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“Still, not many people would be so excited to get back to the thing that put them in a chair. That’s all.”
“I’m not ‘many people,’ though, am I?” Nate has a mischievous glint in his eye.
My heart leaps into my throat.
No, Nate is not like other people. He’s unique in so many ways.
“I lived. That’s as good a sign as any.” He slaps his hands to his thighs. “Sure, I can’t feel these things, but I’m getting there.”
Spinal cord injuries arehellon mental health. Nate, though, is able to maintain a good outlook almost always.
It helps that the prognosis is good.
Hewillwalk again if I have anything to do with it. And things are right on track.
“Come on, what’s next? I’m not tired yet, and I can feel my feet.”
The feeling returning to his feet was a big win. Happened a few weeks ago. His legs have yet to follow, but the tingling is a good sign.
“We can try the cycle if you want.”
“Hell yeah. Electric shocks? Sign me up.” He gives me a lopsided grin.
I laugh. “The surfer boy is coming out.”
He lifts his hand, folding down his fingers, except his pinky and thumb. “Hang ten, duuuude,” he says in his best California stoner voice.
I groan as I go over to the recumbent bike facing the windows. “You’re the worst.”
Nate snickers to himself as he rolls himself toward me, his muscles rippling underneath his black long-sleeve shirt, almost skintight. He’s always been strong, but since he’sbeen in the chair, his arms have gotten even more of a workout than before.
It’s just not fair because he’s stupid pretty too.
I’ve always thought that, but now that I spend all day with him, am responsible for taking care of him, I have far too much time to admire…and daydream.
Which is entirely wrong.
For one, he’s my patient. And for another…
“Help me up, would you?” Nate outstretches his hand.
I let out a soft chuckle. “Of course. Sorry.”
Getting Nate out of the chair is a difficult task, although it’s gotten better now that he can ground his feet.
I slide his legs out to the floor, then wrap my arms around Nate’s waist.
He braces his hands against the chair and pushes up while I pull.
We pivot until he’s in the correct position above the bike seat.
I lower him with all the care I can muster, mindful not to be too brusque, while trying not to pay any mind to his hands that now rest on my back.
It was awkward the first few times. The closeness, the intimacy of being helped like this. Now, though, it’s almost rote.
We do this so many times a day, I shouldn’t even bat an eye.
But god. How I crave the momentary closeness to get a whiff of his masculine scent, always tinged with citrus shampoo, and to feel the warmth that spreads across his chest.
