Page 17 of Coming to Grips
Chapter Seven
Chase rolls out of bed on Thursday to find Kyle up and gone. After the last two days of togetherness, they’ve determined that Chase doesn’t actually need a whole lot of babysitting, and that Kyle can return to a normal schedule, only taking time off when Chase has rehab appointments. Chase’ll skip the exercises he needs help with in the mornings and do them twice in the afternoons when Kyle gets home, one set at the beginning of a session, one set at the end. Hopefully Tabitha will be okay with the alteration as it’ll only happen once a week, twice at most due to the six on, two off work schedule of the ranch.
Chase fumbles through a bowl of cereal and spends a couple of hours on his home exercises. By the time he’s done, his arms and shoulders ache and a thin sheen of sweat covers his upper body. The exercises take a lot of fuckin’ energy, and he’s starving again.
He looks through the cabinets and peers into the fridge looking for something filling, but it appears he’s S-O-L. He can do a lot of things without the use of both hands, but preparing a meal that meets his body’s fuel requirements isn’t one of them. Which means going to the mess for lunch.
Chase showers and dresses relatively quickly—he’s finally getting the hang of something at least. He still doesn’t have the hang of shoes though, so it looks like he’ll be shoving his feet into boots. He’s gonna look like a moron, but whatever. He’s too hungry to care at the moment.
Chase stares, feeling blown away, at the three pair of sneakers sitting next to his crusty dusty boots. Each set of laces has been specially tied to leave enough looseness for him to get his shoes on using his index finger as a shoehorn and enough snugness that he’ll be able to walk without his shoes flapping off his heels.
When had Kyle done this? Of course it was Kyle, because who else has been here. And he used to do that particular lacing to his own shoes back in high school.
Chase snags a pair and sits on the edge of his bed and stares at the shoes in his lap, dumbfounded. He drops the shoes to the floor and wriggles his feet into each one in turn. Chase goes soft and gooey inside like fresh baked chocolate chip cookies. That Kyle, who normally acts quite thoughtlessly and cavalierly, had even realized this would be an issue and then taken the time to prep all three pair of his sneakers and not just one, is amazing and thoughtful and so not like Kyle. The act is much appreciated.
Chase’s stomach growls as if to remind him of the point of shoes in the first place. Right. Lunch. He slides the flap of his wallet into the waistband of his sweats and drops his keys into the pocket. Time to go out on his own for the first time. Nervous energy ripples under his skin, although there really isn’t any reason to be anxious. He’s just going to the mess.
Pulling the door closed behind him, he turns his face to the sun. Summer winds have blown the lingering clouds eastward and the sun shines hot from a bright blue sky. The humidity is still thick, and despite his shower, a sheen of sweat breaks out on his forehead within moments and his tee shirt starts sticking to his lower back.
Hellos, how-are-yous, andgood-to-see-you-up-and-aboutspepper his walk. What should have taken ten minutes has taken twenty, but it doesn’t matter. These are his friends and co-workers, and they care about him more than he realized.
He enters the ranch’s mess, something like a cross between a buffet-style restaurant and a school cafeteria. Only with more utilitarian and easy-to-clean tables and chairs since ranch workers come in covered in all kinds of dirt and manure. Chatter and the clinking of cutlery surround him. The cold air washes over him and he shivers for a moment.
Delicious scents of yeasty rolls, thick gravy, and savory beef fill the air and he takes a deep breath. His stomach gurgles in response. He pushes his tray down the railing, looking at the feast spread out in front of him. And, shit, he’s gonna need two hands. He’ll either have to break down and ask someone to cut his food for him or he’ll have to choose things that merely require stabbing or scooping and then shoveling into his mouth.
Today, stabbing or scooping seems like the logical choice. Dinah usually cooks a vat of thick hearty stew that will satisfy both of his basic requirements. Full of protein and filling. He’ll have to ask someone to ladle him up a bowl, but that’s no big deal. Better that than asking them to cut his meat as if he were a toddler. The woman behind him gladly serves him a brimming bowlful when he asks.
Several rolls and a slice of Monahan Ranch’s award-winning chocolate cake end up on his tray as well, and then he’s sliding his tray toward the register.
“Chase, hon, how’re ya doin’?” asks Gloria in her gravelly voice. “It’s good to see you out and about.”
The woman had smoked two packs a day for thirty years until her husband died of lung cancer three months after his diagnosis. She’d gone cold turkey and has been cigarette free for the last ten years, but the damage to her vocal chords is permanent. Hair, more gray than blond, is pulled back into a tight bun, and electric blue eye shadow dusts her lids. It should look tacky, but, somehow, she pulls it off.
“Hey, Gloria,” Chase replies, “I’m doing all right, all things considered.” He offers her a smile.
She eyes his dangling arm. “You’re going to need help with your tray,” she says, turning to peruse the assembled eaters. “Hey, Sorro,” she bellows like a foghorn, “come carry this tray for Lewis.”
Chase pushes back the niglet of embarrassment. If it had been anyone else, Chase himself would have been the first one to help, but he doesn’t like being the center of attention. He better accept the interest as well as the fact that he’s going to require a few helping hands along the way.
Sorro, a tall, rail-thin hand from Guatemala Chase thinks, ambles over and nods to Chase. He sports a thin mustache and a goatee and wears the standard jeans and plaid western shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“‘Preciate it, man,” says Chase. “Bye, Gloria.”
“Don’t be a stranger, now, just ‘cause your arm’s hurt.”
“I won’t. I promise.”
“Where to, Lewis?” Sorro asks with a slight accent.
Chase waves at the closest empty table. “Anywhere’s fine. Thanks a lot.”
Sorro sets the tray down, and says, “Take it easy,” before sauntering back to his own table.
Chase fetches himself a cup of water and takes a seat. He settles his right arm on the table alongside his tray and grabs a roll. It melts in his mouth even without butter; he almost groans at the fluffy flakes dissipating on his tongue. Thick and rich, the stew smells heavenly, and no doubt, it’s gonna taste just as good as it smells.
Holding the spoon properly in his left hand feels awkward. He’ll have to practice at home. For now, he channels his inner child and fists the stem. Like it matters. Half the ranch hands probably do the same. He scoops up a bite and his mouth waters in anticipation. The savory flavor of the broth flows over his tongue, and he sighs in delight.
“Hi, Chase,” says Anna, dropping into the seat across from him. She smiles, and his stomach makes an unplanned visit to his specially tied shoes.
