6. Roman
6
ROMAN
Of course, I remembered her.
I would’ve remembered her even if she wasn’t the last woman I was interested in. She looks even better now than she did that night at the bar. Which shouldn’t make sense, because a tiny dress should always beat out hospital scrubs. But it’s not the outfit, it’s…her energy.
The sound of the wheelchair ramp in my mom’s van is a jarring reminder of how wildly different our lives are.
“How was it?” comes my mom’s voice from the driver’s seat. She knows better than to expect a real answer, but she’s still a mom, which means she can’t help asking.
I watch, impatient, as the ramp slowly folds out. “Just like all the others,” I respond, wishing for the millionth time that this wasn’t part of my injury. Needing my mother to drive me around like a child.
“When’s your next appointment?” she asks as the ramp finally comes down and I can push myself up and into the van.
“Wednesday at seven,” I answer, clicking my wheels into place in the passenger seat area. Pulling the seatbelt across my chest, I add, “I can grab an Uber if you can’t take me.” Even though the only thing I hate more than having my mom drive me around is having a stranger witness me fumbling with my wheelchair.
She gives me a sad smile, and I know she sees through my facade. “I can take you.”
I look out the window as she pulls out of the parking lot. “Thanks,” I murmur.
She merely pats my arm once to let me know she heard me.
It’s not that I’m an ungrateful bastard. I know exactly how lucky I am to have a mom who loves me enough to have changed her entire life around to orbit me. It’s just that I hate having to ask for help.
“So did they assign you a therapist already, then?”
The reminder of Lily slams me back to reality.
As if my life couldn’t get any worse.
“Yeah, some girl with stars still in her eyes,” I force out. Hoping to shut the rest of the conversation down, I add, “She’s nothing special.”
My mom takes the hint, and we make the rest of the drive home in silence. Which is nice, except for the fact that I’m now stuck in my head.
Seeing Lily at the clinic was a shock. After two years of countless medical professionals and physical therapists, I’m not sure why I never expected to run into her.
And now, she’s my fucking therapist .
I should’ve left as soon as I saw her. God knows there are enough clinics in the Philadelphia area; I could’ve easily found another one. The last person who needs to see me attempting a rehabilitation that’s never going to work is the person I was trying to impress in another life.
I wince at the thought of what she’s going to see now . It’s not just the embarrassment of my current physique and physical capabilities, it’s also what rehab brings out of me. Because nothing puts me in a worse mood, or makes me a worse person, than physical therapy.
And now, all of that is going to be aimed at Lily.
Goddamnit . I should’ve left that appointment. I have no idea why I didn’t.
I’m just starting to mentally debate if I should call the clinic to cancel when we arrive back at my house. My mom pulls into the driveway, then shoots me a look that reads need help?
I shake my head, already working on unlocking my chair. “I’m good. Thanks for driving me. I’m just going to make some food and then call it a night.”
“Alright, honey.” She leans over to press a quick kiss to my cheek. “Goodnight. Call me if you need anything.”
“Night, Mom,” I say with a forced smile.
I watch her walk down the path to the detached in-law suite as I wait for the van’s ramp to lower. As far as living with your parents goes, I don’t have a bad gig here. It’s my house, bought with my money, with complete separation from my mom. She has her own little cottage, and she doesn’t come into the main house without calling first or in case of an emergency. I would consider this as independent as I can get with my type of disability.
A disability that’s never far from mind. With a sigh, I direct my wheelchair down the van’s ramp and click the button by the door that locks and closes everything up behind me. Then I make my way over to the side entrance and enter the code on the keypad that makes the door swing open.
I rarely notice the modifications around my house anymore, but on days like today, when my disability is front and center in my mind, I can’t really help it. I move through the giant mudroom that has no shoes, down the wide hallway that can easily fit my wheelchair, into the kitchen that has low counters and where everything is stocked in the bottom cabinets. Everything in this rancher is set up to make my life easier.
It's also on days like today that I miss my old penthouse. But it became obvious pretty quickly after my accident that I couldn’t keep it. Even if I would’ve customized a few things to make them wheelchair accessible, just the fact that it was a high-rise made it annoying to get to at best, and a serious safety concern at worst. I sold it for a good price, but I still hated letting it go.
Now, as I throw some leftover pizza in the countertop microwave and grab a beer from the mini fridge, I’m reminded of how different this place is compared to the condo.
At the ding of the microwave, I grab a paper plate and drag the greasy slice of pizza onto it. With dinner in my lap and beer in one hand, I struggle to get myself over to the living room. Once I’m there, I have to lift myself out of my wheelchair and onto the couch. By the time I’m situated and relatively comfortable, I regret not bringing the entire six-pack with me.
Some days, I try to remind myself how good I have it compared to other people in my situation. With the UFC’s insurance covering everything on the medical side, and me being frugal enough to save most of the shit-ton of money I made while I was fighting, there are a lot of good things in my life that other SCI patients don’t have. I’m not drowning in debt, I have a parent who retired early to take full-time care of me so I didn’t have to hire a stranger as a nurse, and between disability and my savings, I don’t need to work. I can structure my days the way I want to, the way that’s “most conducive to my recovery,” as my previous therapist said.
Whatever the fuck that means. I’m just glad I don’t need to figure out what possible job I could work in this state.
With a huff, I reach for the TV remote, hoping to drown out my struggles with the sounds of an especially violent video game. I scarf down my dinner as the system powers up, putting all thoughts of jobs, accommodations, and physical limitations out of my mind. I’m going to spend the rest of my night playing a mind-numbing game until I pass out on this couch.
I’m just about to hit play when my phone vibrates with an incoming call.
Looking down at the screen, I’m not surprised to see it’s Mikey. After two years of ignoring everyone’s calls who might remind me of my old life, Mikey and my mom are the only two people who call me anymore.
“Hey,” I grunt into the phone.
“Hey. You home?”
Another grunt, this time affirmative.
“Cool. I’m coming over.”
I roll my eyes—I can’t remember the last time Mikey asked if he could come over. Most of his phone calls are declaratory, just like this one.
Part of me wonders if I should be upset by it, if I need to draw a boundary.
But then I realize that that’s never going to happen while I’m still relieved by Mikey’s drop-ins. Because after everything, he’s the only one still around.
Realizing he’s already hung up the phone, I sigh and drop my phone on the cushion beside me. But before I can start my game up again, I hear the beep of a passcode being entered into the side door.
I frown at my middle school friend as he struts into my house and throws himself down on the couch, looking every bit as if he owns this place.
“Why even ask if I’m home if you’re already standing outside my house?”
Reaching over, he steals the crust off my plate and pops it into his mouth. “I was trying to be polite,” he says with a full mouth.
Shaking my head, I move the plate to the side table beside me. “Mikey, I don’t think you even know the meaning of the word polite.”
“Sure I do.” Reaching over me once more, he grabs my beer from the side table. “I just don’t waste it on you. I save it all for the ladies.”
Irritation sparks, and I make a grab for the can. But he pulls it easily out of reach and moves to the other side of the massive couch.
“You do realize I’m fucking disabled, right?” I snap. “You’re supposed to be getting me things, not stealing my fucking things.”
He doesn’t even look at me as he waves me off mid-swig. “You’re fine,” he says casually, then lets out an enormous belch. “It’s not like you’re incapacitated.”
I gape at him and gesture at my immobile lower body. “Mikey, I am literally incapacitated.”
“Nah, you just have to try a little harder than you’re used to,” he says with another nonchalant wave.
My exhale is heavy with frustration. I have no idea how I ended up with a best friend who is this unbothered by the idea of hurting my feelings. Although, if I’m honest with myself, it was refreshing to discover that Mikey’s dark humor matched mine. I was beyond tired of people tiptoeing around me, saying only positive things because they had no idea how to talk to me otherwise.
Mikey has no such problem.
“You’re an ass,” I mutter, yanking my wheelchair closer to me so I can transfer into it. Then I go into the kitchen and grab another beer.
“See? Was that so hard?”
I send him a glare as I return to the couch. “Enjoy your first and last beer, because you’re not getting any more of mine tonight.”
Mikey shrugs and settles deeper into the couch cushions, pulling the video game controller into his lap. “That’s okay. I have to work early anyway.” He clicks something on the game. “Oooh, I haven’t tried this level yet. Have you?”
Swallowing down my jealousy at Mikey having someplace to be tomorrow, I answer, “Not yet. I passed out right after I reached it last night.”
Oblivious to my feelings—or, hell, knowing Mikey, he might just be ignoring them—he throws the second controller over to me. “Perfect. Fifty bucks says I kick your ass at it, first try.”
After a moment’s hesitation, I let out a heavy sigh, attempting with one breath to exhale every negative thought, feeling, and memory from the day.
“You’re on.”