“I mean, it is tequila.” Char managed a smile. “You tend to, ah, get into trouble with that stuff.”
“Doesn't everyone?” Amarie grinned. She stood from her stool. “I know you feel this too,” she said, putting a hand over her heart. “I just wanted to tell you to get ready, because in New York, I’m going to make you fall in love with me.”
Char arched an eyebrow. “You are awfully confident.” She hated the way her heart was doing somersaults in her chest, how high her hopes were getting despite her resolutions.
“I did say I was close to pumpkin-izing.” Amarie tilted her head, curls grazing her forehead and cheeks. Char’s hand twitched with the urge to brush them aside. “Midnight is the honesty hour. I meant what I said.”
Char looked down at the bar. She shouldn’t even be entertaining the idea of a relationship with Amarie. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to say the words.
Their eyes met, golden brown magnetized to ocean blue. “I’ve got patience,” Amarie said. Pressing her lips to the pads of her fingers, she blew Char a kiss. “I’ll see you soon.” She turned and disappeared into the sea of writhing bodies.
Char sagged against the bar, knees weak. “Shit,” she muttered. Despite her resolutions, the girl did things to her heart—and body—that no one else had managed in a long time. There was no way she could withstand five days in New York with Amarie.
She hoped that Rowan would be awake when she got home. She needed girl talk, stat.
Chapter 7
The mountains of snow that had been piled on street corners and in parking lots dwindled, slowly melting to puddles. As April turned into May, the weather grew warmer and the ache in Amarie’s joints eased—but unlike the snow, her pain never dissipated entirely. Still, with the warmer weather, she wasn’t completely bedridden after work anymore, so she couldn’t complain. Even her problem student Isaiah was behaving—though maybe it was because he sensed that summer vacation was on its way. Things were definitely looking up and, with each day she crossed off in her agenda, she felt something stretching inside of her.
Her road trip with Char nudged closer and closer, until it was suddenly the day before. Almost two months had passed since their first kiss. In the weeks since, they’d seen little of each other aside from texts, and her nerves rippled like Double Dutch jump ropes. She couldn’t wait to see Char, but part of her fretted that the spark she’d sensed might’ve been her own projection. Still, both Paloma and Neve were always telling her to seize the day, to go after what she wanted. For once, she was listening.
First she had to finish her work day.
It’d been warm enough all week that she’d taken both her morning and afternoon classes outside to play. She sat in the folding camping chair she’d bought because there were no benches for the teachers. The mug of hot tea she held warmed her hands. Her heart stuttered in her chest. She’d requested off Wednesday through Friday, that way she and Char could drive down and rest before their plans..
It wasn’t just sharing a hotel room with Char that she was nervous about. Dr. Fredericia Warren had a 4.9 out of a 5-star rating on the clinic’s website with stellar reviews. More importantly, she was a woman of color. A black female doctor had to be more compassionate than the standard old white male doctors she’d been seeing. At the very least, Dr. Warren wouldn’t take one look at Amarie’s brown skin and accuse her of drug-seeking. Hopefully.
Still, she was always nervous when seeing a new doctor. She was banking a lot on this woman, this stranger. It probably wasn’t fair to expect Dr. Warren to diagnose her and start treating her in the same visit, but she could hope.
Hope was all she had.
She was tired of not knowing, tired of employers giving her the side eye because she couldn’t make it in but couldn’t furnish a medically documented disability. Most of all, though, she was tired of being unable to live.
The other teachers at least walked around the playground, occasionally starting or joining in on their students’ games. At first, they warmly encouraged Amarie to do the same. After she’d patiently explained for the millionth time that she couldn’t, that her hip hurt too much and her ankle didn’t feel like being an ankle, they’d stopped asking—and started whispering.
It was a matter of time before her principal handed her the proverbial pink slip—especially since she’d just requested three days off, and she was supposed to be the interim teacher.
Taking a sip of tea, she shook her head. Everything rode on this trip to the city. Everything.
And then there was Char.
Sweet, rhapsodic Char, with her teal hair fading back into blonde, those shimmering ocean blue eyes always smiling. Amarie could still feel Char’s lips on hers, the heat simmering between their bodies. She wanted Char so much, but she was terrified to admit it out loud. Maybe she could’ve walked away, could’ve continued to ignore the blazing wave that had been coursing between their bodies since they met the summer before, but she didn’t want to.
She was done saying no to herself.
Still, it was complicated. Char was able-bodied. Char had a future where Amarie had wheelchair catalogs and disability direct deposits. If, of course, she could get a diagnosis. Lucas hadn’t wanted to be with her, and she’d never seen it coming. For an entire year, she’d thought everything had been fine between them. Sure, neither of them had been about to drop the L bomb anytime soon, but they’d been happy. Or so she’d thought.
She couldn’t blame him. Not really. It was a lot to ask a person, a commitment with more responsibility than the average relationship. It was more than just helping her get dressed after sex or rolling with last-minute canceled dates. It was seeing the world passing them by, a world that didn’t make way for disabled people and their partners-turned-caregivers. She would never be able to manage a household on her own, to cook and clean and care for babies. She could barely sit in a restaurant. Not with the way things were.
She couldn’t begrudge him for wanting a life without her.
The bell rang, signaling the end of recess. Setting her tea down on a relatively stable patch of grass, she stood. “If we line up nice, we’ll have two stories today!” she called to her students. Her wrists and elbows protested as she wrestled her chair back into its bag. None of the other teachers moved to help her. They simply walked their classes back inside.
She resisted the urge to scowl at their backs.
Her students lined up, fidgeting as they waited for her to join them. She wondered what they thought of her, if they noticed that none of the other teachers limped or used a cane. Or maybe pre-school children just didn’t see things like that. The rest of the world hadn’t yet pointed out the differences.
“We’re going back inside, so remember our indoor voices,” she called to them as she dragged herself over to the line. She didn’t have a free hand to press a finger to her lips, but they automatically made the gesture, making soft “Shh!” sounds. A smile touched her lips. They were getting used to her and their new routine.
She led them into the building, hoping that she’d have enough energy to finish packing when she got home. She’d intended to pack over the weekend, but instead all she’d done was sleep, taking doses of Tramadol in between. If she had to make Charlotte wait in the morning while she finished, she’d be mortified.
As she ushered her students into her room, her phone vibrated in the pocket of her cardigan. She thought she’d turned off the ringer, but apparently brain fog had kicked in and she’d only thought of it. She slid it out of her pocket, meaning to just flick the switch off, but her eyes skated across the screen and the text before she could stop herself.
“Ready for tomorrow?” Char asked, a hug emoji that looked more like jazz hands punctuating the question.
Char had texted her.
Despite her misgivings, warmth rushed through her. She unlocked the phone, flexed her stiff fingers, and started to type back a response.
“Miss Locke?”
Sh
e looked down. Lola, an olive-skinned girl with round hazel eyes, watched her intently. “Yes?”
“Rules are rules,” the little girl intoned. “No phones in school!”
Smiling, Amarie put her phone away.
∞∞∞
Clothing lay strewn across Amarie’s bed and couch, her suitcase open on top of an ottoman. She sat on the floor in front of it, her back against the foot of her bed. Tears stung her eyes. She didn’t have the spoons to finish packing. She just didn’t.
Showers had rolled in that afternoon and with them, the temperature dropped. Cold dampness seeped into her joints, making her body stiff. Her fingers moved like rusted hinges, too swollen to fold clothes. She slumped against the wooden bed frame. If she couldn’t do something so simple, she sure as hell couldn’t get through a five-day trip.
There wasn’t anyone to help her pack, either. Neve was still at Stanford, finishing up the semester—and her degree. Her mom was tutoring for the evening at the Boys and Girls Club, and her dad was at practice with his co-ed softball team. She dropped her forehead onto her knees. She was going to have to stay behind.
Once again, her disease—whatever the hell it was—had won.
There would be no two-hour drive with Char, no shared dinners, no HBO movie binges. She wouldn’t get to see Dr. Warren, and she wouldn’t get to have New York pizza and hot dogs.
Her fingers curled into fists of frustration, closing as slowly as if they’d been encased in goo. She wanted to go, damn it—needed to. If nothing else, she needed to take back some kind of control of her life. It’d been years since she got sick and didn’t get better, but she still remembered what it felt like to make choices without considering things like mobility and pain and energy. Eventually, she would forget. Decades would pass and these things would be the only life she’d ever known.
Well, she wanted some say in it all, damn it.
She patted around for her phone. There was someone she could call. It might be a bit awkward at first, but Matt had been her friend too throughout the past year. Taking a deep breath, she said, “Hey Siri,” activating the phone’s hands-free mode—a handy feature on its own, but more so when the damned thing was buried under a closet’s worth of clothing. “Text Matt: Are you busy?”
He responded right away: “Hanging out with Ro. Everything okay?”
She sighed. She didn’t want to bother him, especially if he was with his girlfriend. Though Matt and Rowan co-owned Elli’s, they didn’t get to spend much time together while at the bakery. Still, she did need help.
Maybe, if she hadn’t wasted so much energy trying to match up outfits first, she wouldn’t be on the floor.
The thought was a quick, cruel lash, leaving her stinging long after the words left her brain. According to researchers, emotions only lasted a few seconds, but it was a person’s thoughts that kept them going. She wanted to look cute for the trip, damn it. Her wardrobe consisted of either sweats or dress clothes for work, though—nothing in between. She needed to look good for her rheumatology appointment, but not too good. Usually she wore nice sweats, like Victoria’s Secret joggers, with a touch of makeup. Just enough to say “I’m not a lazy drug addict, but I’m also not feeling good.”
If she was honest with herself, she also wanted to look cute for Char.
“Hey Siri,” she said with a sigh, shoving aside a ratty NVCC sweatshirt and retrieving the phone. “Text Matt: Can you come over? I need a hand. Pun intended.” Before Siri sent the text, Amarie selected a waving hand emoji.
She looked down at her own hands. They looked normal. Brown skin. No visible swelling. But the joints in her fingers refused to cooperate, and even folding panties was an impossible task.
The thought of Matt helping her fold underwear made her snort. The tips of her ears burned, and tears filled her eyes. She shouldn’t need help to do something so simple.
“OMW,” Matt replied. No emoji. No context. She had no idea whether he was annoyed or worried. For all she knew, she’d interrupted a pivotal romantic moment.
Tipping her head back against the bed, she closed her eyes, thinking of the many moments of her own that she’d ruined. How she’d had to stop during sex with Lucas. How he hadn’t complained but she’d seen the disappointment in his eyes. How her hips had sent shocks of pain through her pelvis as she did her roll of shame off the bed.
How there were so few things she could enjoy anymore.
It wouldn’t be fair to put that burden on Char. She needed to be friendly but not flirtatious—she couldn’t give Char the wrong idea.
“But it wouldn’t be wrong,” she whispered, touching her lips. She wanted to kiss Char, again and again, until all of the bad memories faded away and only good ones were left. She wanted Char’s hands on her body, the sweet scent of Char’s hair in her oxygen.
Muscles deep in her pelvis clenched, heat and wetness throbbing through her. It had been so long since anyone had touched her. With Lucas, she’d all but given up. She hated seeing that look in his eyes, hated feeling guilty for the way her body refused to work.
She had no spoons left—none to fold clothes, and certainly none to cure the tightening of her clit. She didn’t even have the energy to get in the shower before bed. Shaking her head at herself, she turned her phone over in her hands.
Staring at it reminded her that she’d never responded to Char. After recess, she’d read two stories to her students as promised. Though the story circle gave her time to rest her body, she had to prepare things for her substitute after dismissal. The lesson plans should have only taken her thirty minutes, tops, but her thoughts crawled through a murky haze, the words not coming to her as easily. Never mind the fact that she could barely hold the pen.
More tears burned her eyes. Such small actions should not exhaust her.
Knuckles rapped softly on her bedroom door. “Can I come in?” Matt asked.
“Yeah,” she said, swiping at her eyes. Shit. She had worn makeup that day, and would have to wash it off before bed or face the wrath of pimples.
Matt pushed the door open, his eyes widening slightly at the chaos in her room. “What’s up?” His tone was good-natured, as usual. He was the epitome of the guy next door, with his angelic brown curls and sweet brown eyes—always willing to help, and never complaining.
“Just a little light packing,” she joked.
“You’re going down to New York with Charlotte, right?”
She nodded, even as fatigue sunk in deeper, pushing into her marrow.
“Well,” he said, “I’m no good with putting together outfits, but I can do the work if you want to supervise.”
She gave him a tiny nod. “That would be wonderful.”
He stepped over a pair of wedges that she could no longer wear and squatted down next to her suitcase. “Five days. You’ll need extra, um, underwear.” The high plains of his cheeks turned pink.
“Top drawer,” she said, pointing to the dresser. “Thank you,” she added.
“For what? This?” He shook his head as he collected the garments. “No big deal.”
“I’m sure it’s a little awkward, though, no?”
“What, because of Lucas?” Matt’s eyes met hers. “It’s not awkward for me, Amarie. I’m pissed. He’s better than that—or at least I thought he was. You deserve better.” He tucked socks and underwear into a corner of the suitcase.
“I don’t blame him.”
Matt faced her. “I do,” he said sternly. “You’ve been there for him through a lot of shit. The least he could’ve done was stand by you.”
“I don’t want to point fingers.” She sighed.
“It’s not about pointing fingers.” He gathered two pairs of joggers. “These cool?” When she nodded, he folded them neatly and added them to her suitcase.
“How did you get so good at this?”
He smiled ruefully. “Widowed mom. We had to pack and leave a lot of apartments. Look,” he said, eyeing a pair of jeans, “I’ve been friends wi
th him for a long time, but wrong is wrong. And Lucas was wrong.” He set the jeans aside and joined her on the floor. “You know that, right?”
She shrugged. She did, in a way. She just wasn’t sure that she could blame him. “If Ro . . . suddenly got sick and didn’t get better, would you be able to deal with it all?”
He blinked at her.
“If she couldn’t take care of herself, and you had to take care of her—and take over every aspect of the bakery too—would you?” She sank her teeth into her lower lip.
“After my dad died,” he said, “my mom got severely depressed. Like, couldn’t get off the couch.” He nodded to her own couch. “You stand by the people you love. Flat out. If you don’t, that’s not love.”
“But it’s asking an awful lot.” She smiled in an effort to show him that she wasn’t angry at Lucas. Not really. “People want lives. They want good jobs and weddings and families. Not this.” She gestured to herself.
Matt eyed her. His chest rose and fell, his brown eyes lightening. “Amarie, anyone would have to be stale to not want you. Baker pun intended.” He winked.
She blushed.
“I, um, don’t mean it like that,” he said quickly. “I just mean . . . You’re a good person. You have a lot to offer. You’re funny and sweet, and you can drink almost anyone under the table. Unless it’s tequila.”
Her blush deepened, and she smiled.
“You’re more than your disability,” he said.
“I know that. I just . . . I guess I’m still figuring it all out. Finding my place in the world.”
“Well,” he said, reaching for a pile of dolman tees, “you have a place with us—your friends—always.”
“I don’t want you to feel like you have to pick sides.” She wrapped her arms around herself, her eyes growing heavy.
“Trust me, none of us feel like we have to pick. It’s not hard at all. Do you want to pack a dress, just in case?”
Any Other Love Page 7
