Reaching Rose (Hunter Hill University Book 3)

by Grider, J. P.

  All the while searching the Internet, my mind keeps returning to Ben. I feel bad that I told him I can't see him like we had been. He's sick right now. And he's struggling. Plus, he's mourning. He needs a friend. I want to be his friend, but I like him more than that, and though he may like me now, I know his real feelings toward someone with a prosthetic leg - he pities me. He may not have told me in so many words, but I read between the lines yesterday. I can't be with someone who pities me and finds me needy and unattractive.

  I guess, though, I can put my issues aside for the time being, if only to comfort a friend. He is my friend after all. So I begin by researching Osteosarcoma...and its options.

  ***

  I stop at the food store on my way to my Friday Musicology class. I have two classes: World Literature on Mondays and Wednesdays, and Musicology on Thursdays and Fridays. Not a real challenging schedule, but perfect for me right now.

  When I walk into class, Ben is already sitting in the same seat as yesterday. The one next to it is empty, so I sit there again. We both nod to one another, but I can tell he's sad. In an effort to make him smile, I reach inside the small grocery bag I got at the food store, pull out the small container, and slide it across his desk.

  Goosebumps run up my arms when a smile pulls on his face. "Chocolate pudding."

  "Peace offering."

  He laughs silently. "Thank you."

  "Are you busy after class?"

  His eyes pop. "No. Not at all. This is my only class today. Except for practice at three. Can we go talk somewhere?"

  "Sure."

  Class starts, so I stop talking with Ben, but throughout class, I can't keep from glancing at him. Each time I do, he's looking at me too.

  After class, while Ben waits for me to pack up my stuff, Professor Sherman calls me to see her before I leave.

  "It'll probably just take a minute," I tell Ben.

  "I'll wait for you in the hall."

  Up at Professor Sherman's desk, she says, "Rose. I was talking to the fitness director yesterday. The group fitness room is open from ten to five if you're interested. It has a ballet barre and no one will bother you."

  "What?"

  She chuckles. "To practice."

  "Oh. Thank you, but...I haven't...I don't."

  "You should, Rose. They have prosthetic legs specifically for dance, but I'm sure with what you have, you can dance a bit."

  I nod. "Yes. I have a dance prosthesis, but..."

  "Rose. Then you must use the studio," she says excitedly. "I'd love to practice with you."

  "Really? Why?"

  "Because you're good. Even before your accident I'd heard of you. You're amazing."

  "Thanks, but...I don't...you still compete?" I ask, to get her off the subject of me. Plus, I can't remember if she told me it was something she did now or in the past. She doesn't look too old to still be in competition.

  "No. I stopped when I started studying for my PhD. Too much. But I'd love to put on my pointe shoes or tap.”

  I find myself smiling. I haven't put on a pair of tap shoes in so long.

  "You like tap. I can tell by your smile. Dance with me, Rose."

  "I don't have my shoes...or...or my leg." I say, embarrassed.

  "Oh. Well, next time you go home..." She shrugs. "Maybe you can get them."

  I feel bad, because she looks disappointed. "Thank you, Professor Sherman, I appreciate it."

  "Please...call me Lindsay. I'm only twenty-six. I hate Professor Sherman. Or worse, Dr. Sherman. In class, I guess it's okay, but when we're not in class, please, call me Lindsay. And think about my offer. You'd be doing me a favor. I hardly dance anymore. And I'm not one of those dancers who enjoys solos. My adrenaline rushes when I dance with other dancers. Love it." She smiles, and I see the young girl she probably is when she's not teaching psych courses.

  "Thanks, Lindsay. I'll think about it."

  "Great."

  Out in the hall, Ben is standing against the wall. "Everything okay?"

  "Yeah. Fine. Thanks for waiting."

  He holds up the container of chocolate pudding. "Thanks for this."

  "Yeah, I guess you should eat it soon or...get it in a refrigerator."

  "So...do you wanna go somewhere to sit?"

  "Uh. Yeah. The courtyard?"

  "Sure. Or I can buy you coffee?"

  "Um, no. It'll...it'll be too busy. The courtyard's fine."

  As we walk down the hall, from my peripheral vision, I see his hand reach out a little, but then he pulls it back and sticks it in the pocket of his leather coat.

  "Are you sure you accepted my apology the other day?" he asks when we sit down. "Because it didn't seem like you did."

  He holds up the pudding again. "Unless...this means you did."

  "I did."

  "Good. 'Cause I am sorry."

  "You don't have to apologize. I'm sorry. You just found out bad news and I made it about me. That's what I do these days. I'm sorry."

  "Shit. I get it. I'm always thinking about myself now too. Mostly pity parties." He shakes his head and turns so that he's fully facing me on the bench. He puts the pudding down in the triangular space between his legs. "I think you're great just the way you are. What I said the other day, that was because of my fears, Rose. But I can understand how you'd think if I didn't want this for me, I wouldn't like it for you. Which, well, I wish things were different for you, but it doesn't bother me either way. Geez, Rose, I'm rambling. No matter how I put it, it sounds wrong. I hope you..."

  "Ben. It's okay. I understand."

  He sighs. "So can we start again?"

  After a moment's hesitation, I say, "Let's just deal with what's going on now. You have a lot in front of you. I'm here for you...like you are for me. Can that be enough for now?"

  His smile is sad - his usual lately. "As much as I'd like to return to kissing you, I guess this is gonna have to be enough...you're right. I need the distraction though, Rose. You are the only good thing in my life right now." He takes me in both his arms and holds me, right here on the bench.

  I feel like I should be holding him.

  "Are you busy tomorrow?" he asks, still keeping his arms snug around me, the position of his legs making it awkward.

  "Tomorrow?"

  "Yes. It's Valentine's Day." He lets go and sits back.

  "Oh."

  "Rose Duncan, will you be my Valentine?"

  "Uh. Well. Wouldn't that negate the whole let's-put-our-relationship-on-hold thing we just talked about?"

  "You talked about?" He lifts his brow and smirks.

  "I talked about. Okay. But..."

  "Rose. What's really going on? It's not for my benefit that you're holding back. What is it?"

  I slide a little away from him and sit back against the bench. "It's...I can't...it's hard for me to express it...I just...you...your decision not to lose your leg." I look at him. I want to see his reaction to what I'm saying. "It made me realize that you...may find me...needy or pathetic or...unattractive...less than normal, I guess."

  "Oh, Rose. Rose." He reaches for my hands and turns toward me. "You are not less than anything. You are more everything than anyone I know. You gotta believe me." Ben runs his thumb up my wrist then slides his whole hand up and down my lower arm. "I told you...you missing a portion of your leg has no bearing on how I feel about you. The decision whether or not to have mine cut off in no way reflects how I feel about you." He nods and closes his eyes. "But it is a terribly difficult decision to make."

  "I'm sure it is. I'm sorry. I don't think I could make that decision either...even knowing what was ahead for me if I didn't...have it amputated."

  "Listen...let's forget it. Tomorrow...if you'll let me take you out...no talk of me...and the cancer. 'Kay? I don't want to think about it for a day. I have two weeks to decide. Tomorrow doesn't have to count." Both my hands are in his again. "So how 'bout it, Rose? Be my Valentine. Please?"

  I smile.

  I nod.

&nb
sp; "Sure."

  36

  BEN

  On Saturday morning, I show up for practice as usual. I'm not sure if it's psychosomatic or not, but my knee is hurting more today than it has since my surgery. It affects my pitching and the guys take notice.

  "What's going on, Falco? You're playing like a girl," Brian says. They don't know I have cancer.

  "I know some girls who play better than you, you fucking prick," Jax says to him in my defense.

  Jax doesn't know, but I'm sure he figures something's up.

  "You okay?" he asks after Brian shoots expletives back at him and walks away.

  "Yeah. Doc says it's normal after surgery."

  He nods, but he knows I'm lying.

  I grin and bear the pain through the rest of practice, go home, and take a shower, then show up at Rose's door by one in the afternoon...holding a six-pack of refrigerated chocolate pudding in my hands.

  "Hi," she says with a smile as bright as her green eyes.

  "Hi." I hand her the pudding, which I'd attached a big red bow to before I got out of the car. "Happy Valentine's Day."

  "Thank you. You're sweet. Happy Valentine's Day back."

  I follow her into the kitchen so she can put the pudding in the fridge. "What would you like to do today? I know sometimes you're not up for going out, so...you can decide."

  "Whatever you want. I'll go out today. I'm okay with it."

  "Really? Well...I know a cute place we can go for lunch if you want."

  "Okay."

  "C'mon. It's up north. I found it online when I found The Treemont."

  We get in my car and head up Route 23. I put the country station on for her, but I keep it low enough so we can talk.

  "Are we going toward my house?"

  "Pretty much. Why?"

  "Would you mind if after lunch we stop there? I'd like to pick up a couple things. We don't have to, though."

  "No. It's fine. We can go before or after. Doesn't make a difference."

  She runs her hands slowly up and down her thighs. "You must be starving from practice. Let's go to lunch first."

  "Lunch first," I repeat. We drive a little while and then I say, "So I've been listening to your country music. It's not bad."

  She chuckles. "I'm glad you approve."

  "So where does your country music fit in with this musicology class? Or doesn't it?"

  She chuckles again. "I like how you call it my country music. Like I'm the only one it belongs to."

  I glance her way. She's both stunning and adorable when she's mid-laugh.

  "As for the musicology thing, I think all music fits in, as you say. I think someone's mood lots of times determines what they'll listen to. Like, when I first came home, I don't think I wanted to listen to any music truthfully. The first time I listened to country music after the accident was that day in the car with you. I put on some classical music a couple times, but...that's what was already in my CD player."

  "Classical?"

  "I was dancing to it."

  "Dancing? Was this...after?"

  I don't hear her answer, but I quickly look her way and see she's nodding.

  "I thought you haven't..." I don't finish the sentence. Don't know if I should go there.

  "I've...been trying."

  "Really. That's awesome."

  "No. It's quite sad actually. I trip all over myself."

  She's laughing, so I chuckle along. "At least you're trying."

  She shrugs.

  "So where does classical music fit in with the mind?" I ask just because.

  "Everywhere, I'd imagine. It's so complex. It can be angry. It can be joyful. Sad. Classical music is amazing. That's why I dance to it. It moves me. When I was happy, I'd sometimes practice to "The Marriage of Figaro" by Mozart. When I was sad, I might have practiced to Petterson. He's pretty dark. Lately...I've just been practicing to whatever was in the CD from...before."

  "Why?"

  "Because I can't find my rhythm yet. And it really doesn't even matter anymore."

  "So have you been practicing regularly?"

  "No. Plus no one knows I've been, so please don't mention it to my family."

  I turn to her again. "So I'm the only one who knows?"

  "Yup." She smiles.

  "Is it difficult?"

  "What? Dancing? Now?"

  "Yeah."

  "Sorta."

  I don't say anything, I just wait for her to explain if she wants to.

  "I have a special leg. I guess I don't put it on enough and...maybe I'm not giving it a chance."

  "Do you want to give it a chance?"

  She doesn't respond immediately, but after some silence, she says, "I didn't want to. Not at first. Even after that."

  "Sounds like a but's coming on."

  "Yeah."

  "But now you do? Wanna give it a chance, I mean."

  "Maybe."

  I nod. Maybe that's as far as the conversation should go today. "Now this sounds like a happy song," I say, referring to the wildly upbeat song playing on the radio.

  "Ah. "Keep on the Sunny Side." That's Brad Paisley. It was written back before the 1900s. I looked it up once. Ironically...it was inspired by a boy in a wheelchair who always wanted to be pushed on the sunny side of the street. Kinda reminds me of Johnny."

  "Mmm."

  "I guess...how he used to be...before he...got sad."

  "Yeah." Thinking about Johnny makes me sad. "Before he gave up?"

  "Why are you so certain he gave up?"

  "Why? You saw him. He was this tirelessly happy kid..."

  "Maybe he got tired of pretending to be happy. It doesn't mean he gave up."

  "Are you giving up, Rose?"

  "Me? What's this got to do with me?"

  I glance her way again. "It doesn't. I'm just wondering. This practicing you've been doing...does it mean you're gonna try dancing again or are you going to give it up?"

  "Well, giving it up and giving up are two different things."

  "Are they?"

  "I don't know. You tell me. Is saving your leg but giving up your baseball career giving up?"

  I realize when I see signs for Vernon that I passed our exit miles ago, so I continue heading to Rose's house instead. "That's not fair."

  "How is it not fair? It's the same thing you're asking me."

  "It isn't."

  "It is, Ben. Saving your leg means a lifetime of complications, which you know means no Major League Baseball career. But losing your leg, and getting a new state-of-the-art prosthesis, and being back on the field within a few months, means you only put it on hold a year tops. I Googled it. Is your precious human leg that important to you?"

  "Is yours? I haven't really seen you embracing the loss of yours."

  From my side vision, I see her head dip.

  "I'm sorry, Rose."

  She just shakes her head.

  "I didn't mean to get...fresh."

  "I deserved it. I was fresh to you first."

  "No, you weren't fresh. Just...honest."

  "Yeah, well, call me pot, because I'm no better."

  "Hi, Pot. I'm Kettle. Nice to meet you," I joke.

  Thank God she laughs.

  "How 'bout we make a deal," I suggest.

  "No more talking about this? We weren’t supposed to anyway, remember?"

  "That's not what I was going to say. I was going to say, how 'bout if you put on that fancy dancing leg of yours, I'll cut off my leg."

  She snaps her head toward me. "Falco, you can't make this decision for me...or to get me to dance."

  "Yeah, but, I really don't want you to quit dancing."

  "Why? You've never even seen me dance. Why is it so important to you?"

  "Because you are important to me. And I did some Googling myself. There are videos of you online."

  "Oh geez."

  "You were awesome. Remarkable actually. And you looked like you loved it."

  "Probably as much as you love baseball, Falco. So
what's your point?"

  I have to pull over. I cannot continue to have this conversation while we're driving. So the first convenience store parking lot I see, I pull in. I slam the car in park and turn to face her. "The point is, Rose, I don't want you to fucking quit the one thing that makes your eyes light up. They were lit up so bright while you were dancing that I could see it on a fucking YouTube video. Your face was so radiant, and beaming, and...and all this time I've known you, I've never seen you that happy. You cannot give up that happiness, Rose. You just can't."

  She closes her eyes. For quite a long time. And she breathes...slowly. She tucks in her lips and then she cries. Not a lot, but one tear follows another until her cheeks glisten. That's when she opens them.

  "Then how can you?"

  37

  ROSE

  He just stares at me.

  "You can't answer that, can you?"

  He looks at me some more, then he says, "Why do you keep throwing my questions back at me? Why can't you just answer them?"

  "Why can't you?"

  "Jesus Christ, Rose. Because I want what's best for you. Don't you get it? I love you. I care more about what the fuck happens to you than I do me. Now that I know how happy you once were, it kills me to see you like this...like some shell of who you used to be." He grabs my left thigh with both his hands and gently lifts it so he's touching right beneath my knee, where it sits inside the socket of my prosthesis. "This. You're letting this define you. This leg does not define you. It's a part of you. A special part. Just like your hair is the most beautiful color of red I've ever seen. Just like your skin is the color of the white sand on a Jamaican beach. Just like you smell like fucking maple sugar. It's a fuckin' part of who you are. And I fucking love every. Single. Part. I just want to reach in and shake your fears free, you goddamn stubborn woman. I love you."

  I lick the tears that fall to my lips. Then I think before I speak. "I think that's why your decision bothers me so much."

  He signs and closes his eyes.

  "No. I mean..." It scares me to say this, because I've never said it before. "I love you too. And that's why your decision to save your leg scares me. I read about it. Those risks include more surgeries...and the infections...they can be fatal. And definitely no baseball, and I know baseball makes you happy."