Chapter 21 Mile Twenty-One
MILE TWENTY-ONE
DATE NIGHT
Alarge grin kicks across my face as I run my hands down my dress.
The velvet-soft fabric molds over my curves and falls above my knees.
Thanks to all the running, I rather enjoy showing off my toned legs via a shorter hem line.
For the first time ever, I feel sexy. It’s not about my toned legs, but the confidence that pulses within me.
Tonight is happening because I asked for what I wanted and stood my ground. I was willing to say goodbye, rather than continue to settle for scraps or what ifs.
“Hey, pretty girl,” Garrett says, greeting me at my door, a grin audible in his voice. “You’re stunning.” He leans in and presses a peck to my cheek.
“Are you wearing a suit?” I reach out and run my fingers along the soft fabric. “And a tie?”
“It’s a black suit with a red tie.”
“A red tie… Like my shoes?” Lips puckered, I tug at his tie.
“Yes.” His tone is playful.
My belly swoops. “Look at you, Mr. Fancy Pants.”
“Well”—he leans close, his rich masculine scent filling my nostrils—“I had to make sure I was new red heels-worthy.”
Encircling his neck, I tip my head up. “You’re always red heels-worthy.”
“I’d like to keep it that way.” Banding his arms around my back, he tucks me against him.
“It’s good to have goals.”
He brushes his lips along my jawline, causing heat to tiptoe up my spine. “Oh, I have lots of goals when it comes to you, pretty girl.”
“Yeah?” I coo with a bat of my lashes. “Care to share some of these goals?”
“In due time.” He kisses below my ear, causing me to melt against him.
It’s not just the sensation of this strong man’s gentle kisses, but the promise underscoring his words.
For a man who just wants more time with the people he cares about, this is huge.
He may say he doesn’t know what will happen—that there’s no guarantee—but goals speak of hope.
This is the first step on a marathon that I hope takes a lifetime to conclude.
“But, tonight’s goal is to take you out on our first date.” He steps back but places his hands on my hips.
“And then fuck me in my red heels?” I shimmy my hips.
“Fuck!” Head tipped back, a deep belly laugh roars out of him, solidifying one of my many, many goals for this man.
Belly-deep laugh. Check.
This is by far the best date I’ve ever been on, and we’ve only ordered our drinks.
Granted, I haven’t had a lot of dates, but it’s top tier.
There isn’t any awkward swirl inside me as if I’m saying or doing the wrong thing.
I don’t have to worry about explaining things to Garrett about my vision or any assistance I may need.
The last five years of friendship assures me he knows.
Not only did he share with me where we’d be going, so I could look up the menu ahead of time, but he requested a table beneath one of the small chandeliers scattered around the dining room, near the bathroom, so I could easily navigate.
Upon arrival, he spent a few minutes orienting me to the restaurant’s layout and table’s setting.
His description not only helps me understand where things are but painted the image in my head of the dining room filled with round tables draped in white linen cloths—a flickering candle in the center of each one—and lush red leather chairs.
“How on earth did Catherine find a hockey jersey for Ditka?” Garrett holds up his phone and shakes his head.
Since Anker volunteered to watch Ditka for tonight, the ladies brought happy hour to his place. Our friends are currently making fancy cocktails, eating Thai, and watching tonight’s LA Bobcats game.
“You know you love it.” I grin.
“Your diet sodas in wine glasses,” the server chuckles as he sets our glasses on the table.
My smile tugs up just a little more at Garrett’s small, huffed laugh that almost says, “Only you.” Since we’re at a steakhouse along the shoreline, I thought the glasses added to the fancy-pants nature, so I requested our drinks be brought in them.
“Do we know what we want?” the server asks.
“Jensen?”
“The peppercorn-glazed sirloin—medium well—with the white cheddar mac and cheese and the broccolini.” I lean back against the cushy leather chair.
“Broccolini?” Garrett clears his throat.
“Someone is a bad influence.” I smirk.
“I’ll have the same.”
I lift one eyebrow. “Mac and cheese?”
“Someone’s a bad influence.” A wink plays in his low timbre.
Best date ever! How is it that I’m even having fun ordering food with this man?
“Anything else?” the server says.
“No, thank you.”
“Very good. It will be out shortly,” the server says before striding away.
“Your drink is at ten o’clock,” Garrett says. “My mother will be aghast that I’m drinking soda out of a wineglass.”
“I like that you do that,” I murmur, my heart swelling.
He tilts his head. “Do what?”
“Tell me where my drink is and act like it’s nothing.” Placing my hand on the table as an anchor, I trail up until I grasp the glass’s stem. “Most people don’t think of it, or they make a big deal. You always remember but never make me feel bad about it.”
He makes a low growly noise in his throat. “I don’t like that anyone would make you feel bad for that.”
I shrug. “Some people do.”
“Also, I shouldn’t be thanked for that. It’s the minimum.”
“For a lot of people, it seems like it’s above and beyond.” Sighing, I tap my fingers against the glass. “It’s why I don’t always ask, because I don’t want to give them a reason to go away.”
It’s the quiet part that I rarely say out loud, except with Dr. Nor. I’ve shared a little with Catherine and Kayla, but I never talk about this with my family. It took them too long to see—pun intended—beyond my disability, that it feels like this would set us back.
“Most people suck,” he says gruffly.
“You’re not most people.”
“I used to be.” He sighs. “When my brother lost his leg, most of the family babied him—including me. It drove him nuts. Then, one day, he just let us have it. Here my brother was, navigating this new reality, and I never realized that we were the bigger issue to him than his leg. We kept getting in the way of him just living his life, because we were so focused on what he’d lost.”
“My parents and Anker were the same after my Stargardt’s diagnosis. They held on a little too tight.”
“I know Anker is protective of you, but he doesn’t seem to be like that now.”
“He’s not. Not really. Neither are my parents. They simmered before I went away to college.” I take a sip of my drink and place it back down at ten o’clock. “Guess I should send your brother a ‘thank you’ card for breaking you in for me when it comes to proper inter-abled relationships.”
“He’ll love that.” He chuckles. “But don’t praise me for doing what should just be expected, and if I don’t, please don’t ever hesitate to ask for what you want with me. Call me out if I don’t do what you need or if I pull some ableist bullshit.”
“Agreed.” A light bubbly sensation fizzes inside me.
“While you may not want to be praised for it, I’m still grateful.
Often, I’m stuck—for lack of better words—training people.
It’s made me hesitant to really put myself out there in so many areas of my life.
Even with work. It’s just nice not to have to do that with you. ”
He clears his throat. “Even with work?”
“As I’m pushing my personal boundaries, I’m starting to think about my professional ones.
I worry I’m not pushing myself professionally.
It’s safe for me. My boss is disabled. I work with disabled students.
Outside of interactions with non-disabled faculty, it’s my comfort zone.
Not to mention, I interned there in grad school, so I knew what I was getting into when I applied. ”
“But you love your job.” He reaches across the table and takes my hand, offering a gentle squeeze.
With marathon training, the stronger my muscles get and the greater endurance I have to go further, it’s opening up my eyes to other ways in which I can grow.
Over the last few months, I’ve made huge strides in relationships…
Like forming a friendship with Kayla. I’ve also pushed past my fear of rejection to ask for the things I want.
It makes me wonder how else I’ve boxed myself in, and what possibilities are out there if I break down those barriers, too.
“I do…” Nibbling on my lip, I nod. “I really do, but I also don’t know if it’s where I want to be. At least for my entire career.”
“What other things are you interested in doing?”
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m not sure. At least, not entirely, yet. I like working with students and the program development portion of my job. Although I don’t get to do as much of that as I’d like. I’d like to find something that allows me to do a little bit more of both.”
“Expanding on the work you’re doing with the disabled students organization?”
My mouth lifts. “Yeah.”
“Is there something like that out there?”
“Not at Pemberly. Not exactly.” I tap my red-tipped fingernails against the table’s surface. “There are student services, but the program is more general. And the school is definitely lacking in resources for disabled students.”
While I worry that working within disability services doesn’t push me beyond my comfort area, I don’t want to leave my community. Even at a progressive university like Pemberly, disabled students are an afterthought.
“I’ll do some online research to see what professional options are out there. I’m not talking about changing careers in the next year, but I want to look at what the possibilities are in my future.” I sip my soda.
“Maybe we do Buffalo for the half-marathon.”
“What?” I cock one eyebrow.
He rubs his nape. “I know we talked about San Fran, but registration for Buffalo doesn’t close until next week, and it would give you a chance to spend time with Bryce. He and his husband, Marshall, run a non-profit which offers social activities and adaptive athletics for disabled people.”