Chapter 20 #2
“When we were kids, you seemed fine,” he says. “Is it something that developed later?” He looks into the distance, trying to focus on a memory. “You got your rings our first year of college.”
I freeze, French fry halfway to my mouth.
Our first year. When we were friends. “Do you remember how clumsy I was, always getting hurt?” He nods.
I try not to choke on my words. “I hid it from most people. No teenage girl wants to feel defective.” I try to shrug away the sadness of teenage Mari.
The sadness of adult Mari, too. I know there’s nothing wrong with me as a person, only with the biology of my body, but it’s still a lot.
Every time I think I’m finally comfortable with my disability or feel like I have a handle on my pain, something changes.
It’s hard to feel whole and unbroken when you are constantly playing catch-up with your own body.
I’m much more comfortable with everything now than when I was newly diagnosed as a teenager, though, even on my worst days.
I’m proud of that, but I have a long way to go.
Internalized ableism has deep roots that are hard to dig up, even when I know where they are.
He flinches like the thought was thrown at him. “Is that why you use a cane sometimes now? The hEDS? You’ve used it more recently than the first couple days you were here.”
I nod, trying to ignore my uneasiness that he noticed.
“I dislocated my knee about a year and a half ago. It never really healed right. I have a lot of weakness in it now. I’m still getting used to being seen with a cane.
Needing one.” I pause to eat another fry, and he waits patiently.
“My rings look like an accessory, but a cane is different. People look at you differently when you need a mobility aid, not just a support aid. Some days, I don’t want that attention.
” I try to click my rings together before remembering I'm not wearing them and pick at my well-chipped nail polish instead. I’ve been getting used to people seeing me with my cane here, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to use it on camera.
That feels so much bigger. “Some days, I don’t realize I should have been using it until it’s too late, like today.
I’ll be okay in the morning and then feel awful in the afternoon and have to decide whether to expend the energy to go get it or push through. ”
His pout has not budged. Even grumpy, under the sallow lights of the diner, he’s gorgeous. His unmoving face is a statue carved just for me. “But without it, you could get hurt again?”
“I’ll get hurt again, regardless. It’s inevitable. I always hurt, anyway.”
“But you’re more likely to get hurt if you don’t use your rings or your cane. And if you use them, you hurt less.” Another statement instead of a question, paraphrasing my words back to me.
I shrug.
The mid-level horror and frustration Jacob radiates coats my skin like dried sweat, sticky and uncomfortable. Why did I even tell him? Does he think I’m broken? Does he think I’m weak? Why does it matter to me when he already thought I wasn’t good enough?
“Let me get this straight. You work multiple jobs, take part in an incredibly demanding hobby, and take care of your sibling while dealing with a constant, increased risk of severe injury?” he asks.
How does he know all that? I guess most of it isn’t a secret; some of that hasn’t changed since we were kids.
But I said nothing back then, and who pays attention to someone they hate like that?
Sure, I know what he does for a living. Most people know.
He is, after all, a rover-building genius.
It translates well to our chosen hobby and makes him practically a rock star.
I know little else about him past the age of nineteen, except that he turned into an asshole somewhere in California.
“Well, Ava is old enough to—”
“Mari, you used to bring her to community build nights in her stroller,” he says. I open my mouth to protest, but he interrupts me again. “Alone.” His knuckles are white around his dappled plastic cup.
I scowl at him. Why does someone who ruined my chances of building a better future get to be angry about my circumstances? Why did I even tell him?
“My dad worked hard, okay? It’s not like we could afford to leave her with a sitter much.
” My delicious food turns to ash in my mouth.
Acrid and gritty, like the memories. “And after she transitioned, many of her former friends’ families didn’t want her around.
” It makes me seethe to think about how ten-year-old Ava, finally being her true self, couldn’t understand why it meant sitting alone at lunch.
Jacob’s shoulders slump. “That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry.” He runs his hand over his face, and I see the bags under his eyes. “What I meant was: who takes care of you, Mari?” The world pauses violently. “On your bad days, who is helping you?”
“I-I don’t need help. I’ve got it under control.
” I pick at my fries, wishing they were as good as they were before this conversation.
His stare begs me to meet it. But how can I look him in the eye and witness that judgment?
After every opportunity he’s taken from me, I don’t want his pity.
I don’t want his concern. I hail the waitress. “Can I get a to-go box?”
Jacob hands her his credit card as she hands me the boxes, not even giving me a chance to protest or hand over mine. “How much do I owe you?”
“Nothing. I’ve got it.”
“I can afford my food.” I actually can’t, but he doesn’t need to know that. I have a sneaking suspicion he might know it anyway, which makes me even angrier. After a moment, I sigh. “Thank you.” He signs the receipt without acknowledging me.
It’s unsettlingly quiet in the car on the way home.
The tension between us feels like a ton of scrap metal on my chest. This hot-and-cold routine is uncomfortable and exhausting.
I have better things to focus on than Jacob.
Like the fact that I have to be up in a few hours.
I hope to god we can finish revamping ZetaMax in time for the next match.
The moment he parks, I mumble my thanks for dinner. I shoot out of the vehicle as quickly as my wobbly body allows—which is admittedly not quick. It’s fast enough to get me past the lobby and through the closing doors of the elevator before he can catch up with me.