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If a movie was shot here, it must have been big enough that I should know it. Racking my brain isn’t coming up with anything, so I let it go.
We sit at the table and for a moment I stare at my plate. Timothy has dinnerware. Real dinnerware that’s not paper or plastic or cheap melamine. Yet another surprise.
Celia is one of the best-known TV chefs in the country, so the lunch she cooked is delicious. Chicken, bacon, and brie on homemade bread with a side salad coated in a tangy-sweet raspberry vinaigrette. She lays out her expectations of me while we eat, and sitting here, in Timothy’s house, the reality of my new job settles heavily on my shoulders. If he does something—no clue what, but it could be anything—under my watch and gets hurt, or worse, I’ll share responsibility for it.
“What if I can’t talk him out of something?” Timothy might, like Celia believes, be on his best behavior, but I’m not sure his feelings for me are enough. I don’t even know if I believe they’re real.
“If you can bodily prevent him, without putting either of you in danger, I’d be okay with that,” she says, sipping her sparkling water. “Do what you need to, apologize for it later.”
I nod, although Timothy could pick me up and remove me as an obstacle. The only bodily way to prevent him from doing something dangerous would be to kiss him. Which would put me in danger.
I guess that’s an option, in an emergency. Then I’ll apologize later because it won’t be happening again. Destroy a friendship, ruin his trust in me, save his life.
Jesus Christ, what have I gotten myself into?
Celia sighs. “If you’re worried about what he might do, and you feel you’re losing control, call me. You might not be willing to play dirty, honey, but I will.”
Celia has big fuck-around-and-find-out energy, but honestly, I don’t know that she could do anything to stop Timothy from doing what he wants either. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Did you try to stop him from becoming a stunt performer?” I ask, taking another bite of my sandwich.
She sighs, pushing her salad around on her plate. “Here’s the thing, honey. He’s been like this since he could walk. Always climbing trees, racing anything with wheels down any slope, trying to fly. Becoming a professional stunt performer gave him an environment with at least some safety considerations in place, and that’s better than nothing. So no, I didn’t try to stop him. But things are different now. His level of background risk has changed. Everything has changed. And that’s where you come in. You’re sensible, and he’s head over heels for you. He’ll keep himself safe to keep you happy.”
I drop my sandwich on my plate, no longer hungry.
“One other thing,” she says as I take a drink of my water. “You and Timothy are adults. If you decide to enter into a sexual relationship, I’m not going to consider it a workplace issue.”
My water goes down wrong and I thump the glass on the table, eyes watering as I cough. Celia laughs, delighted with herself.
“But honey, if he acts inappropriately or makes you uncomfortable, let me know, and I’ll sort him out.”
“I can handle him,” I say when I can breathe again, but I’m not so sure.
Chapter twelve
Timothy
Icouldn’twaittoget out of the hospital, but I didn’t consider what it would feel like walking into my house. Everything looks just like I left it when I went to work six days ago, but I’m different. Broken. Frozen in the doorway. The scream I’ve kept inside is pushing against the back of my throat and I don’t think I can keep it in.
Mina brushes my arm, her touch jolting me. I barely take in the concerned look on her face before I nope out.
“I’m going to take a shower,” I mumble, walking quickly to the stairs and taking them two at a time.
“Timothy, slow down,” my mother admonishes. Since I’m already on the second flight, I listen to her and take each step one at a time. Probably a good idea, since the sudden burst of activity sets my head to a dull throb.
“Don’t forget to put a shower cap on,” she calls after me. Like the headaches let me forget there are staples in my head.
Closing the door to my room, I let the pieces of me that are breaking off fall a little more. This is the first time I’ve had privacy since the accident, but a closed door won’t stop my mother, so I head to the safety of my shower.
They want me to retire.
No matter how many times I turn the words around in my head, they never feel real. There has to be a way out. Something I can do to get back to my old life. I peppered the doctor with questions and hypotheticals when she discharged me, but I’m struggling to see any open doors.
You could have died.
I want to scream at every person who has said that to me. I know I could’ve died. I know what the risks would be returning to stunt work. But it’s my life.
