by Maxene Novak
“Do you want to hurt him?” she asked.
Chapter Twenty-one
Ruger blinked. “Do I… what?”
“Do you want to hurt Colt,” she repeated.
“I don’t… hold on. Why do you ask?”
“Because I want to hear your answer.”
Ruger chewed his lip. “Yeah. Kind of. Like, I don’t? But I do. Up in the places I can get to and examine and control, I really don’t. But underneath… I’m just so angry. And he’s explained all of the things he did that hurt me, and his explanations make sense, but I just… it’s like there’s an itch I can’t scratch, an old scab or something that only feels better when he suffers.”
“I think he’s suffered quite a bit at your hand,” Annabelle commented. “That isn’t a judgment, just a fact. I think you know that he’s suffered, but it isn’t enough to satisfy your need for vengeance, which tells me that there is still some unaddressed hurt that you need closure on.”
“Maybe,” Ruger said reluctantly. “Or maybe it’s just habit at this point. When I left… I was so angry. So hurt. I tossed my phone and took off in the middle of the night. When I drove out of town, I felt free. When days passed and I knew he was trying to find me but he couldn’t, it gave me a high. After that… for the whole four years that I was gone, thinking of his pain gave me pleasure. It got me through every depressing moment, every time I was a little down, I’d just think of him living here, miserable, while I went off and had adventures.
“It was vindictive, but I was addicted to it. Then when I came back, I dunno… I sort of expected him to beg me to come back to him. I expected him to be angry at me, to scream and yell and tear me apart. I was prepared for either outcome, even a mixture of both. I fantasized about it the whole way back. I was in California when the call came for me to go home, so I had plenty of time to roll it over in my mind. I envisioned myself a wounded warrior, back to rescue the prince, full of mercy and forgiveness.
“But he didn’t do either of those things, and none of my fantasies played out at all. He greeted me with open arms and a closed heart. He’d outgrown me. I’ve spent the last two years trying to make myself indispensable to him, to take my rightful place as his best friend, his lover, his confidant. But he never let me in. He was pleasant enough, and friendly enough, but he kept me at arm’s length. He made it clear every day that he didn’t need me. That he’d be completely fine if I just up and left again. I guess I felt like if he didn’t need me now, then he didn’t need me at all. I figured all of my fantasies of him wasting away, miserable without me, were all lies.
“When he told me that he actually had suffered, I didn’t believe him. He seems fine now, and I’m still hurting. That’s not how it’s supposed to work. He wronged me, or at least I thought he did. I was supposed to return whole and triumphant, and he was supposed to be broken and pleading for forgiveness. That’s how I saw it. If he can be fine right now, then how can I believe that he ever loved me the way I loved him?”
“I think in order to answer that, you need to determine how you loved him.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, there are lots of different ways to love, Ruger. Some of them are healthier that others. When the two of you were together, how did you feel about him?”
“He was… he was everything. He was my whole world. That’s love, isn’t it?”
“It’s a kind of love,” she agreed. “But it isn’t the healthiest kind. See, Colt loved you. But not at the expense of himself. What you’re describing is more… codependent love. Tell me, is—or was—your happiness dependent on his mood, or his schedule, or anything to do with him?”
“Well… yeah. I mean, when we were together and things were fine, I was happy. When we argued, I was miserable. But that’s just how relationships are, right?”
“Eh… in high school, sure. But as adults, it’s important that we create our own inner baseline of I’m okay. If you don’t have a solid base, then your relationships won’t either. Your well-being will be utterly dependent on someone else’s fickle moods.”
“That’s just the thing. He was my baseline. When I would get angry back in high school, he’d always know exactly what to say to calm me down. When I was sad or anxious, he’d do just the right thing to make me feel better. He kept me steady all through high school and beyond, all the way up until I left. And even after that, I guess, because everything I did was to get back at him, in a way.”
“That’s a lot of responsibility to give to someone, isn’t it? Do you think it’s really fair to make one person responsible for your happiness in addition to their own?”
“If he loved me, it wouldn’t be a burden,” Ruger argued.
“It would. It is. I don’t allow my children, for example, to make me responsible for their happiness. Their emotions are theirs and theirs alone. I will, as a mother, help them manage and interpret their emotions, but there is one phrase that I will not allow in my house.”
“What phrase?”
“You made me. You made me sad, you made me angry, you made me happy. All of that places responsibility for my emotions onto you. I’ve taught them to phrase it a different way, and I would like you to practice this in your own life. Instead of saying you made me sad, say I’m feeling hurt right now. Then practice identifying why. If someone doesn’t call you when they’re going to be late, they didn’t make you mad, you became mad. And you aren’t mad because they didn’t call. You’re mad because you felt inconsequential in their lives. Does that make sense?”
“That… yeah, it does. Could, um… could you write that down? That’s like completely backwards from my usual inner monologue, and I’m going to need a reference.”
She smiled. “Thank you for recognizing that. Yes, I’ll write it down for you. Our time is just about up; is there anything else you wanted to talk about before you left?”
“Yeah, um… do you think you can make me fit for human consumption by June?”
Annabelle laughed. “No, but I think if you work hard, you can make yourself fit for human consumption by then. If that’s your goal, though, I recommend coming in every week. Think you can manage that?”
“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll see if I can make a standing appointment.”
A bell rang in the lobby, and Annabelle wrote down the notes for him. “There you are, dear. I’ll see you next week.”
“Thanks,” he said sincerely.
All the way home, he practiced rephrasing his feelings. It felt awkward and unnatural, as if the words were too big for his mouth. Something about it, though, had him feeling grounded. He began to feel as if he was in control again, somehow. Not over Colt, never over Colt. Whatever it was, it gave him a glimmer of hope.
Maybe, just maybe, he could get past his destructive flaws.
***
Over the next several weeks, Ruger found himself thinking a little longer before he spoke. Before, he’d considered “I” statements self-involved and narcissistic; the reactions he began to get from people proved otherwise. He slowly began to realize that she’d been right, that in making all of his statements and emotions and comments about other people, he’d been making them responsible for his inner life.
At the same time, he realized that his way of thinking had inadvertently made him feel responsible for the emotions and reactions of everyone around him; which had, in turn, made it impossible for him to express himself honestly. If someone reacted poorly to a fabrication, they weren’t really reacting to him.
This epiphany took him a lot longer to do anything about. He avoided talking about it with Annabelle for two full weeks, because he was afraid of what she would tell him to do. He wasn’t ready. He didn’t know if he’d ever be ready to strip naked in front of the world and declare his honest truth. The last time he’d done that, his world had fallen apart. At his own hand, he admitted. He was finally able to see that the destruction of his relationship, and by extension his youth, had been his own doing.
But it wa
sn’t enough, and he knew that. He was going to have to live every moment as if it were real. He was going to have to stop floating above the masses, and get down in there with the rest of humanity. He was going to have to stop pulling strings, to sit back and allow people the space to be themselves honestly. It was difficult, more difficult that he’d even anticipated, but slowly, moment by moment, inch by inch, he began to pull back the curtain.
Chapter Twenty-two
It was the end of the fifth week of Belle’s physical therapy. It was a big day; Tassie had brought home a cake to celebrate, and Ruger would be over after work with plenty of alcohol. Belle had been biting her fingernails all morning. She didn’t think she was ready but Colt assured her that she was, and he was insisting that she go through with it. She had decided to trust him, but she’d nearly backed out a dozen times. Now that he was here, she was more nervous than ever.
“Are you sure I can do it?” she asked him for the hundredth time.
“Absolutely positive,” he told her confidently. “Now, would you like to do the honors, or shall I?”
“Um… I’ll handle the upper portion if you’ll take the lower.”
“Deal.”
He helped her lie down on the exercise mat they’d set up in front of the French doors in her bedroom. She slid her shorts down on one side to unfasten the girdle around her pelvis; they’d decided weeks ago that it was best if she did that part on her own. She unfastened the other side, and waited for him to catch up.
Once she was free from her apparatus, she nearly backed out again.
“I just don’t think it’ll support me,” she said. She felt her lower lip begin to quiver, and she bit it hard.
“Trust me,” Colt said softly, holding his hand out.
He reminded her of a Disney prince, and she didn’t have it in her to deny a prince. She took his hand, and he lifted her to her feet. She leaned heavily to her right, keeping all of her weight off of her left side.
“I’m right here,” he told her. “Take my hands.”
She put both of her tiny hands in his huge ones and allowed her body to settle. Her body automatically favored her left side, and it took a significant amount of concentration for her to distribute her weight evenly. She trembled as she did so, and her hip bowed slightly. She trembled, feeling like her whole leg would give out at any moment.
“Very good!” he said approvingly.
He walked her over to the bed and had her lean against it.
“I brought these for you,” he said, pulling lightweight braces out of a bag. “This is a sciatic support belt, this one’s for your knee, and this is an ankle brace. But I’m sure you’ve seen all of these before.”
She nodded. He helped her strap them on, and she felt a little more secure. They weren’t nearly as cumbersome as the apparatus, but they held her snug in her sockets so that she was more confident in her own stride.
“Alright, let’s see you walk,” he told her, handing her the cane.
She took a step, and her balance was way off. She nearly tumbled over, but saved herself with her cane. She took another step, and it was easier.
“I feel like a baby,” she said, giggling.
“Well, you are kind of learning to walk all over again,” he said, grinning. “And you’ll have to learn it all again when I take your cane away.”
She felt the color leave her face. She’d grown accustomed to her cane, to the point that she’d feel naked without it. She knew she’d made a lot of progress, but she still couldn’t seem to imagine a life without a cane.
“When… when do you think that’ll be?” she asked quickly.
“Not for a few weeks yet, don’t worry. You’re doing great, though. I can’t tell you how proud I am of you and your progress.”
“Halfway through rehab this month,” she mused.
“Yep! Once June rolls around, it’ll be all you.”
“You really think so?” Belle couldn’t seem to envision it clearly. At this point, she was working mostly on faith in Colt.
“I know so,” he said.
The conviction in his voice bolstered her, and she lifted her head high.
“Then let’s get this party started,” she said with a fierceness that brought a twinkle to Colt’s eye.
He offered her his elbow, and she took it. She focused on maintaining her posture—something she’d sorely neglected since her accident—and strode from the room with all the confidence and grace she could muster. For a moment, she felt like the celebrity she used to be. Colt opened the door for her, and when she passed through, her friends began to clap and cheer. She grinned at their happy faces and nearly attempted a curtsy.
Not quite there, she reminded herself as her knee bent awkwardly under her weight. Baby steps.
“Look at you, you’re amazing!” Ruger fawned.
“It’s gotta be nice to be out of that terminator suit,” Tassie laughed.
“Oh my god, it’s the best feeling ever! I can feel the air moving on my skin; it’s like I haven’t taken a breath in months. It’s absolutely glorious.”
“Remind me to treat you to a spa day as soon as your physical therapist signs off on it,” Tassie said with a wink at Colt.
“That sounds absolutely wonderful,” Belle sighed.
“And afterwards, we’ll go dancing!” Ruger said, bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet.
“Oh… pencil that in for July. Maybe September… quite possibly never,” Belle stuttered.
“Never?” Ruger’s face fell. “How come?”
“Well… because I just don’t think I’ll be ready for dancing for a while. Maybe not this whole year.”
“Now do you mean physically or emotionally ready?” Colt asked.
“Um… both?”
“Well. I’ll do what I can about the physical part,” he promised her.
“Thanks,” she said sadly.
“Bad Ruger! Bad!” Tassie scolded half-playfully. “Come on, there’s cake! No more talk of dancing. We’ll go eat cake, and I got ice cream too. I’ll serve it in those bowls our little sculptress made last week.”
“Better eat the ice cream fast, there’s no guarantee they’ll hold liquid,” Belle said wryly.
“Oh, hush,” Tassie said brightly. “I checked these ones already, they’re watertight. Mostly. I’ll take the tricky one.”
“A martyr till the end,” Ruger said, clapping his hand on Tassie’s shoulder.
She shrugged him off with a laugh and shooed them all to the table.
“Alright, here’s your cake!”
She set it down on the table, and Belle instantly dissolved into a fit of giggles. Tassie had somehow managed to find a cake in the shape of an extremely muscular leg and had written “I’m Free!” on it with thick, sparkly purple icing.
She giggled. “This is perfect.”
“Here, you be the surgeon,” Tassie said, handing her the knife.
“I feel like a cannibal,” Ruger stage-whispered to Colt as she served him a piece of the thigh.
“Eat your leg and be grateful,” Colt stage-whispered back. “Starving people would be happy to have that leg!”
“Maybe the Donner party,” Belle said doubtfully.
That brought laughter from all corners of the table, and Belle grinned. She figured they laughed at her bad jokes because they liked her more than they appreciated good humor, and that gave her the warm fuzzies.
“So, Mister Physical Therapy God, what’s next for Belle?” Tassie asked.
“Well, for the next four weeks she’ll continue working out in the pool. I’m going to have her come on Saturday mornings as well as Tuesday and Thursday. If you can?” he asked Belle.
“What time? I have my pottery on Saturdays.”
“Eleven, same as usual. It’s not a regular class, but the pool is set aside for trainer use at that time. I’ll put you through a personalized training session.”
“Okay, I can do that. As long as it’s not too terribly tiring,
I wouldn’t want to fall asleep at the wheel.”
“The one you drive with or the one you throw with?” Ruger asked.
“I mean, either one would be bad…” Belle said.
Colt laughed. “Alright, I’ll take it a little easy on you.”
The conversation turned to lighter topics, and Belle let it wash over her. There was a feeling here that she hadn’t known she’d been missing, the easy friendliness without the shadow of competition. She flipped through her memories until she discovered the one that resonated with this moment. She’d been seven years old, still practicing ballet semi-casually. She’d been going to public school, and she’d had these three best friends. They’d been inseparable. She’d had a slumber party with her three best friends, and they’d stayed up late watching movies and talking.
That had all ended on her eighth birthday. That was when she’d won her first all-ages national competition; she’d been heralded as a child prodigy, and her face had been all over the TV for days. After that, her mother had felt the pressure to make her the best ballerina she could be. Her practice increased exponentially: two hours in the morning before school, six after school. For a while, she’d still seen her friends on the weekends, but soon they drifted away. She’d been competing with full-grown adults while they were still playing Barbie dolls. It hadn’t been messy, but it had been inevitable.
Belle had nearly forgotten about them until this moment. She’d pushed them from her mind when they didn’t fit her life any longer. She wondered if she would still be so callous now. She imagined a day when she would be free of canes and braces, walking and dancing on her own the way she used to. What would she do then?
The plan had been to return to dancing. Regain all of her lost ground. Hunt down Ramone and convince him to take her back with some wild stunt. That had been what she’d been working so hard toward; that was why she’d kept some distance between herself and her friends. The distance was barely noticeable now, with all of them scrunched around the breakfast table eating a leg of cake.
