing boat—I have upper body strength.” Spoken as if she were a feeble-minded imbecile.
She blew out a calming breath, then forced a smile. “I’m sure you do. But your entire body—including your back, to which your arms are attached—have been through a traumatic experience. And last I heard—from you—your back muscles are still sore. So we’re starting with five pounds.”
When he opened his mouth to protest, she impulsively reached out an index finger to shush him, pressing it against his lips. And also his chin. And the rough stubble there.
He looked as stunned as she felt. His breath warmed her finger. She drew her hand back and promptly ignored the unexpected flare of sensation between her thighs.
Then she started talking—rambling really—to distract them both from the fact that her finger on his mouth had felt almost as personal as pulling up his pants. “Who’s the medical professional here? Me.” She pointed at herself. “And who’s the unruly, uncooperative patient? You.” Another finger point. “Medical professional overrides unruly patient. And besides, if I gave you weights that challenged you, you’d just claim I’m torturing you, so there.” She ended on a sharp nod.
Which seemed to quiet him. Or maybe the whole finger-on-mouth incident had shut him up, but at least he was doing what he was told for a change.
When he’d finished the curls, she announced, “That’s enough for today.” After which her voice went softer—drawn from the tension and awkwardness back to the realization that...Zack was coming back to life a little. And no matter her past opinions of him, and no matter how grumpy he was, she suddenly harbored a bit of hope for his future. “You’re doing great, Zack.”
And though it wasn’t even yet close to noon, she thought maybe they’d both benefit from a break. So she said, “Koester’s should be open today since the weather’s clear. Think I’ll bundle up and make a trip to the market.” And as she put on her snow boots, she thought about how on a normal January day, she’d pay a visit to Dahlia, or call and invite Meg down for a cup of hot chocolate later. But nothing was normal this winter. She’d always heard that the only constant in life is change—and she was beginning to learn that all you could do was roll with the punches. So she would go to Koester’s, then come home to the monoplegic man she now shared her home with, and figure out where to go from here. And she’d be thankful that today was better than yesterday—for him, and also, by extension, for her.
“Any special requests from the store?” she asked, pulling on her parka.
“Nah,” he said.
“All right,” she told him. “Be back soon.”
She’d just opened the front door, a rush of cold air spilling in, when he said, “Hey, Suzie Q.”
She looked over at him, again annoyed by the name.
And he said, “Thank you.”
Which took all the wind from the sails of her irritation. “For...what?”
“Caring enough to help me.”
She pressed her lips tight together, taken aback by the simple gratitude. “You’re welcome,” she said quickly, then stepped out into the snow, pulling the door shut behind her. Maybe he wasn’t such a bad human being, after all.
CHAPTER SEVEN
WHEN ZACK’S PHONE rang soon after Suzanne left, he knew who it was without looking. And he still didn’t want to talk to her. But he couldn’t ignore her forever, so he made himself answer. “What’s up, Dahlia?” Probably sounded surly, but he didn’t care.
Her joy came through loud and clear when she said, “You answered the phone, that’s what’s up. I’m happy to hear your voice.”
His aunt always sounded so energetic—which, just now, made him feel tired. “I guess you’re wanting to know how I’m doing.”
“I’ve been texting some with Suzanne, but I’d like your version, yes.”
He’d never been a big talker—and this was a hell of a topic. So he tried to keep it short and real. “Shitty, mostly. Seeing as I can’t walk and don’t know how the hell I’m gonna make a living. And I’m stuck in a house with somebody I barely know because you guilted her into it. But on the upside, I got myself to the kitchen table today, and I did some exercises.”
On the other end, Dahlia released a big sigh. “I know it’s a lot. And I wish I could be there helping you. But I’m going to focus on the positive. And I’m sure you know, deep down, that the best possible thing you can do for yourself is what you’re starting to do—work your way through it. Dreadful as it is. You have to hold your head up and find the best way to move through your circumstances. And it sounds as if you’re ready to do that now.”
She made it sound like he’d suddenly seen the light and knew how to fix all this. When all he’d done was take ten steps on crutches without someone holding him up. “I don’t know if it’s as great as all that. Mainly, I’m just tired of sleeping all day.”
“You’ve been sleeping all day?”
“The pain meds knocked me out. But I’m ready to...at least be awake, I guess.” The words, leaving him, sounded so small. My big goal is to be awake? A good breakfast and a few laughs with Suzanne had lifted his spirits when he’d least expected it, but reality was slapping him in the face again.
“Well,” Dahlia said, “perhaps you needed to sleep for a while. But it’s good you’re ready to move forward.”
She was always such a cheerleader—but right now, he just needed her to get it. So he said exactly what he was thinking. “I have no damn idea how to do that, Dahlia. No idea at all.”
“Zack,” she said, her tone going softer, “you’ve always had the power to overcome difficult things.”
The simple words held weight, the weight of a shared family, a shared history, things never talked about but always present just the same. And they still weren’t talking about those things now—but it felt as if she’d set them all out on an imaginary table between them. And it reminded him that she’d overcome some obstacles, too. “Maybe I learned that from you,” he told her. “But some would say I ran from difficult things.” Meg, if anyone asked her, would claim he was still running.
“Then we both ran,” Dahlia said in her easy way. He could almost see the shrug of her shoulders from whatever sun-soaked beach she sat on at the moment. “But running...or searching for better—there’s a fine line there, Zack. Be easy with yourself right now.”
She had a nice way of putting things, his aunt. He seldom told her so, but he valued what she brought to his life. Maybe it took something this bad to make him really see it.
But enough of this deep, serious shit. “Where are you right now? Drinking some fruity, girly drink with your toes in the sand?”
> On the other end, she laughed. “It’s 11:00 a.m.”
“But you know what they say—it’s five o’clock somewhere.”
Another chuckle from her. “Still too early for me. I don’t imbibe before noon.”
“What about the sand? Warm on your feet?” He wasn’t sure why he cared—maybe he was just trying to escape the northern winter for a moment.
“I’m not on the beach just now. But I am looking out over it. I’ll text you a photo after we hang up.”
“All right.” Then... “Hey, Dahlia, remember when I was little? Remember you always had music playing?”
He’d been seven years old before ever meeting her—Dahlia had lived other places and only came home when her mother, Zack’s grandma, had died. She’d stayed for weeks in his grandmother’s empty home, becoming a bright ray of sunshine in his young but already troubled life. She’d loved music—sixties’ and seventies’ mostly—and sent it echoing through the house.
He could feel Dahlia’s smile in her voice. “Ah, yes—I played all my old albums on Mom’s big console stereo. Which I should’ve kept—it would be so retro chic now. But I was far too transient then to value large possessions.”
“Remember you used to dance around? Whatever you were doing—cooking, cleaning, anything else—you were dancing.”
“You danced, too—with me,” she said. “Do you remember that?”
“A little.” He hadn’t thought about the memory in a very long time. “Guess I was sort of a dorky kid.”
“Nothing dorky about finding joy in the everyday.”
Dahlia, he supposed, had always done that. While he, on the other hand, had never picked up that particular skill.
“What made you think about that?” she asked warmly.
“Nothing really. Just found out Suzanne didn’t know the song ‘Suzie Q.’”
“How is that possible?” Shock tinged Dahlia’s voice.
“I don’t get it, either. But I played it for her. And she pretended she didn’t like it much, but she did.” Her hips had told him she did anyway. He smiled softly at the recollection. All of life should be that easy. Dancing in the kitchen. Just like Dahlia had way back when.
