When Sparks Fly

by Helena Hunting

  “Maybe next time let me supervise, just until you get the all clear from the doctor that you can start doing wheelchair acrobatics.” I make light of it, not wanting to take away her win. I want her to get better, but I also want to be there for her, because even though I know I didn’t cause this, I still feel awful that she was alone when it happened.

  11

  STABILIZE

  AVERY

  The days that follow bleed into each other, but Declan and I establish a routine. Physical therapy starts after the first doctor’s appointment. It’s nothing strenuous, but as the bruises heal and my ribs stop aching, my mobility and my independence slowly return. After the second appointment the doctor gives me the go-ahead to use a crutch to get around. I’m still weeks away from having my arm and my leg back, but we’re making gains, and my doctor is pleased by my progress.

  I’m stretched out in the back seat of Declan’s SUV, eyes closed the entire duration of the ride home. After my parents’ car accident I used to have full-on panic attacks whenever anyone mentioned a car ride. I stopped taking public transit to school and rode my bike, at least until the weather turned nasty. I’m already worried about what the drive to Spark House is going to look like by the time I’m able to drive again, and how I’m going to be able to manage the anxiety. But that’s something for another day.

  By the time we get home I have a tension headache, and any thought I had of trying out my new crutch has disappeared in the wake of my throbbing temples and tight shoulders.

  “You okay?” Declan asks as he helps me into the wheelchair out of habit, not necessity.

  “The car rides stress me out.” I knead the back of my neck.

  “I’ll rub your shoulders when we get up to the condo.” He wheels me into the elevator and hits the button for the twelfth floor. It’s empty apart from us, so the second the doors slide closed, he moves my hair aside and presses his thumbs into the spot at the base of my skull that always makes me purr like a cat.

  “You weren’t kidding, you’re tighter than a guitar string.” He rubs the spot until we reach our floor, then wheels me into the condo.

  As soon as we’re inside, he gets the couch set up for me. I’ve graduated from spending the majority of my time in the hospital bed to rotating between it and the couch. My ass is probably going to be pancake flat after eight weeks of sitting on it.

  I try to tell myself that the excitement I feel right now has nothing to do with the massage I’m about to get and everything to do with getting a little more of my mobility back. Once I’m seated, I pull my shirt over my head. He takes his spot behind me and pushes my bandeau bra down, giving him full access to my back. At this point I’ve given up on modesty for the most part with Declan, but I use my shirt to cover my chest and lean on the pillow in my lap while he grabs the lavender-scented oil and squirts some into his palms.

  “Thank you for doing this,” I mumble, body already relaxing as his palms smooth up my back.

  “It’s the least I can do. Maybe we need to get out a bit more now that you’re starting to feel better. We can go for short rides, get you used to being in a car again, work on taming that fear?” His thumbs sweep down the length of my spine.

  “Yeah, maybe, but I need a few days to get my head around that. Just thinking about it makes my back feel tight.”

  “I figure if we make a plan and we talk it out, you might be less anxious about it? We could get Dairy Queen drive-thru. Does a chocolate peanut butter milkshake and a greasy burger and fries sound good? We could go on the way home from your next physical therapy appointment. Or if you want to go sooner, we could do your exercises together and then make the trip. It’s only about a mile away, nice and short, with a great reward attached to it.” He gives my shoulders a squeeze, finds a tight spot, and focuses his attention there.

  “I haven’t had a milkshake in forever.” I close my eyes, allowing myself to relax into his touch.

  While my shoulders soften under his hands, other parts of me start to tighten. I find my mind wandering and my body reacting. It’s been happening more and more lately, especially when he’s giving me one of his massages or when we’re in the shower. Basically, every time he touches me for purposes other than bathroom trips. I try to push those thoughts out of my head. He’s my best friend and currently my primary caregiver. Imagining him massaging other parts of my body isn’t helpful.

  The problem is, it’s been weeks since I’ve had an orgasm. Although I haven’t felt particularly sexy lately, the more I heal and the better I start to feel, the more my body reminds me that I have other needs. When I’m healthy and functional, and not hopped-up on pain meds, I’m typically the kind of person who self-satisfies at least three or more times a week.

  I’m shocked out of my increasingly dirty thoughts by a knock at the door. “You expecting a delivery or something?” It’s approaching dinner, maybe Declan planned ahead and ordered in.

  “Uh, nope, maybe your sisters decided to stop by?”

  “Maybe?” Although they generally message in advance and ask for a list of things I might need, mostly stuff that I could ask Declan to get for me, but would prefer not to. I’ve taken to ordering groceries online and having them delivered so I can take something off Declan’s to-do list, which is a lot longer with me being dependent on him.

  My sisters are supposed to come over tomorrow night so we can talk about the event they’re planning. This one is a bachelorette party for a very sporty bride, which would’ve been right up my alley. I’m doing what I can from home, researching the things they’ll need, ordering in items, but I don’t love that I can’t be there planning the event like I normally would.

  Spark House has always been my baby. I knew even before I went to college that I wanted to take it over. I love planning events, seeing people come together and unify. It doesn’t matter what the event is, giving people a place to celebrate their accomplishments or life milestones makes me happy. And because my sisters and I are so close, I always assumed that Spark House was their dream as well. But without me there, I’m beginning to see that maybe that isn’t true.

  I can sense London’s stress whenever I ask how everything is going with Spark House. Event planning isn’t either of my sisters’ strong suit—London loves creating centerpieces and other do-it-yourself crafts for the events, and Harley is great at setup and social media—but the actual planning isn’t easy on them. Mostly they tell me not to worry and that they have it handled, which I guess I have to trust.

  Declan carefully slides out from behind me and grabs a couple of tissues so he can wipe the oil off his hands. He waits until I pull my shirt over my head before he crosses to the door and checks the peephole. His shoulders tighten and he shakes his head imperceptibly.

  “Did one of those door-to-door guys make it in the building again?” It happens every once in a while.

  “Uh, no.” He cringes, possibly because I’m loud, and opens the door with some reluctance. All it takes is the sound of a high-pitched nasally voice on the other side for me to understand why he’s talking to the person through a three-inch gap.

  “Hey, Decky! I thought I’d stop by and see what you’re up to! I just got back from LA, and I figured you might wanna hang out!”

  “Uh, now really isn’t a good time, Becky,” Declan says quietly.

  Becky lives two floors below us. She’s a model, and every single thing she says ends in an exclamation mark. Including her orgasms, which I’ve had the displeasure of listening to on more than one occasion when she’s invited herself over for a booty call. It also drives me up the wall that she calls Declan “Decky.”

  “No problem. I’m around for a few days before I have to take off for Spain! I got a hot new tattoo and I’d love to show you!”

  I can practically feel her exaggerated wink.

  If my wheelchair wasn’t on the other side of the couch, I would 100 percent try to get my ass out of this room so I don’t have to listen to her horrible voice, or
Declan planning his next hookup.

  “Yeah, I’m not sure if that’s gonna work out, but thanks for the offer.”

  “Oh, that’s too bad. Do you have a girlfriend now or something?”

  “Uh … or something. It’s complicated.” He rubs the back of his neck.

  “Well, if you get tired of complicated, you know where to find me!”

  “Uh, okay, thanks, Becky. See ya later.”

  “Bye-bye!”

  Declan closes the door and remains facing it for several seconds before he finally slides the chain latch back into place and turns around. “I’m sorry about that.”

  “You can go if you really want to.” I motion to the closed door, and for some reason my stomach knots. Declan has hooked up with lots of women over the course of our friendship. It’s never bothered me before. Maybe it’s because a woman literally showed up at our door offering herself to him, and there’s no way I’ll be getting any kind of gratification in the coming weeks. Or that he made my lady parts aware of their plight by giving me a back rub, of all things.

  Declan arches a brow. “Uh, yeah, that’s not gonna happen, Ave.”

  “Just because I can’t get action doesn’t mean everyone else shouldn’t.” And now I’m snippy.

  “While I might agree that not everyone should have to go without action, I’m going to go ahead and say that if anyone shouldn’t be getting their rocks off right now, it’s me, especially considering the circumstances.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Besides, she sounds like she’s auditioning for a porn star role every time she comes, and I’m honestly not interested. Plus, I wouldn’t subject you to that noise, and I’m not leaving you alone for an hour so I can unload somewhere other than the shower.”

  “Is that your whack-off location of choice?” I’m going for cheeky, but I’m not sure that’s how it comes across.

  He flops down on the couch beside me. “Makes the least mess, plus it’s like double duty. Get clean and take care of business all at the same time. That way I can start my day with a clear head.”

  “But doesn’t it make you tired? Like don’t you want to pass out right after?”

  “Right before bed, sure, but first thing in the morning it’s like an espresso shot, wakes me right up. At night it’s more like a sedative, helps me stop all the wheels from turning.” He taps his temple.

  “Huh. Well that’s … enlightening.” And not something I need to be thinking about right now.

  Declan picks up the remote. “Wanna watch 50 First Dates?”

  “I’m more in the mood for action today. How about Thor or something?” I can’t handle watching people falling in love and making out, not with my emotions and my hormones all over the place.

  “You just want to see a shirtless Hemsworth.” He scrolls through the movie options and stretches his other arm across the back of the couch.

  “You’re not wrong.” I have a great love of all things Thor.

  He tugs on my shoulder, pulling me into his side.

  “Don’t you have work to do today?” He’s spent his entire morning with me at the doctor’s, and I’m well aware that there are nights he stays up late so he can finish things he doesn’t manage to get done during the day.

  “Work isn’t going anywhere. It can wait a couple of hours.”

  I rest my head on his shoulder, thinking about how nice this is, and how I’m going to miss it when things go back to normal.

  * * *

  “This woman is a total bridezilla! If ever there was an event you should be happy you can tap out of, it’s this one!” London spears an almond-stuffed olive with a toothpick.

  “She’s that bad?” I pop a baby gherkin into my mouth and go back to folding Declan’s laundry. It’s not easy one-handed, but it’s honestly the least I can do for him since he’s doing so much for me.

  “She’s a step above ‘that bad,’” London says.

  “She seemed pretty normal in the initial emails.”

  “That’s because you were dealing with her sister, who’s actually reasonable.” Harley tucks her hair behind her ears and crosses her legs like it’s carpet time in kindergarten. “Last week she cc’d the bride, and the shit hit the fan.”

  “Holy crap, why didn’t you tell me?” As soon as the words are out of my mouth, I realize I already have the answer.

  London raises a brow.

  Over the past week I’ve been able to wean myself off the painkillers. Am I still uncomfortable? Sure. But I’m healing, and I’d rather things hurt a little than feel like my brain is made of mush. “You know you can start bringing me back in on the planning side of things. I can do more than answer emails and like social media posts. Let me make some phone calls. I can talk to the bride, maybe smooth things over. My body might not work, but my brain and my mouth do.”

  “We know. We just don’t want you to dive back in full tilt, which is exactly how you kind of do things.” London folds a strip of paper between her fingers. She’s obsessed with making origami stars. She keeps them in boxes at Spark House and uses them as table decorations at events. I’m sure she could fill a bathtub with them, at the very least. I keep telling her she should open an Etsy store since she’s so crafty. From penis piñatas to paper stars, she can turn almost anything into something beautiful. She keeps saying she’d love to but doesn’t have the time.

  I motion to my leg and hold up my casted arm. “I can’t really jump into anything full tilt, but I’m feeling so much better, and I’d like to ease back in. Let me help where I can. What are bridezilla’s major issues? Let’s problem solve.” I’ve missed this. Over the past few weeks the focus has solely been on healing, and I need to feel useful, like I have value.

  “I think it would be easier to tell you what isn’t an issue,” Harley mumbles.

  London shoots her a look and Harley shrugs. “Well, it’s true, and we could honestly use the help.”

  “Oh man, this must be really bad. Why don’t we go over what you have prepared and what we can change to make her happy?”

  “A personality transplant might be effective,” London gripes, finally giving in a little, maybe because of Harley’s honesty.

  I bark out a laugh. “Well, since we’re not in the personality transplant field, let’s see what other options we have.”

  It feels good to be doing something other than binge-watching terrible TV shows and movies.

  It also means Declan was able to go into work today and run some necessary errands. As much as he tells me he’s happy to work from home, I’m aware this hasn’t been easy on either of us. Being productive feels amazing.

  “She’s worried the obstacle course is going to be too hard, and she doesn’t want to end up with an injury right before the wedding.”

  I flip through my tablet, scanning the timeline with a frown. “The bachelorette party is two months before the wedding, though.”

  “That is correct,” Harley says with pursed lips and a long exhale through her nose.

  “And she’s worried about injuries that last two months?” I recognize the irony considering my predicament, but running an obstacle course and being in a car accident are not the same thing.

  “She’s been watching wedding disaster videos, and now she’s freaking out about everything,” London says.

  I roll my eyes. “Why do people do that?” Although, to be quite honest, I’d been obsessively looking at the research about multiple breaks and the lasting impacts this accident could have on my body. It was making me anxious, so I had to stop.

  “People like to control the uncontrollable,” Harley says.

  She’s not wrong, considering it’s what I’ve been trying to do since they released me from the hospital. I’m beginning to see exactly how much of a challenge things at Spark House have been for my sisters. I’m usually the one talking clients off the ledge.

  “Okay, so let’s fix what we can so she’s more comfortable. Since we’re hosting the bachelorette party and the wedding, we need
to make sure the bride feels good about whatever we have planned,” I say. “Is her mother still taking the lead on the wedding preparations or has that changed?”

  “Mom is still the go-to, for now, but the closer we get to the bachelorette party, the more involved the bride gets. Which I totally understand. Unfortunately she keeps changing her mind about things, and you know how hard it is to rush order stuff, not to mention expensive.” London tosses another star on the coffee table, adding to the small pile she’s created while we’ve been chatting.

  “Okay, so she’s worried the current obstacle course has too much potential for bruising. What if we do something water-oriented instead?”

  London’s eyes light up. “That might work. We did that event last year for the water polo team. Maybe we can recycle some of that stuff?”

  “We might be able to. Water courses can be fairly simple, and we can use the indoor pool.”

  “Then we don’t have to worry about the weather.” London nods. “I love this already. Oh! Remember when we went to the Dominican Republic back when we were in college for winter break and they had that blow-up slide thing? That would be fun and safe, wouldn’t it?”

  “Yes! That’s exactly what I was thinking.” I tap my temple and grin at London, who already looks infinitely less stressed-out. “And this bride loves basketball, right?”

  “She does. Total fanatic,” Harley says.

  “Okay, so we can make that part of the whole water setup. And we can use beach balls instead of basketballs, that way no one ends up with a black eye.” If I could clap my hands, I totally would. “It’ll be fun and easy and virtually impossible for anyone to get hurt.”

  “That is a fantastic idea!” Harley does the clapping for me.

  I grab my iPad and use the speech-to-text function to search for inflatable slides. “It looks like we’re in luck! Since it’s the end of the season, they have a twenty-five percent off sale.” I pass the device to Harley, who passes it to London.