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“What are you, a damn parrot?”
Being that he’s more than familiar with my grumpy ass, he ignores me and goes about adjusting my shiny new toy. “You’re going to love how this baby reacts on stairs.”
His graduate assistant covers her mouth to hide her smile when she says, “You sound like a car salesman, Professor Tillman.”
Ben turns to her and taps on my new leg. “Zero to six miles an hour in under ten seconds flat. And did I mention it’s waterproof?”
“I can go in the water with this?” I’m legit shocked. “I won’t damage the microprocessor?”
“Nope. The X3 is made for complete submersion. Some people prefer to swim without it, though, so whatever floats your boat.”
I think back to last summer, feeling a sense of accomplishment after finishing my workout, only to find that the lifeguard had moved my gear bag from the side of the pool without asking. Had to hop over to retrieve it, garnering the attention of more than a few people in the process. And whenever that happens I get one of three reactions. You get the people who fix their eyes on my leg for a nanosecond and then look away, embarrassed to be caught staring. Then you have the ones who make eye contact and smile, as if they’re granting me acceptance or pity or what the fuck ever. My least favorite are the ones who want to engage me in conversation, who want to forge some bond for reasons unknown.
Some thank me for my service without even knowing my story. I did indeed get injured serving my country, but nowadays it’s like an assumption. I always want to shake my head, point to my leg and say something like:rodeo accident.
I love being in the water—there’s nothing like it—but transitioning in and out of a pool, the ocean, or any body of water can be awkward, and something I prefer to do when I’m alone or among friends.
“Run me through this again. I was invited to a pool party tomorrow, so maybe I’ll take this baby for a dip.”
They walk me through attaching and removing the device three more times. When we’re finally done, the both of them stand side by side like two proud parents as I take the stairs with ease on my way out. Leaning over the railing, Ben calls out, “Text me, all right? I want to know how the swimming goes.”
When Leo invited me to their summer kick-off party last week, I can’t say I was excited. And it wasn’t the mention of a pool party that had me feeling ambivalent. Nope, it’s just that I know how this shit goes. Single girls, single guys, a couple here and there. The expectation that you’ll connect with someone is heavy on the minds of the well-meaning hosts and it weighs on me, too.
I’m thirty-five, fresh off a break-up, and I’d be lying if I said it feels like nothing is missing from my life. I have a job that I love, a supportive family and I have friends. I’m not lonely, but in every way that’s important, I am alone.
My need for companionship, for love, for sex—I almost stayed with Ava because of it. But after six months you either feel it or you don’t, and I wasn’t feeling forever.
Another chink in my chain is the probability of having to endure this party alongside Skylar’s friend, Grace, and her fiancé. Sky pointed him out to me after Grace ran out of that faculty dinner like Cinderella, and I wanted to slap the shit out of the guy without even knowing the first thing about him. The only thing that gave me pleasure was watching him scan the room for a good fifteen minutes after she left. The fucker looked nervous and it served him right. When you have a woman like Grace, you don’t pull what he did.
Listen to me,a woman like Grace. I don’t know the first thing about her. I mean, she’s hot—doesn’t take much to ascertain the obvious—and she seems like she has a good sense of humor. From the few exchanges I overheard between her and Skylar, I would even say she’s a bit of a smart ass. She’s came off like a bit of a dingbat too, but maybe I just caught her on an off night.
Something about her drew me in like a bear to honey. Again, she’s hot, so no surprise there, but it was more than that. What exactly? The only thing I can come up with is that she made me smile.
That sexy red dress tied at the waist with a scarf that looked like part of a belly-dancer’s outfit, complete with shiny metal discs sewn into the fabric. Dark red lipstick that made her full lips beg, in my warped mind, for a hungry kiss. And the way she absently swayed in time to the background music, as if she couldn’t help but move in a way that called out to me. In that moment I wanted to take her by the hand, walk her outside and dance with her under the night sky. No words, no negotiation, nothing but her body moving with mine.
Reality hit like a bucket of cold water when I followed her eyes down to that ring on her finger.
Grace belongs to someone else.
Skylar stood up for her man when I made a comment about Grace kicking his ass to the curb. Skylar said he was solid and then waved me off, telling me I didn’t know the whole story when I disagreed with her glowing praise of the guy.
I saw nothing but doubt in Grace’s eyes when she looked down at her finger, and in that moment I felt like the two of us were kindred spirits or some shit. I wanted to tell her to rip the bandage off, to take the hard road instead of going through with something that in her heart she knew was wrong. I was in that same place just a few months ago. I hurt Ava badly—she still calls to let me know just that—but I know I did the right thing.
And I’ll do the right thing this weekend. I’ll be open-minded, I’ll meet some new people and I’ll stay the hell away from Grace.
Chapter Twenty-One
Grace
Studying myself in the mirror, I make another slow rotation and have to concede that I don’t look half bad. It’s my thirty-fourth birthday today, and while a few pesky lines have made an appearance here and there, my skin still looks good, dancing and yoga have kept my muscles toned, and my hair is behaving for my special day.
I made a trip up to Pittsburgh on Wednesday, as this one-horse town doesn’t have squat in terms of remotely fashionable clothing stores, and spent an entire afternoon trying on more bathing suits than I could count. I don’t know if it’s the birthday thing or what, but I was feeling particularly ballsy when I picked out this one-piece number that has so many cutouts that it might as well be a string bikini. It’s dark plum, which is a departure from my usual kaleidoscope of a color palette, and it compliments the tan I achieved by laying out in Viv’s backyard a few times this week.
I still call it Viv’s backyard, Aunt Viv’s house. I can’t help it. I used to be a nester. Freshman year of college I decorated my tiny corner of our dorm room with string lights, posters, potted plants and all of the knickknacks I collected over my short lifetime. When we moved off-campus I stepped it up a notch, changing the color of my freshly painted bedroom walls from the standard beige the landlord chose to a cheery yellow.
I always made a space my own, no matter if I was staying a couple of months or a year or two. But the apartment I rented when I first graduated never got that treatment. It never felt lived in or inviting. I just didn’t have it in me to admit that this might be permanent. And since I inherited Aunt Viv’s house, it’s basically remained a shrine to the years she spent here.
Aside from the one project I’ve completed: stripping the garage down to its bare bones to make it into a no-frills studio, I’ve left it alone. I tend to the garden and clean like a banshee, but I haven’t changed the outdated wallpaper or so much as a light fixture. My things are here but this place isn’t home. I can’t settle in, can’t settle for this life.
