When Love Breaks (6 page)

“Good morning,” I say, as I enter Logan’s house. It doesn’t take long before he appears with a smile on his face.

Well, that’s a good start.

“Good morning. How was your weekend?” he asks.

“Revelationary,” I say. “Yours?”

He smirks. “Mine was uneventful, and revelationary is not a word.”

“Maybe not, but it should be. Some new ideas have come to light and I’ve brought you something.”

“Oh? What is it?”

“It’s what I’m hiding behind my back.” I gesture over my shoulder with my head. “You can’t see it until you’ve eaten all your breakfast though.”

He smiles. It’s nice to see.

“Well, we better get cooking then.”

I grin at him and nod. He wheels himself into the kitchen, and I hide my surprise behind a potted plant in the foyer.

“What are we making today?” I ask.

“I think you should show me how to make scrambled eggs.”

“Really? Are you
that
culinarily challenged?”

He laughs. It’s the first time I’ve heard him laugh. It’s a great laugh. I want to make him laugh again.

“That’s not a word either,” he scolds playfully.

“I don’t care. I’m going to contact Mr. Webster and request that it become one.”

He shakes his head, smiling again.

Logan helps me gather the ingredients, and we set the griddle on the table, within his reach. I beat the eggs; he chops up the rest of the items.

“So, my brother approves of your cooking. I meant to tell you that earlier,” he says.

“Oh?”

“Yeah. He basically told me to not to let you get away, or we’ll be back to eating cereal for dinner.”

I laugh.

“Seriously?” He nods. “Well, I’ll have to make sure to teach you everything I know, in case something happens.”

His face falls. I watch his throat as he swallows reflexively.

“I hope nothing happens.” His voice is serious. We stare at each other for longer than is necessary, when I finally look away and break the silence.

“Well, I’m not planning on dying anytime soon, so…” I let out a schoolgirl giggle, and the corners of his mouth reluctantly lift.

We eat the breakfast we made together: scrambled eggs with bits of bacon, onion, peppers, and a bit of cheese, buttered toast, and fresh squeezed, orange juice.

“Can I help you dry the dishes?” Logan asks.

“That’s very diplomatic of you, but no, thank you. If I let you get too independent, you might not need me anymore.”

We laugh, but his is somehow…off.

“So, what’s this surprise you’ve brought me?” he asks. I can tell his curiosity is piqued.

“I’m so happy you asked.” I move toward the front door and reveal a thin box. “This was part of my revelation, which you so wonderfully pointed out was not a word.”

“Revelation is a word, revelationary, is not.”

I wave him off and continue. “After an incident that happened over the weekend, I got to thinking about your mobility, or lack thereof. I watched several videos on the internet and discovered ways to enhance your life.”

He sighs, looks down, and rubs his forehead.

“Elora—”

“Now, I know what you’re thinking,” I interrupt, “but, you don’t have to go anywhere. I’m going to be your in-house therapist.” I smile broadly. I can tell he’s not impressed, so I open the box and pull out the contents. “It’s a transfer board!”

“I see that,” he says, solemnly.

“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. I’ll show you what I’ve learned, and we’ll practice together.” His expression is unsure. “Okay, I’ll go first.” I drag a kitchen chair to the middle of the living room, then position another next to the first. I sit on one, and place the board between the two. Trying not to use my legs, I gently slide across the board onto the other chair. “There! Now, it’s your turn,” I say. He doesn’t move. “Come on, Logan. You have to at least try it.”

“I really don’t want to. I’m fine just sitting in
this
chair.” He gestures toward the wheelchair.

“But, you can’t stay in that your whole life. What if you want to go to a restaurant? How will you get yourself into their dining chair?”

“I won’t, because I don’t go out.”

“I’ve noticed. Why is that?”

He sighs again, rubbing his forehead even harder.

“I just don’t like to, okay? Can we just stop this now?” His voice is irritated, and I can tell he’s trying to reign in his temper. He turns abruptly, wheeling himself away from the chairs, and down the hallway, toward his bedroom. Closing the door behind him, I soon hear something being thrown against a wall. It makes me jump. I guess I pushed too hard. Defeated, I place the board back in its box and put it in the front closet.

It’s nearly lunchtime, but I haven’t seen Logan since he stormed out after my attempt to teach him transfers. I raise my fist and knock gently on the door.

“Logan? Lunch is ready,” I say quietly. I hear silence. Should I knock again? Will he get mad if I do? I lean against the wall, next to the entrance to his room. I’m contemplating what I should do, when the door opens. His face is apologetic, so I give him a small smile. “Are you hungry?” Again, my voice is small. He says nothing, just nods, then begins to roll in the direction of the kitchen.

We eat in relative silence, which feels awkward. I want to tell him I’m sorry, but the truth is, I’m not. He needs to be pushed. He told me that himself, and if he’s going to get along in this world, he has to try. I open my mouth to tell him just that, when he speaks up.

“I’m sorry I got upset with you. I know I told you to push me, and I’m sorry I was so resistant to that. You did nothing wrong, yet I got angry with you, and you didn’t deserve that.” He finally looks at me. His expression is bleak. “I apologize. Please, stay.”

I try to keep my face as neutral as possible, but it’s hard to hide my triumphant grin.

“Well, you know you’re getting extra homework for your lack of enthusiasm for today’s lesson.”

“Am I?” he responds cheekily.

“Yes. I’ll expect you to perform extra transfers from chair to chair before tomorrow morning. If you don’t, and I’ll know if you’re faking it, you’ll get detention. Are we clear, Mr. Turner?”

He smirks. “Yes, Miss Foster.”

“That’s better. Now, let’s finish our lunch. We have work to do.”

After the dishes are washed, I drag one kitchen chair back into the living room. He pulls up the arm of his wheelchair, and begins to practice. He’s shaky at first, a bit afraid of falling, I think, but soon, he’s got the hang of it, as I knew he would.

“Woo hoo!” I cheer him on, and he bows gracefully in turn. Logan holds his hand up for me to high five, but when I step forward to slap it, I step crooked, twisting my ankle again, and fall onto my hands and knees.

“Elora!” Logan shouts and reaches out toward me. “Are you okay?”

I’m holding my ankle. The pain is excruciating, and it takes me a few seconds to be able to speak.

“Yeah. I’m fine,” I squeak out. “I rolled my ankle this weekend, and I’m afraid I just did it again.”

“Do you need a doctor?” he says; his voice is urgent.

“No, no. I’ll be okay. I’ve done this a couple times since the original incident. I’ll be fine.”

“Why don’t you sit on this chair and let me have a look at it?”

“Logan, it’s okay, really. It’ll be fine,” I say.

“Stop being stubborn. You might’ve broken it. Let me take a look, please.” I look up at him as if to ask,
what do you know about broken ankles
, when he continues. “I was a medic in the military,” he explains.

“Oh.”

He holds his hand out to help me up, so I take it and get to my feet…well, I get to my foot. I sit on the practice chair and gingerly take off my shoe. He gestures to give him my foot, so I carefully place it in his lap.

“You have it wrapped. Mind if I take it off?” I shake my head, and he slowly unwinds the bandage. His hands are warm, and the heat from them radiates through my foot, up my calf, past my thighs, and settles awkwardly a bit higher. It’s getting hot in here, and I realize I’m becoming flushed. My heart races, as his deft fingers glide across my instep. He holds my foot by the heel and turns it slightly from side to side.

“Does this hurt?” I shake my head as he presses against different parts of my foot. “How about now?”

“No,” I say. Finally, he turns my foot just the right way, and I wince. “That hurts.” I tug my foot away, out of instinct.

“Hm. It could be broken. It’s hard to tell. Most likely, it’s just sprained, but I think you should have it looked at. You’re weight bearing though, so that’s good.”

“Well, I
was,
until now.”

“See if you can stand on it.”

I retract my foot and step down. I don’t put my full weight on it at first, but slowly, I stand equally on both feet, with little discomfort.

“How’s that feel?”

I shrug.

“It’s a little uncomfortable, but nothing I can’t deal with.”

“Can you walk on it?”

I take a step with my left foot, then my right, but it’s a quick step.

“You’re favoring it. You should play it safe and stay off of it. Let me wrap it back up.”

“You don’t have to. I’m more than capable of—”

“I know. Just let me do it,” he interrupts. Then, our eyes meet, and I notice the sincerity in his offer. His eyes, God, his eyes, they’re mesmerizing. I could easily get lost in them. His small smile lets me know he really wants to help, so I nod my head slightly and replace my foot in his lap. With slow tenderness, he wraps the bandage around and around. I watch as his fingers graze my skin, and I’m hoping he doesn’t notice the shivers he creates. I’m embarrassed at my body’s reaction to his touch and ashamed that I feel this way toward someone I work for. I look away, hoping to distract myself from my wayward thoughts, but it does nothing to ease my traitorous body.

Then, he says something that I don’t hear.

“What?” I’m confused.

He smirks.

“I said, I think that’ll do, don’t you?”

“Oh, um… yes,” I say, glowing bright red, I’m sure. I pull my foot from his reach and wipe the sheen of sweat from my brow. “Thank you.” The spell is broken, as I try to calm my heartbeat.

“You’re welcome. Please take it easy today. Don’t put much weight on it. In fact, you should keep it up for the rest of today.”

I laugh.

“And just how am I supposed to do my job?”

“What’s left to do? I hear your boss is a real asshole, but I know for a fact that he’ll be very understanding about why you’re just sitting around with your feet up.” He winks.

“Really. Well, I hope this boss of mine likes to make his own dinner. If not, he and his brother will be eating cereal again.”

He shrugs.

“They’ll live with it.”

I shake my head in disbelief at the completely different man who sits before me. One week ago, I was ready to walk out on this job. Today, nothing short of a hurricane could drag me away.

5

LOGAN

T
he next few days go smoothly. Elora seems excited to see the progress I’ve made with the transfer board and without it. I’ve really been working hard at being more independent, and I’m glad she’s noticed. The day after she brought the board over, I worked well into the night on transferring myself, not just to and from a chair, but onto the bed, and in the bathroom too. I don’t know why I refused this instruction while in the hospital. It really isn’t that hard, and it’s a necessity to get along in life. I’ve chucked the board since then and can now do without it, which makes her smile. It feels good to be responsible for her smile.

The door opens, and I grin when she walks into the house.

“Good morning,” I say from my seat at the table.

She gasps and covers her mouth.

“Logan, what did you do?” she says, in shock, I think.

“You like it?” I say, gesturing to the breakfast laid out before me. “I got up extra early and wanted to surprise you.”

“Well, you’ve definitely done that. How did you reach everything?”

“Last night, I asked my brother to take out anything I might need that I couldn’t reach.”

He shook his head at me the whole time, calling me whipped, but I’ll keep that part to myself.

“And, you cooked this, all of this, all by yourself? But, how?”

“I happen to know a great chef.” I wink at her, giving her all the credit she deserves. She walks in farther, astonishment still gracing her face.

“This is incredible. It smells good too.”

“Take off your coat and have a seat. I have orange juice, or there’s coffee, if you prefer.”

She pulls out the chair and sits, then notices I’m in a regular, kitchen chair.

“Nice touch. I can see I’ve been a good influence on you,” she gloats.

“Yeah, well, a little birdie told me to basically suck it up, and start living.”

“I didn’t say it like that,” she says.

“I know. Your words are gentler than that, but it’s pretty much the same thing.”

She beams with pride, and so do I. The truth is, I like making her happy—probably way more than I should.

“So, what do we have here?”

“Well, I made scrambled eggs, toast, and sausage links. I wanted to make bacon, but I thought it would splatter all over me, and the microwave is too high up to reach. If you notice, I added ingredients to the eggs. I improvised. I hope it tastes all right.”

She takes in a forkful and hums her approval.

“Logan, this is delicious. I think you should make breakfast every day.”

“Whoa now. I may know how to do it, but yours is still much better.”

Her grin is broad, and I realize just how much I love that I put it there.

After we’re done, we start on the dishes…together.

“I think I know what we should do today,” she says.

“What?”

“I think we should make your kitchen more accessible to you.”

“How so?”

“Well, we could take the items you might use the most and put them on lower shelves. The pantry can also be arranged in this fashion. The only problem is the microwave. It’s hardwired underneath the cabinet, and I don’t know how to remove it.”

“My brother can do it, or maybe, I can just buy a new one that sits on the counter. I think it’s a great idea. Let’s do it,” I say with a grin.

We get right to work. Elora begins the arduous task of pulling everything onto the countertop, while I do what I can from my wheelchair.

“Why don’t you sit on the floor and do that? It’ll make it easier and faster, I would think,” she says, and my heart sinks. I haven’t practiced floor-to-chair transfers very much, and I don’t want her to see me fail.

“I’m good. I’ll stay in my chair.”

“Really?” she says, eyeing my suspiciously. “It’s obvious you can’t get low enough to the ground while staying in your chair.”

I sigh.

“Okay,” I say, reluctantly. I just pray I can get back into it easily. Reaching down, I grab the floor with my left hand while holding on to the chair with my right. The descent to the floor is smooth enough, so she goes back to the task at hand.

“Tell me about your experience in the military. Was it hard to be away from home?”

I freeze, while in the middle of pulling out a box of garbage bags, then swallow. She’s making small talk, I’m sure, but this is not a subject I like to discuss.

“I don’t really like to talk about it.” I try to divert the conversation, but she continues.

“I know you don’t, but you also didn’t want to try transferring, and look how well that turned out.” Her smug grin makes me a bit irritated, and I have the urge to storm out of this room, but it seems that she has me at a disadvantage here on the floor. I endeavor to keep the information at a minimum.

“Um, I don’t know. It was interesting to say the least.”

“Care to elaborate?”

“Not really.” I look up to see disappointment on her face. I sigh again. “It’s a tough place to be. I was a medic. I saw things no one should see. Guys with shrapnel plugged into all parts of their bodies, grown men begging for their mommies. You name it, I’ve seen it. I’ve tried hard to forget about it all, so you’ll forgive me if I don’t go into detail.”

“I’m so sorry. I just thought…” She stops and bites her thumb nail. “We don’t have to talk about it.” She turns back to the upper cabinets. I know she regrets asking me, but she’s still curious, so I decide to give her a bit more.

“Losing my legs wasn’t the worst thing to happen to me.” She looks at me again, a puzzled expression mars her beautiful face. “Seeing what was happening to the guys in my platoon and wondering if, or
when,
it would happen to me, was terrifying. Each day I woke up in that hell, was an exhausting effort to stay focused on what I had waiting for me at home.”

“Oh,” she says, sadly. Then, my words penetrate. “What did you have waiting for you at home?”

I look down at the floor and wipe the sweat that’s started to form on my brow.
God, I hate talking about this shit.

“My ex. Well, she wasn’t back then. She left me.”

“Oh,” she says. I hear the regret Elora has in asking me that question, and I don’t want to see the pity in her eyes, so I continue looking at the floor in front of me.

“It’s not something I prefer to talk about, but—”

“It’s okay. It’s none of my business.”

“No, it’s fine,” I interrupt. “It’s history. It doesn’t matter anymore anyway.”

Silence lays thick in the room, as neither of us knows what to say next.

“How long were you with her?” she asks softly.

“Since high school. We met in our sophomore year.” I smile and shake my head, as an image of her as a teen surfaces. “She was pretty and popular. I didn’t know why she was interested in me.” I snort, still not understanding her logic.

“It’s not hard to figure out,” she says, as she climbs off the countertop. I look at her sincere face then quickly back at my hands. She folds her legs in and sits across from me on the floor.

“Thanks, but you have no idea what I was like back then. I was this clumsy, wannabe jock. There was nothing special about me, other than the fact that I was Michael’s brother.” I look at her again. “Michael was a very popular football star. Me, not so much. I tried my hardest, but I was never as good as his reputation.”

Her eyebrows lift slightly. I’m sure she doesn’t mean it, but I know that look well.

“I’m so sorry, but I’m sure you were good at lots of other things.”

I scoff. “Yeah. I was good at being put into the friend zone
. I like you as a friend, Logan. You’re such a good friend,”
I say in a faux female voice. “I heard that line dozens of times.”

“Your ex didn’t do that.”

“No. She didn’t. Although, I wish she had,” I mutter under my breath.

She reaches out and covers my hand with hers. I stiffen, taken by surprise, and immediately, look at her again. She’s much more beautiful at eye level. Her sweet smile is warm and inviting. It calls to me to continue, though I’m not sure why she’d want to hear any of this. But, before I can, the phone rings, breaking the spell, and I’m relieved to halt this conversation.

“Would you mind getting that? You’ll be quicker than I would,” I say, pointing out the obvious.

She nods and goes off to grab the phone. When she comes back, she hands it to me.

“Hello?”

“Hey, douchebag,” Michael says. “Was that Elora who answered the phone?” I can almost hear his cheesy grin.

“None of your business. What do you want?” I look up to see a look of concern on Elora’s face, so I tone down my irritation. “I mean, do you need something?”

“Sheesh! She must be standing close enough to overhear you, eh?” He laughs, and I want to reach through the phone and punch him.

“What can I do for you, Michael?”

“Nothing. I just wanted to let you know I’m getting off early today. I should be home around four o’clock, so I’ll finally get to meet the elusive Elora.”

I almost audibly snarl at him.

“Great. Thanks for letting me know. I’ll talk to you later.”

I don’t even give him the chance to respond before hanging up on him and reach up to place the phone on the counter. I look up at her, and she abruptly looks away, pretending she wasn’t watching me. I clear my throat.

“That was my brother,” I say.

“Oh,” she says.

“He’ll be home earlier than usual tonight, so you can leave early too.”

“Um, okay…although, I could stay if you’d like.”

“No,” I say a bit too quickly. “It’s fine. We have plenty of food left over from yesterday’s dinner. You can go as early as three o’clock, if that’s okay.”

She nods, but her expression tells me I need to lighten the mood, so I say the first random thing I can think of.

“When my brother and I were kids, we had a cat we named Dammit. My mother and stepfather didn’t approve, but to spite her, my father let us do it. We’d go around the neighborhood yelling, ‘Dammit’ everywhere we went. When another parent would question us, we’d just say we were calling our cat.”

She giggles.

“You’re kidding?”

“Nope, I’m not.”

“Boys will be boys, I guess,” she says, shaking her head slightly.

“Yeah,” I chuckle.

“Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that my cat’s name was Tornado…for the same reason.” She smirks at me, but it takes me a few seconds to catch on.

“Was it really?” She smiles and nods. “So, you’d go around yelling ‘
Tornado
’ when you were looking for your cat?”

“Yep. At first, my neighbors looked at me weird, but they got used to it. It was great fun to watch the expressions on the faces of new neighbors.”

I’m really beginning to like this girl.

“So, innocent Elora, isn’t so innocent.”

“Who said I was in the first place?” she says with a coy smile.

Within an hour or so, we’re done with the cabinets. We’ve made most everything wheelchair accessible, which will make my life that much easier.

“Now what?” she asks.

“Now, I guess I get up off the floor and make sure I can reach everything.” As soon as I say it, I realize that means she’ll witness my awkward ascent back into my chair. It’s the one thing I haven’t found a good way of doing yet. I close my eyes and bite my bottom lip.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. I find it interesting that she is so perceptive of my moods. I decide to go for honesty.

“I…have trouble getting up from the floor.” I instantly look anywhere, but at her, as I wait for her reply, which I already know the contents of.

“I’ll help you. But, first, show me how you’ve been doing it.”

I nod, and hope she doesn’t see me as the clumsy invalid that I am. She wheels my chair toward me, and I turn to face it. Gripping it tightly with both hands, I use every bit of strength and leverage I have and begin to hoist myself up. Even though the chair wants to tip forward, I hold on, trying to shift my weight toward the back, until I can get up high enough to twist my ass around. For the first time ever, I make it on my first attempt. I breathe a sigh of relief.

“Well, that wasn’t too bad. Is that always how you’ve done it?”

“Pretty much. Why?”

“I saw an easier way on the internet. Can I show you?”

I nod. She instructs me to get back onto the floor, then she joins me there. We briefly make eye contact, but she breaks it first.

“Now, you grab here, making sure your wheels are locked, of course, then push off with one hand on the floor like this,” she says, as she demonstrates. “The video showed the person facing
away
from the wheelchair, then their head goes down, while their butt goes into the air. You then push your butt back onto the seat and sit up.” She makes it into the chair better than I ever have, and I’m amazed. But, can I duplicate it? “The lower your head goes, the higher your butt is. Then, you can just sit.”

“Hm. It’s that easy, huh?”

“Try it,” she says.

Hesitantly, I position myself in the way she just showed me. I feel her behind me. Her hands grasp my hips lightly to spot me in the event I would face plant. I’m distracted, momentarily, by the close proximity to my groin and secretly pray her touch doesn’t wake my libido. I’m embarrassed to be putting my ass in the air, but I have to admit, she’s right. It works much better this way.