A WORTHLESS MANWHORE
4
Jack : Just landed, waiting for the car to pick me up.
Jack : How’s the road?
Prudence : I’ve just stopped for the night.
Prudence : The hotel is nice, I think I’ll enjoy the spa.
Jack : You should.
Prudence : Are you sure about the address you sent me?
Prudence : It’s written as a private beach on the GPS.
Jack : It is. Private beach with houses. We’re in n°5.
Prudence : For fuck sakes Jack.
Prudence : For the record, I’m still upset. You are being completely irrational.
Jack : You mean ‘spontaneous’.
Jack : The car’s here. Call me when you leave tomorrow morning.
JACK
The driver is nice enough to understand that I’m not in a talking mood, and doesn’t try to push any conversation. It took me a hell of a long time to track down my old college roommate. Three whole months just to find him, and a lot of emails before he finally answered me.
He was a Biology Major when I was studying Literature. He was planning to pursue medical school at the time. We both graduated University with a bachelor’s degree a little over 9 years ago, so I guess he’s done with school now.
And, more importantly, I remember him mentioning his parents were working in real estate. Owning, among others, a large private beach with five individual houses near Los Angeles. Nathaniel was set to take over this particular set and couldn’t stop ranting dreadfully about it.
We barely talked in our email exchange. He answered that I could rent one of the houses but was uncertain about the sale. I told him I’d be arriving in a couple of days and we could talk about it when I’d be settled. Then we just agreed on a date and time so he could give me the keys and a tour of the house.
Now, I’m nervous. Our last exchange before that was not pleasant. And it was my fault. I wish I could go back nine years ago with the knowledge I have now. Maybe I wouldn’t have been such a prick.
“We’re here. Which house is it?” The driver asks, leaning slightly to check the number next to the doors we pass.
“House number five.”
He nods and drives further down the little street, up until the end. All the houses are on the right side of the car and the whole left side looks like a park. All green grass and sparse trees, a large pond that a few people circle with their dogs and children playing.
It’s perfect.
Now I just need to make up with my old university friend and convince him to sell me the house. This is the kind of place I would want Prudence to live in. It’s quiet, warm, close enough to the city that she won’t need to drive hours to do anything, but far enough that she won’t be bothered by the city noise and bustling people. After years of traveling the country together, I know what she likes. What makes her happy. Now is the time to get her to settle down. To build her own life. I need her to be happy, to not feel like she needs me.
That’s why from now on, I’ll be dealing with myself on my own as much as possible. I want her to go out, find a job that she actually likes, meet people and make friends. She won’t do any of that if she’s constantly worried about me and helping me. I do need help, but I can hire people for it. Right now, I need her to just be my sister, and her own person. Plus, the pain is getting worse every day. The less she witnesses it, the better I’ll feel.
The driver stops in front of the last house. With a quick glance through the tinted window, I see my old friend, sitting on a small step next to a ramp. He’s frowning at his phone. I pay the driver and he helps me get out of the car and into the wheelchair. When I look back towards the house just as the driver goes back behind his wheel, my gaze meets Nate’s.
His eyes are so cold that I’m not sure if he’s still pissed at me or if he just doesn’t care at all. Not sure what’s worse either.
I swallow through the knot in my throat and wheel towards him, my hands shaking and my palms clammy.
It feels like seeing a close relative and a stranger at the same time. Although, some would say—me, for example—that relatives can become strangers.
He barely changed one bit. Still way too handsome for his own good. The same deep blue eyes framed by dark lashes. The same thick chestnut hair that looks like he spent two hours blowdrying it even though I know that he just shakes his head like a lunatic and slides his hand in it a couple of times before he heads out for the day.
“Hi,” I smile, stopping just a few feet away in front of him.
“Hi. Hope the road was not too much trouble?” He asks, but his tone couldn’t be flatter even if he tried.
My smile falters slightly. “No, it was alright. It’s good to be here and see you again though.”
He nods. “Should we see the house?”
Okay, I guess he’s still mad at me.
“Sure.”
I follow him to the door without adding anything. Maybe now is not the time to chat…
He steps aside to let me in and I hold in a gasp.
That house is perfect . It’s open and large, ideal to allow me to move around with the wheelchair. There are three bedrooms and two bathrooms on the first floor, and Nate tells me there are two more bedrooms with their own personal bathrooms upstairs. The floor is a light hardwood and the walls white with beautiful canvas and paintings. The whole house seems to be decorated and furnished in cream, gray, and light woods.
“As I told you in the email, the only problem is that the kitchen is not adapted to wheelchair users,” Nate says, crossing his arms on his chest.
“I’m still a terrible cook so it doesn’t matter,” I smile shyly.
He nods once and turns around to lead me to the back terrace.
Per-fect.
We could just walk from the back of the house to the sea. Actually, just taking the stairs and we could have our toes in the sand.
Well, I would if I could . But Prue’s gonna love it.
“The steps are too steep to put a ramp here, but…”
“It’s alright, the wheelchair can’t go in the sand anyway.” I force a smile and make myself look into his cold eyes. How I wish I could go back to that stupid day when I fucked this up. God, I’m such an idiot.
He gives a little tilt of his head towards the chair. “You don’t walk at all anymore?”
“I… Yes, sometimes,” I admit. “When I have a good day, or if I’m so high on morphine I don’t feel anything anymore. Even then, I need a walker or a lot of help just to take a few steps.”
He frowns. Nate knows about my condition. He used to ask me so many questions and do research about it when he was studying biology.
“I guess you’re done with medical school now,” I say, fiddling with the controls of the chair.
“We could say that, yes.”
“So you’re a doctor now, uh? I knew you could…”
“I’m not. I changed course.”
My heart misses a few beats. Shit . Fuck, fuck, fuck. God, where are the time machines when we need them.
“Nate, I’m…”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he snorts, darting his gaze away. “It has nothing to do with our last talk.”
“I didn’t mean it. I hope you know it.”
“Didn’t mean what? That I was worthless? Or that I was a manwhore?”
My head falls down in embarrassment.
All of it.
“It doesn’t matter,” he answers, making me realize that I’ve thought out loud. “It has nothing to do with this.”
There’s a long pause where neither of us talk. We used to be able to talk about everything and I’ve ruined it. And the worst is, I’m pretty sure that if I’d apologize right away, he would have forgiven me. But no, since I’m a fucking stubborn dumbass, I never had the gut to say that I was sorry. That I never meant it. That I was the worthless one for not being the friend that I should have been. The friend that he was for me.
“What do you do now, then?” I ask finally, focusing my gaze on the ocean. “Are you working with your parents?”
“I’m a physiotherapist.”
My face turns abruptly towards his. That could actually play in my advantage. If he treats me, he’ll spend a lot of time here, with me. Maybe we can be friends again. Maybe I can fix what I broke before… Before it’s too late.
“A physiotherapist,” I repeat slowly and he nods in confirmation. “I’m meeting with one next week to see if he can treat me. Ever heard of Alan Reingh?”
He winces. “Yeah. He’s good with athletes, but I don’t think he would be a good fit in your case.”
“Why not?” I frown, hiding my relief that he seems to show some concern.
“I don’t think he knows much about Steinert disease. I’m afraid he would cause more pain than relief.”
I sigh. Physiotherapists are the hardest to find, especially with my condition. Prue was always complaining about it and I curse myself for not remembering.
“Do you know someone who could treat me?”
I must look pathetic. Me, who insulted him even though he was my friend, and now asking for his help. How the tables have turned…
“How bad is it?” He asks calmly, his eyes a little softer.
How bad is it?
“Do you want the answer I would give to a friend or the answer I would give to someone treating me?”
“How about the truth?”
I snort dryly. The fucking truth, then.
“It’s a nightmare, Nate. My muscles are slowly dying and there is nothing I can do to stop it. My spine is wrecked, I can barely move my hips and my legs don’t carry me anymore. I’m on so much pain medication that I’m constantly high and I have to rotate between pills so I can still feel the effects. I’m struggling to hold and open stuff with my hands and I think in a few months I won’t even be able to use my keyboard to write my novels anymore. Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night because I can’t breathe properly. My heart doesn’t work how it should. Not even a week ago, I was stuck in my chair all night because straightening my legs was too painful.
“And the worst thing? The daily lies. I can’t let Prue know how bad it is. She already gives me too much, if she finds out how much pain I’m in, she will stop living for herself completely. I’m already a burden to her. She lost our family’s love and respect because she chose me. I need this to stop. I need her to find her own happiness. To live for herself. I want to buy her a house on the beach in a place where she can make friends. Where she can find a job she likes, or just spend her day drawing and painting. I don’t care, as long as she’s happy. But she won’t be if she sees my pain. So I lie. I pretend that I’m okay. I distract her worries with all the smiles I have. And I’m exhausted.”
I take a deep breath to keep the tears at bay. I’m still high from the morphine I took right after I landed. But she’s not here right now, and I’m relieved. Relieved that I don’t have to smile, to lie, to pretend that I don’t want to die every. Fucking. Minute. Of every. Fucking. Day.
“She doesn’t know.”
It’s not a question but I nod anyway. His gaze is locked on me, eyes narrowed, face tense.
“Is she joining you here?”
“She’ll be here tomorrow,” I sigh. “We have a car, so she’s driving here from Seattle. She stopped for the night.”
His shoulder tense but he nods and I see him gritting his teeth. “I’ll treat you,” he finally says, turning slightly to look over the ocean. “I still remember everything I learned about Steinert disease, and I live next door so I can come by when needed in addition to the recommended sessions. I assume you found a neurologist or a genetician?”
“Dr. Patel,” I answer, my eyes widening.
“Good. She’s a Steinert specialist.” He nods his approval. “Did you contact nurses and personal care workers?”
His tone is formal and matter-of-factly. I’m not his—former—friend right now, but a patient, and it hurts a little. I wish I could go back to that stupid day.
“There will be nurses coming two times a day, but I didn’t call any personal care workers…” I frown.
“I’ll give you some numbers, call them today. If you want to stop relying on your sister so much, you need personal care workers.”
I fumble with my hands. I need to tell him. He has to know that he will be doing all of this for nothing. I can’t let him get too invested in my care.
He takes his phone out of his back pocket and starts typing. He is not saying anything else.
“I know it’s too late,” I start, unsure, “but I’m sorry. For what I said. I’ve never thought you were worthless. I never thought you were a… Manwhore. I… I just freaked out. I saw you there, with my little sister, and I jumped to conclusions. She told me, you know? That you were just helping her. Posing for some portraits sometimes.” His eyes flicker to mine and the muscle in his jaw ticks. “But I was your roommate, I knew that you were… seeing a few girls. And when I saw you alone with her, without your shirt on, I lost it, and I’ve regretted it ever since. I’m just—I’m sorry.”
We’re both silent for a long time. Him, leaning his back against the railing, not typing on his phone anymore and staring at me with cold eyes. Me, fumbling with anything I can grab on to. The control buttons of my chair, the hem of my tee-shirt, my own fingers. I force myself to not look away. He’s right to be pissed. I’ve insulted him and never apologized even when I realized that I was wrong. For nine. Fucking. Years.
“You know what pained me the most?” He asks finally and I shake my head slowly. “I might have been a manwhore, sleeping around and not caring about anyone I had sex with, but you were my best friend. Your sister was off-limits, and it never mattered if I wanted her or not because I never would have acted on it, and especially not behind your back.”
My throat is dry and I reach for the water bottle in the cup-holder attached to the armrest of my chair.
“What hurt was that you had so little faith in me, you thought I could do that.”
“I’m sorry. I know it’s no excuse, but I was in a… weird place at that time.” He scoffs with a not so subtle shake of his head. “Suddenly you were being secretive about your comings and goings and I was pissed off about my break-up and I needed to spend time with you, and… Well that’s not the point. But then I found you two in her dorm, and you were shirtless and… I just started adding things together. I thought you were all weird and elusive because you were trying to get in her pants, and that maybe you felt guilty and…” I release a heavy sigh. “I jumped to conclusions. But she’s my baby sister, and she was younger than us, and I felt the need to protect her from…”
“From me,” he interrupts. “Because I’m such a worthless manwhore.”
I bury my head in my hands. “Look, I’m sorry. But she’s my sister, and she was nineteen at the time, and I just lost it. I didn’t mean anything I told you and I’ve regretted it ever since.”
He rolls his eyes and turns around, gripping the railing of the terrace overlooking the beach. There’s a tense silence where I just hesitate to keep talking, keep apologizing. But he breaks the silence with a long, tired sigh.
“Nine years, Jack. For nine fucking years, I’ve heard your words every time I thought about you or Prudence. Every time I look at the copies of the drawings she made of me for her art classes. That I’m just worthless. That you think I wouldn’t deserve someone like her.”
His voice is raspy, raw with old pain. I’ve done this. I’ve hurt him, made him doubt himself. Words can cause so much destruction that some people— me— should not be allowed to talk sometimes.
“I’ve read all your books, you know?” he says with a dry chuckle. “I buy them on their release date. I can almost hear you telling the stories sometimes. See her sketching the cover and the illustrations you sometimes put in the novels.”
It’s like there’s sandpaper in my throat, and a heavy weight on my chest. He’s still turning his back to me, leaning over the railing, staring at the horizon, the endless ocean. The wind is warm and salty, ruffling his hair.
“I don’t know if I can forget all that happened,” he admits, “but I’ll treat you anyway. It doesn’t matter if you were the biggest asshole.” He turns his face so that he can look me in the eyes. “Plus, physical therapy for Steinert patients can be really painful, and if someone deserves to see you squirm and beg, that’s me.”
I frown but there’s a hint of a smile tilting the corner of his lips. His gaze is softer. I relax instantly.
“That’s a little mean…”
“Maybe,” he shrugs. “But I’m close enough to do effective physical therapy with you, and I’m familiar with the disease. I’m your best option if you want to actually get a little better.”
I force my whole body to stay still, to not betray me and my thoughts.
I should tell him.
But I’m a selfish bastard, and I won’t. There’s my chance to reconnect with him. If I have to let him torture me in physical therapy for it, so be it.
I don’t actually care about getting better. I care about making things right with my old friend, and making sure my sister is settled, thriving, and as happy as she can be.
And then, I want to die.