Chapter 7 Vince
VINCE
Something in me feels different.
Not healed, not fixed, not magically okay—but… shifted. Like a pressure valve has loosened and I have more room to breathe.
Fletcher has waited up for me almost every night since that night in the hot tub, and we talk in the kitchen or in my room for close to an hour before he goes to bed.
On my days off, we cook together and watch TV.
Georgie has even tried to teach me how to race in one of her games, but I haven’t gotten the hang of it.
I enjoy watching them, though. More than I expected to.
The way Fletcher sits with me through my symptoms, like they aren’t a burden, has made them less overwhelming. I still dread the appointment on January 28th with every cell of my being, but I’m also finding the strength I need to face it. Or at the very least, come to terms with it.
It’s an unusually cold Monday on my day off, but I welcome it.
The cooler air means I have less chance of overheating.
After a hearty breakfast of Eggo waffles and microwaved sausages, I haul my laundry basket to the back door of Fletcher’s house and punch in the code on the electronic keypad to get inside.
I still can’t believe he trusted me with it when we barely know each other.
Inside, Bones tries to take me down with excited wiggles and heavy paws.
I quickly set the basket on the table so I can pet him.
The closest I ever came to living with a dog was when I crashed on Ace’s couch for two weeks after my second deployment—which is to say I don’t really know how to handle them.
Especially large ones like Bones. He’s a hundred pounds of solid muscle and pent-up energy that no amount of petting or throwing a ball can suffice.
Bones craves attention like I used to crave cigarettes.
“Alright, you big dork. I have things to do. Off with you.”
The massive dog follows me and watches me closely as I load my clothes into the washer. His nub of a tail wiggles endlessly every time I even glance in his direction, lips curling into an adorable smile. Who knew dogs could smile?
When I exit the laundry room, I notice the open bedroom door across from it.
It must be Georgie’s room, judging from all the vibrant colors and bold artwork.
The various shades of purple and gold match the decor in the in-law suite, and there is even a neon symbol above her bed that reads STAY TRUE.
It’s exactly the kind of message I imagine Fletcher would ingrain into his daughter’s mind.
Her mother, too, if what Fletcher said is true about his ex encouraging Fletcher to be true to himself.
What would that kind of positive upbringing have done to me growing up?
I can’t even imagine. Maybe I wouldn’t have felt cornered into enlisting in the army as soon as I graduated.
But what would I have done otherwise? My parents had never let me dream of another career.
My gaze locks on the black guitar in the corner of her room, and an unexpected ache blooms in my chest. I hadn’t grabbed my guitar when we packed at my apartment since I had too many other things to worry about, and I haven’t wanted to go back for it.
Not alone, anyway. The fall down the stairs scared me more than I’m willing to admit, and asking Fletcher to go with me… I just can’t.
But damn, how I miss playing. It was the only thing that calmed my anxiety. Do I have it in me to go? My legs aren’t cramping today, so maybe if I take it slow…
Decision made, I drive across town to the apartment. Seeing the stairs makes my stomach swoop. My body remembers the fall whether I want it to or not.
The slam of my head against the railing.
The sharp pain on my side.
The humiliation.
My skin burns hot, and I grit my teeth as I climb, my hand a little tighter than necessary.
Inside, the apartment is untouched, like time paused here the day I left. There are a couple of dirty cups on the counter, a load of trash I meant to take downstairs and never did, and an endless amount of clothes thrown around the room.
It fills me with shame. Why did Fletcher have to see my apartment this way? I am so much better than this. Truly.
I set the bag of trash by the door, then throw a few things into the empty duffel I brought with me.
Shirts, spare charger, toiletries. I even go upstairs to empty my dresser and closet.
When I find my dildo and vibrators in the nightstand, I pause.
Fletcher had been the one to pack everything the night I left, since I could barely stand on my own two feet. Had he seen these? I hope not.
I toss the toys into my bag and keep packing.
Strange how empty the apartment feels now. How hollow. Two years of calling this place home, yet it never really felt like one. More a stop on my journey to who knows where.
What the hell am I doing with my life?
I’ve never figured it out, always assuming I’d be a career army veteran like my father. But that wasn’t the case. Eight years was all I could handle before calling it quits. Since then, I’ve just been… drifting. Waiting. For what exactly? Who knows. I still haven’t figured it out.
But now?
Shit, now at least I have a reason to be at a standstill.
My diagnosis at least gives me permission to slow down a little.
Let things slide. But I don’t want to stay like this either.
I want to move. To live. To feel again. I just…
don’t know how to get there. The most alive I’ve felt since the doctor said those dreaded words—multiple sclerosis—has been when Fletcher and I talk late at night. Everything else is just… numb.
I sigh and grab a few more things. My leg spasms as I bend for more clothes. I pause. Nearly all the articles I’ve read about MS have mentioned the same thing: canes and wheelchairs. It’s terrifying to imagine myself in that position. What will my life be like if I lose mobility?
I can’t think about it.
Not yet.
Finally, with my bag full, I sling my guitar over my shoulder and carry everything downstairs. I move slowly. Carefully. My feet ache by the time I get to the car, but I make it there without cramps or stumbles. It feels like a victory.
I grin as I slink into the driver’s seat. I did it. I managed to come back without incident.
Back at the house, I go into the main house to switch the laundry before returning to my room. Changing into soft shorts and a t-shirt, I flop onto the bed and start a movie on my laptop. Something loud and full of explosions—the kind of noise that usually drowns out the intrusive shit in my head.
Not that I need it today. Today, I feel really damn good. The successful trip to the apartment has lifted my spirits more than I expected.
The actor on screen reminds me of Fletcher, with a thick beard and warm eyes. My thoughts drift back to him. To his laugh. To his stupidly soothing presence. What is it about him that calms me? Is it the way he seems to see me? No one has looked at me the way Fletcher does. Not even Ace.
A slow heat curls low in my stomach, making me shift lower on the bed. Fletcher invades my mind so easily now. I try to ignore it, but it grows and grows, steady and warm.
My cock stirs. It’s been so long since I’ve felt it that I don’t even recognize the sensation until I see the bulge in my shorts. Jesus. I’m aroused thinking about Fletcher.
Can I even still function that way? I wouldn’t know. I haven’t masturbated or had sex in ages.
I cup myself through my shorts and my body responds instantly, my balls aching. Heat spreads through me fast and intense—burning deep. A groan slips out before I can stop it.
I slide a hand in, eyes fluttering as soon as I grip my aching dick. The sensation is better than I remember… yet wrong too. Numb where I need sensitivity, tingling where it should be pleasure. I swap hands, but that’s even worse. It’s like someone else is touching me, and not in a good way.
Frustrated, I strip my clothes off and settle back into the pillows. I refuse to let my illness win.
Wrapping my right hand around myself again, I stroke—but it’s still all wrong. How can I be hard yet not feel anything at the same time?
I adjust my grip, trying to find the old rhythm. I add some spit for smoother strokes, and even pull up some porn on my phone. Anything to help me feel again.
But the problem isn’t the arousal—it’s the sensation. All I can feel is the numbness in my hands, the misfires, the pins-and-needles static that haunts me.
My cock softens.
“No. Come on.”
With every failed stroke, every unfelt touch, my frustration burns hotter. All the good and wonderful things I achieved today are quickly reduced to this—my body failing me yet again. In the most painful way possible. Not literal pain, but emotional.
A man should be able to enjoy his own dick.
I shut the movie off and focus on this, teasing my cockhead, squeezing my balls, anything to get the feeling to come back. I get flickers, tiny spurts of pleasure, but they’re quickly chased away by the numbness, and I can’t tell if it’s my hands or my penis.
Please don’t let the nerve damage reach my penis. I can’t imagine not being able to feel anything there again.
Getting desperate, I reach into my duffel and pull out the first vibrator I can find—a small, bullet-shaped one barely the size of my finger. The sound echoes loudly in the room when I turn it on, but the moment I touch it to my sensitive head, I cry out.
“Oh, fuck yes.”
Lying down, I run the vibrator along my cock, relieved that at least something can break through the blocked messages in my body.
I add some lube to my shaft and stroke until I’m hard again, running the vibrator over every inch. Lifting one leg, I reach lower, gasping when I feel the pleasure around my rim. It’s so intense, so good, that I curl my toes into the bed. This is what I want. What I need.