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Archer leaned toward the door, one leg through his pants. “No, you don’t have to—” But he could already hear her walk away.
Since he hadn’t even really used the kitchen since she’d last been here, Archer felt bad. He really didn’t need daily cleaning, period—his therapists had always encouraged him to pick up after himself to begin with—but he had a feeling it put his mother’s mind at ease. Just one more person checking in on him who could call an ambulance if he was lying on the floor, he guessed. He finished getting his pants on and then he sat there, trying to clear his mind, trying not to think about her.
It wasn’t long before he heard the vacuum and figured he better get out there. He was nervous about tonight, but he still had a deadline next week and he needed to get in his daily quota.
He’d just repositioned his chair when he heard a loud crash, a sound like an engine being choked, and a scream.
“Brielle?” he said, his heart thundering. “Brielle!”
Damn this chair, he told himself as he positioned his arms and swung himself back in. Thanks to his nerves, he fumbled. He’d forgotten to lock one of the wheels and that half of the chair pushed backward with his sudden weight. He almost slid right down, chin first, into the seat, but he managed to catch himself, wrenching his shoulder and hitting his forehead with his canes, which he kept in the bag at the back of his chair.
“Damn it!” he said, aloud this time. He really wasn’t supposed to walk without his braces, but hecouldand he had—mostly when there was a therapist with him.Screw it.He pulled both canes out and set them in front of the bed steadily. He couldn’t stop thinking about what could have possibly happened. The vacuum was still running, but it was making a sort of pathetic sound, like it was on its last legs. He pictured Brielle on the floor, unconscious, blood pooling. Hehadto get there, damn it, and make sure she was okay.
It took him a few tries, but he pulled himself up using his canes and stood still, trying to decide whether to head toward the door and walk out there or to simply walk in front of the chair so he could lock it and sit back down. Part of him wanted torunout there, but he’d never even gotten close, not even in a treadmill harness.
There weren’t a lot of days lately that he cursed the fact that he was born with legs like these—that was just how he was, even if it had a whole share of problems few others had to deal with—but today was one of them.
Phone, he thought, realizing it was still on the bed—out of reach if he got into his chair to grab it. If she needed him to call someone, he wasn’t going to be a lot of help without it.
He gritted his teeth and walked back to where he came from, shifting one cane under his arm to grab hold of the phone and slip it into his pocket. His arms—easier to work out than his legs, but still never as reliable as he’d like them to be—ached, even after or maybe because of the workout he’d given them the day before.
The vacuum shut off just as Archer let out one of his loudest grunts in months. Archer breathed hard, the muscles in his arms, legs, and chest hurting. He needed to calm down. Breathe in, breathe out.
A knock came at the door. “Mr.… Archer? I’m sorry about the noise. The vacuum sort ofexplodeda little, I don’t know why—I might have missed some of the glass when I picked it up. Um, if you want, I can file the issue with my mom and then we can talk about a replacement.” She stopped speaking and knocked again. “Archer?”
Archer opened his mouth. He wanted to speak, to tell her it was all right, to breathe in relief that she was fine, too. He felt stupid for picturing her unconscious on the floor, for imagining himself some kind of savior.
But it all hurt and right now, all he could do was breathe.
“Archer?” The door creaked open slowly and Brielle’s svelte fingers hooked around the edge as she peeked around the corner. Her jaw dropped and she shoved the door all the way open. “Are you okay? You’re… You can… Your face is flushed.” She rushed to his side, her hands hovering out around him, but she pulled them back quickly, searching his face for an answer. His legs were shaking. He’d gotten up too quickly.
“My chair,” he managed. He cleared his throat and pushed through it despite the pain. He wasn’t about to undo what little progress he’d made with her after their disastrous beginning. “Please.”
“Right!” Brielle jumped up and clapped her hands together before rushing to the chair. She pushed it into place behind him—not without an effort, since one half was still locked and she had to lift it up—and stood back. “Should I…?”
“Locks,” said Archer. “On the sides.”
“Oh!” Brielle bent over, her loose hair hanging over the side of the chair. She fumbled around with the lock on one side until she figured out it was already locked, then locked the other. “Okay,” she said, whipping her loose hair over her face with one hand.
Archer shifted himself slightly and then let himself collapse into the chair, tossing the canes against the bed. He took a deep breath and ran a trembling hand over his face. It felt hot to the touch. He’d been one second away from a full-out panic attack.
Brielle leaned toward him and clenched her hands together, almost as if she were stopping herself from reaching out to touch him. “Can I get you anything? Should I… Should I call for an ambulance?”
Despite everything, Archer laughed, shaking his head. “No need.”
“Your… nurse?” Brielle leaned closer, and that loose tendril of hair swung down again. She tucked it behind her ear, driving Archer crazy. “Do you need medication or…?”
Archer cradled his face and took a deep breath. “I’m fine. I just…” He went to move his chair and scrunched his face up in pain. “I moved too fast and I pulled some stuff.” He opened one eye and then the other to find Brielle staring down at him, her hands clasped together almost as if praying, her face panic-stricken. “Maybe you can get me some ibuprofen. In the top drawer in my bathroom.”
Off on a mission, Brielle scrambled into his bathroom, appearing with the bottle just a moment later. She handed it to him and was off again, this time coming back with a glass of water before he’d even managed to shake a couple of pills from the bottle onto his hand.
She gave him a beautiful smile, although it was fleeting. “I won’t make you drop it this time. Promise.”
He let her exchange the bottle for the glass, staring up at her the whole time. “You mean, I won’t makeyouclean it up.” He tore his eyes away and swallowed the pills, downing the whole glass.
They stared at each other for what felt like a full minute. She reached for his glass and he handed it to her, but then she still stood there, staring.
“So,” he said. “The vacuum?”
