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“How about a drink?”
“Yes, please.” I’m grateful for the distraction. Hopefully, a glass of something strong will help steady my nerves.
We make our way to the kitchen, and Cooper reaches for a bottle of white. “Pinot Grigio alright?”
White wine is usually my go to. He must have been talking to Penny again. “Actually, do you have anything stronger?”
He cocks his head to the side and eyes me. “Why do I have the feeling I’m going to need something stronger, too?”
I place my hand flat on the cool, gleaming white-marble countertop and take a deep breath. “Cooper, I—”
But he cuts me off. “A gin and tonic sound good? With a slice of lime?”
“Yes,” I answer, glad for the delay. “Sounds great.”
As he grabs the glasses and ice, the gin and tonic, I scan the kitchen with wide eyes. I don’t remember exactly what it looked like before, and I’m sure not much could have been swapped out in only a few days, but fire engine red kitchen towels hang from the double oven doors and are the exact same shade as the fanciest espresso machine I’ve ever laid eyes on that sits on the counter.
The unexpected item that rests next to it, though, in front of a wall-mounted knife rack, makes my fingers grip the counter. It’s a cutting board, but not just any cutting board. It’s an adaptive one that holds items steady. A twin of the one on my counter at home right now. And resting atop it is a one-handed rocker knife.
I slide onto the stool tucked under the counter and stare at the tools, thoughts whirling through my mind at a hundred miles an hour. I can’t believe how far Cooper has gone to make me feel comfortable in his home, to make me feel welcome.
He circles the island to deliver my drink and follows my line of vision.
“You really went all out, didn’t you?” I ask, still trying to wrap my mind around the transformation, around the thoughtfulness. Around him and how he makes me feel.
“I warned you,” he says.
“Warned me? When?”
“When I told you there’s no such thing as spoiling when it comes to the people in my life.” His eyes soften, and he lifts his glass and takes a long drink while his words sink in. He cares about me enough to want to spoil me.
I take a deep breath. I can’t put off the conversation any longer, can’t keep up this charade when it’s more like a house of cards about to crumble. My heart pounds as I take a big gulp of my gin and tonic—a strong one—and pray it helps me muster the courage to face Cooper and tell him everything.
“Cooper, there’s something I need to tell you,” I begin, my voice wavering slightly.
“Let’s have a seat on the couch.”
Once we’re settled, facing each other, I close my eyes and start.
“Having one hand… It isn’t easy,” I confess, swallowing the lump in my throat. I meet his eyes, and he nods, waiting for me to continue.
“My congenital amputation—that’s what this is called,” I tell him, holding up Shorty, “when a person is born this way like I was. It…it comes with its own set of challenges, both physical and emotional.”
“You don’t need to explain, Eve,” Cooper reassures me, reaching to lay his hand on my leg. “You are without a doubt one of the most determined, capable, and creative women I’ve ever met.”
“Thank you,” I whisper as tears prick at the corners of my eyes. “But there’s more. You see, I’m not an elementary art teacher because I love art and children, although I do. I became an elementary school art teacher because, when I was in first grade, there was a little boy named Tommy Gallo, who I’ll never forget. He tormented me for the longest time, calling me names and laughing at my missing hand on the playground.”
A muscle in Cooper’s jaw clenches, but he doesn’t interrupt, only reaches over and gives my thigh a squeeze.
“Art was the only place I felt safe to express myself, to be myself, thanks Mrs. Whitaker, our teacher, who saw potential in me I didn’t see in myself. She was the one who encouraged me when I would have given up. The one who told me I could do anything and be anyone, no matter that I wasn’t symmetrical, because art is as much about what the artist chooses not to include as much as what they choose to include.”
I set my drink on the glass coffee table next to a handful of coffee-table style art books I’m certain weren’t there last week and reach for his hand. But rather than grip and hold mine, Cooper cradles it in both of his warm palms and massages it with his fingers. It feels heavenly, and I watch his strong hands work, kneading each finger as I continue.
“But there’s another reason, too, I went into teaching.” I hesitate, but this is where the rubber meets the road. The time and place where I confess the truth of why we can’t be together.
“Cooper, I’ve decided not to have children of my own,” I reveal, my voice barely above a whisper. “The specific causes of congenital limb deficiencies, like any other birth defect, are unknown, but there’s a good chance genetic factors are involved, which means—”
“There’s a possibility you could pass it on.”
