Page 26 of Room 1017

I laughed, slapping his stomach lightly, before lying down next to him in the cool grass, the blades tickling my bare arms. “So, back to my original question. You’re not hurt?”

“Just my pride,” he said, sticking his bottom lip out in an exaggerated pout.

“Aww,” I cooed and rolled over to give him a peck on the lips. “Would it make you feel better if I tore down the big, bad ramp?”

He huffed. “I want to say no, let me do it myself, but… would you take your shirt off?” His eyes sparkled with mischief as his fingers crept under the hem of my t-shirt, searching for skin in a PG-rated neighborhood-friendly tease. “I think it might soothe my bruised ego if I could watch some live lumberjack porn.”

“I’m sure,” I sassed. From anyone else, I might’ve balked at feeling objectified, but when it was Peter? I had to admit, I loved the way he couldn’t get enough of me. With one more kiss, I pushed up to standing. “Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be right back.”

“Was that a joke?” he asked as he watched me disappear into his garage. “I can’t get up!” I was fairly sure he could manage just fine getting up on his own if he tried. “Hey, where are you going? The axe is right here.”

When I returned, I had a much more sensible crowbar and a pair of work gloves. “I know it’s not as ceremonial as chopping the ramp into bits, but I’m sure I can pry these pieces apart a little more easily—and without bloodshed. Bonus!”

Peter was back to pouting, so I rolled my eyes and peeled off my shirt for his benefit, though I might’ve seen the elderly woman across the street pull out her binoculars to get a better look from her front window.

“Yesss,” he cheered, giving a little fist pump in victory.

I did, in fact, build up a bit of a sweat as I pried up the plywood sheets and set them aside one by one. I understood that he wanted to do this all himself, but this was pretty symbolic too, I thought. I’d been a part of this journey with him, but in the end, he had to take those final steps, so I stopped before I got to the end, leaving a few boards.

Peter was lying back in the grass with his hands behind his head, drinking up the view in a way that almost made me check I hadn’t accidentally stripped off more than my shirt. I stepped over to him and offered my hand. “Come on, let’s get you up.” He winced as we got him standing, and then I handed him the crowbar. “Do you think you’re up for finishing?”

He checked out what I’d left him, and he smiled, full of his newfound confidence. “Yeah, I think I can handle that.”

He took the bar from me and approached the final fragments of his wheelchair ramp, but before he could wedge it into place, I sat down cross-legged on the grass and called out, “Take it off, big boy!”

Peter only hesitated for a moment, but I saw a look flit across his face, and I knew he was thinking about his scars. His body had changed a lot this past year, and I knew it would take some getting used to. As cliché as it was, this was his metamorphosis, and I liked to believe he was emerging as my butterfly. I wished he could see what I saw when I looked at him—his bravery, his determination. He was so much more than the story his body told.

After a brief pause, his cocky grin was back, and he even threw me a wink before peeling his shirt off. I rewarded him with a catcall, and his shy blush extended down his chest.

He was still laughing when he kicked up the final board and tossed it aside. He was panting, sweaty, and looked like he’d picked up a few splinters. He was likely going to be sore for a while, but his smile was wide and full of pride, and I knew it was worth it.

Peter dropped gingerly onto the now-bare steps with a satisfied sigh, not quite masking the pained groan that snuck out. I headed for the front door. “Iced tea?” I offered.

“Thanks, angel, that sounds like heaven.” He was hunched over a bit when I came back and sat behind him, my legs bracketing his hips. I set my drink to one side, the glass already sweating in the heat.

“Here you go,” I said, passing him his glass, along with two anti-inflammatories.

He groaned in relief. “Oh, you really were sent from the gods. Thank you.” He washed down the pills then held the glass to his flushed face. “I haven’t had a workout like that in… far too long,” he said, a hitch in his voice, and though he hid his thoughts well, I had experience picking up on what was unspoken.

I began to knead my thumbs into his tight shoulders, working out the knots. “You know you don’t have to hide how you’re feeling all the time, right? I want to know what you’re thinking, even if it’s not all sunshine and roses. In fact,especiallyif it’s not. It’s always better to get the dark thoughts out instead of letting them fester, trust me. I promise I can handle it.”

Peter arched his neck like a cat as I ran my fingers up into his hair. I could practically hear the gears turning as he mulled over what he wanted to tell me. When he finally spoke, his voice held a certain cautious hope; was he scared I would turn away from him now, when I was already half-gone for him? “Sometimes first thing in the morning, I’ll wake up, and for just one split second, I’ll forget. The case that ended my career, the surgeries, the pain… all gone for one perfect second. But then I roll over, and it all comes crashing back down like a sledgehammer.”

He sighed. “I know healing is a process and takes time, and I should be patient. This pain won’t last forever, logically I know this. Most days, I tell myself I can handle it, and most days, I’m right. But other days… I know pain is different for everybody, depending on tolerance, whether it’s acute or chronic or whatever, and of course, depending on their threshold. Because let’s be honest, everyone has a limit. I think I’ve hit mine at least five or six times so far this year.” Peter shook his head, chuckling darkly. “But it’ll never go away,” he said quietly. “Not entirely.” The way he said it, I knew he didn’t just mean the scars he bore on the outside. He stared down into his glass at the ice cubes slowly watering down his sweet tea. “It’s just a lot to handle sometimes, you know? Having to change all my expectations for what my life was supposed to look like.”

“I know,” I said, and I really did, better than I let on. There was a looming shadow in my own past, but I was so used to holding it close to the chest that it was hard to open up and let someone else in. But if anyone deserved to know, it was Peter.

I got up and moved to sit beside him on the step, shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip. I swallowed a few times as my throat tightened up, and I turned my stinging eyes toward the setting sun, turning the sky a fiery orange. “My parents were in a bad car accident about 15 years ago.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Peter’s head whip toward me. He didn’t say anything, and I was glad for his silence because I was just barely keeping it together. Even after all this time, the emotions were right beneath the surface under a barely healed scab.

I reached for Peter’s hand, and he squeezed it tight. “It was date night, so I was home with the sitter, even though I swore I was too old for one.” I rolled my eyes at my precocious younger self, but my chuckle was cut off by a choked sob. “They went to see a movie, can’t remember which one—not that it matters. On their way home, they were broadsided by a drunk driver. My dad, he…” I shook my head, clinging to my iced tea, unable to finish the sentence. “And my mom, she’s been in a wheelchair ever since.”

“Angel, I’m so sorry. I had no idea,” he whispered.

I nodded but didn’t say anything else until I was sure I had my emotions back under control. “My mom didn’t fight to get better, not at first. She was in a really dark place, and I felt so helpless. I mean, I was just a kid, obviously, but… I was hurting too, and I just wanted my mom. But as bad as things got, it didn’t stay that way. Nothing ever does. Our bodies heal and so do our hearts. My mom is one stubborn woman, and she found a way to keep going. It’s why I decided to go into physical therapy in the first place. When she started going to those PT appointments, that was what finally had my mom starting to regain some hope. She might’ve been left in a wheelchair, but she wasn’t about to let that stop her.” I wiped the back of my hand over my eyes before I turned to look at Peter. “What I’m trying to say is, it does get better… even if you don’t get back to your original factory setting.”

He snorted in surprised laughter at my unexpected joke before sobering once more. “I can’t wait to meet your mom. She sounds like a real powerhouse.”

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