Chapter 4 Pike
Pike
I sit on a bench by the parking lot in Schoen Place, sweating in my gray work hoodie. Everyone’s walking and biking along the Erie Canal since it’s randomly fifty degrees in January, which means sunglasses and short sleeves in Rochester.
When a Honda with an Uber decal pulls in and I spot a flash of red hair through the back window, I get to my feet.
My palm sweats against my cane like I’m waiting for my prom date.
Then there she is, swaggering out like a rock star in huge black shades, long locks blowing in the wind.
And of course, of course, she just has to be cute in real life too.
Why can’t her profile picture have been so heavily filtered that I barely recognize her?
Skylar looks like she stepped right out of it, attitude and all, bringing gorgeous curves along with her.
She has the kind of thick curls I’d love to run my hands through, which is an unwelcome thought considering the situation.
I don’t want to be attracted to the woman who upended my life.
At least pretending to be into her won’t be hard.
After weeks of her canceling on me due to illness, I’m amazed at how put together she looks now. And shit, it’s such an ableist thought. It’s as bad as when people tell me I’m too young to use a cane.
I’ve had to check my thoughts a lot lately, trying not to lean on a lifetime of privilege when it comes to my body.
When it comes to everything, really. Male, white, straight…
now disabled. My life’s been a shit show reality check since the accident.
I’ve had a lot of learning to do, but even more unlearning.
“Pike slash Brandon?” she asks, sauntering up to me.
“Yeah,” I say. “Everyone calls me Pike except my family.”
She tilts her head, very obviously checking me out from head to toe.
Sunlight beats down on her face, highlighting the contrast between her pale complexion and the freckles scattered across her forehead even more.
I count them (nineteen) because I don’t want her to catch me looking anywhere else.
When her gaze finally meets mine again, her lips purse, their deep red color a shade darker than her coppery hair.
“Listen up, bucko,” she says, arms crossed and eyebrows arched. “I know you’re, like, huge”—she waves a hand vaguely in the direction of my chest—“and probably think you could take me in an altercation. But I have pepper spray. If you try to kidnap me, you’ll lose.”
She thinks I’m a threat? She’s the one who slid into my mom’s DMs!
But then I catch a glimpse of myself reflected in her oversized sunglasses.
I’m towering over her, my expression set in what probably looks like a glare.
I’m a big guy at six foot three, and while I’ve lost some of my muscle, it’s obvious I work out.
Even though I’m annoyed—she’s the one who instigated all this—I get it.
Meeting a stranger from the internet, even in public, isn’t something most women can afford to take lightly.
I force my shoulders to drop and school my face into something friendlier. “If anyone’s pulling off a kidnapping here, I figured it’d be you.”
She raises her phone and snaps a picture of me without warning. “Sending this to my girls. You understand.”
Yeah, I understand. You want them to see what Brandon Pike looks like now.
“If you take off running, I won’t be able to catch you.” I hold up my black cane. “Even a brisk walk would allow you to escape.”
“Do you think a guy with a cane couldn’t be a serial killer?”
“If you’ve ever seen a superhero movie, there should be no doubt. We’re criminal masterminds. The supervillain you never saw coming.”
“Are you attempting to endear me to you by citing ableist Hollywood stereotypes?” She considers me, hands on her wide hips. “Because it’s kind of working.”
With that, she spins on her heels and strides toward the Mediterranean restaurant she picked.
I follow her. Bad call. Now I know her ass looks amazing in tight jeans. I focus on the ground so I won’t trip over myself. Loose gravel is already bad news for someone unsteady on his feet.
A middle-aged woman beams at me as I approach the restaurant stairs. “You’re doing great, sweetie! Don’t ever give up!”
I ignore her. Everyone needs to calm the fuck down when they see a disabled person. We’re 25 percent of the population, not an endangered species at the zoo. The stares and intrusive comments are even worse when I use my wheelchair.
Skylar thankfully ignores me as I begin my painstakingly slow climb. By the time I reach the top, my legs are shaking so much that every part of me screams to just sink to the ground and never get up again.
At our table, Skylar orders “water, no lemon, no ice” and peruses the menu.
Her shades stay on. I looked up neurological disorders after talking to Skylar and tried to guess hers.
Turns out there are, like, a hundred. She said remission, so I was thinking cancer.
Brain tumors can cause neurological issues.
But could it be TBI? After my concussion, my eyes hurt like hell. I needed shades for a while. The doctors said I was lucky everything returned to what they called “normal.” My eyes, sure. The rest of me? Not so much.
I won’t ask about her shades, though. I hate when people ask me about my cane. If I want to share, I will.
“Order whatever you like,” I say. “It’s on me.”
Despite my offer, she only orders a small plate of hummus and pita. “So, Pike Durnam. Tell me about yourself.” She pulls a banana out of her purse and leans forward on her elbows, staring at me while she eats it bite by little bite.
“Uh. I’m the assistant manager at Element Ridge. It’s a ski and board shop in winter, mountain sports in summer…I’m sorry, what’s with the banana?”
“What do you mean?”
I mean it’s painting a vivid picture of what she can do with her mouth. “You didn’t want more than an appetizer if you’re that hungry?”
“My potassium’s low.”
Right. Next she’ll say she’s also low on Vitamin D. I’ve heard it all before.
“I’m avoiding my horse pill.”
I blink. “What?”
She pulls out an orange prescription bottle and shows me a pill as thick as her pinkie. “The first one dissolved in my mouth before I could get it down. Threw up a little. Choked on the second one.”
“Ohh,” I say, startled. “My roommate takes those. They look…fun.”
“The pins and needles in my extremities are off the charts. Paresthesia everywhere.” She shakes her hands out. “On to business. I’ve made a three-step plan outlining an alternative to fake dating. Step one: You thank me for saving your ungrateful ass.”
“Excuse me?” My eyes narrow.
“Step two: You tell your mom we broke up. Step three: That’s it. You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t need you to get involved.”
“Are you unhappy you’re not currently in forced psych?”
I shift, uncomfortable. I looked up the consequences of mental health checks and realized what Mom intended was dangerous—and not just because they would’ve found me knocked out on the painkillers I need to sleep.
Turns out, once someone decides I’m a risk, they can strip away everything—my cane, my meds, my freedom.
I’d be trapped, with no way out until a doctor I don’t even know says otherwise.
“We’ve discussed my reaction to your choices,” I say. “We’re proceeding with the fake relationship.”
Maybe. If she’s not a stalker.
“Worth a shot,” she mutters, then folds her hands in front of her. “Do you want to talk about your mom?”
“Only in relation to fake dating.”
“But you’re okay?” Lines bracket her mouth. “Safe? Is she still trying to force you into treatment?”
“She’s not exactly trying to force me into treatment. It’s more that she thinks I need it if I’m depressed.”
“Sometimes those two things are the same if the parent has any say.”
“I’m an adult.”
“Yes, but you lose a lot of powers as a disabled adult if someone declares you incompetent.”
“I know, but I think she’s more…subtly ableist.” If subtly means joining my support group in secret and freaking out over a poem I posted. “She just doesn’t get it.”
“Hmm.” It’s a small noise in the back of her throat like she doesn’t believe me, but our food arrives, and I let it go.
While I dig in, her face goes a little green. I study the silver rings on her thumbs and forefingers while she picks at her pitas, unsure what to make of her. She called me Pike Durnam, and it didn’t seem like a ploy to out me as Brandon Pike.
“You mentioned coming out of remission,” I say. “How are you feeling today?”
It’s a delicate question. I’m not even going to imply she doesn’t look great. First, it’s a great way to get slapped. Second, it’d be a lie. I’m annoyed by how effortlessly gorgeous she is.
“Have you ever woken up feeling like a sledgehammer’s hitting your head?”
I nod over my souvlaki platter. I don’t miss that feeling since I stopped drinking.
“Imagine that,” she says, “plus a vise tightening around your head and a bowling ball hanging off your neck. Pain radiates from your skull to your back. Your ears ring and whoosh. Add dizziness, blurry vision, and extreme sensitivity to light. Then cheek and jaw pain, the sensation of a toothache and an ear infection, and finally, a band of pressure behind your eyes. Now you’re getting closer to how I feel. ”
“Well, fuck,” I breathe out. “You still came?”
“You threatened to report me for harassment.”
Huh. I’ve been waiting for her to block and simultaneously drop me from the group. But something about the other admins finding out what she did stopped her. I wanted to use that if she pulled anything funny.
Now, I feel like the biggest asshole. My roommate, Luis, is chronically ill. Whenever he gets bad flares, he can barely leave his bed. I’ve forced her to do exactly that.