Chapter 16 Luca #2
I pivot and head for the master bedroom, pausing to strip my sweaty shirt off and drop it in the laundry basket as I go. In the bathroom, I turn on the shower before setting the crutches aside and sitting down on the chair next to my shower.
Most of the time, I’m accepting of my disability.
Hell, sometimes I forget about it entirely.
But ever since meeting Isla, I’ve found myself resenting it more than normal.
I hate being different. Feeling incomplete.
Like she could look at me and find me lacking.
I hate that I need crutches, and fucking chairs or benches to shower.
I hate that I’ll never be a regular guy, free to pursue a woman without worrying she’ll be turned off when she sees the stump I have instead of a leg.
I shove my shorts down and transfer into the shower onto the custom bench designed to make everything easy for me. All the fucking money in the world might buy me accessibility and fancy gadgets, but it can’t buy me a fully-formed leg.
I shower quickly, then dry off and pull on a clean pair of shorts before crutching back into the kitchen and throwing some leftovers in the microwave. I ditch one crutch and precariously—even though I’ve done it plenty of times—carry my food in one hand and crutch-hop over to the couch.
From my pocket, my phone starts to vibrate, and I’ll be damned if I don’t wonder if it’s Isla.
It’s not. It’s my mom.
“Hey Mom,” I say before shoveling a mouthful of reheated chicken and quinoa in my mouth.
“Hi honey, how are you doing?” Mom’s warm voice comes down the line. “I had a feeling in my gut that you might benefit from a chat.”
I swallow and chuckle, shaking my head ruefully. “How do you do that?”
“Do what?” she asks, but there’s laughter in her voice. She knows.
“Always know exactly when I’m in a shit mood.”
“Mother’s intuition. You’ve always worn your heart on your sleeve, Luca, and I can always sense when that heart is feeling a little bruised. So, what’s going on?”
I exhale, letting my head fall back against the couch. Obviously, I can’t tell her I’m fighting feelings for my employee. But I can talk to her about the other shit bothering me.
“Remember when I was a kid and upset about my leg. What was it you used to tell me?”
“Your abilities are stronger than your disability.”
I smile, even though she can’t see me. “Yeah. Guess I’m having trouble remembering that today.”
“That wouldn’t be because of the speech you have to give, would it?”
“You mean the one you emotionally blackmailed me into giving?” I reply wryly. “No. Well, maybe a little.”
“Honey, I know it was a lot to ask you to step in last minute and give the keynote at the National ABS Conference. That organization has done a lot to support our family over the years, and they were desperate. I’ve always respected your choice to keep your limb difference and everything you’ve done for the community a secret.
But don’t you think it’s time to step into the light? To stop hiding your accomplishments?”
I’m silent for a moment, maybe longer. Thinking of Charlie and Isla. Of my parents, of my own childhood. Growing up feeling so alone. Like no one understood what I was going through.
“I’ve never wanted to be treated differently just because I’m missing my leg.”
“I think,” Mom starts slowly, “that it’s understandable to be worried about people’s perceptions.
And I think it’s something everyone struggles with for different reasons.
That doesn’t make your reasons any more or less valid, but it does, hopefully, make you feel less alone in this struggle.
” She pauses. “Talking at the conference might be the soft launch you need, a safe space to share your story, so that maybe you feel more confident being open about it in general. Or with a special someone when the time comes.”
The probing in that statement is anything but subtle. I’m certainly not going to tell her everything. Not yet. But…I can tell her this.
“One of my employees has a preteen son who has a missing arm. A birth defect like my leg.” I smile. “He’s a cool kid. And seems determined not to let his disability slow him down.”
“Reminds me of someone else at that age.”
I huff out a laugh. “Yeah. Guess so. Except he doesn’t even bother trying to hide his limb. I was thinking of telling him and his mom. It seems wrong to hide it from them.”
Mom makes a sound that could be agreement or could be probing me to tell her more. Either way, it works.
“I’m worried they’ll be hurt I didn’t tell them right away.”
“It sounds like how they react to the news is important to you. Maybe they are important to you. Will she be at the conference?”
Fuck, she’s way too perceptive. And there’s that hopeful tone again. Then her question registers.
Shit, will Isla be at the conference? Is that how I want her to find out about my leg?
“I don’t know,” I answer as my mind whirls. The conference is in two days. And I’m heading to Vancouver tomorrow to meet with the owner of the Vancouver Tridents. There’s no time to come clean with Isla before my speech. It’s not exactly something I want to share over text.
Fuck.
Mom is oblivious to my turmoil, and I try to give her my attention once more.
“I’ll just say one more thing, even though I’ve said it before.
It bears repeating and maybe this time you’ll listen,” she teases.
“Now, I know I’m your mother, and therefore biased.
But you are an extraordinary man, and there’s not a single thing about you that I would change.
My only hope for you is that someday you can open your heart to the possibility that someone else might believe that, too. ”
Her words so closely echo Coral’s from our last brunch, they blend together. If the two women who know me better than anyone else think I deserve love, then why the hell don’t I?