go?”
“It’s down in Federal Hill—there should be plenty of parking.”
“Oh. Um, great.”
Because that’s what I was worried about—traffic and the accommodations of my vehicle. Totally.
“Your band used to play locally, right?”
Wyatt glances at me. I can see a small smile play over his lips.
“Yeah. You hang around that scene a lot still?”
“Now?”
He nods and I snort a little laugh.
“No, not really. I mean, there was a time that I went out a lot—it was easier than facing the pressure of school. But I’m trying to get my shit together and all that.”
“Right,” he says. “Well, that’s a good thing.” He turns to look out the window and I want to swallow my own tongue. As hot as he is full-on, that profile is beyond sexy. It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted to take a guy home, to hide under my covers with him until all my problems have seemingly disappeared.
Wyatt makes me want to be that girl again, but different. Better. A better version of the girl I used to be.
He directs me through the downtown streets and I’m only half paying attention when we pull up to The Factory. I blink at the flat black building a few times and feel my stomach drop into my feet.
This used to be my spot. I would hit The Factory every Friday, and like clockwork I’d be walking out after an hour, drunk or high, only partially dressed, sucking on some guy’s neck while trying to hail a cab. It was my worst-of-my-worst place. It was my depths of anxiety-riddled despair.
And yet, here it was, in the daytime. Small bistro tables and chairs peppered the front and side porches. There was a sandwich board sign with specials written in chalk on the corner. It was an innocent, innocuous restaurant.
Only it knew all my worst secrets.
“You in the mood for burgers?” Wyatt’s gazing at me and I swallow hard, then nod.
“Sure. Burgers sound great . . .”
And they do. From anywhere but here. Still, what am I supposed to say to that, really? Hey, Wyatt, I got loaded here more times than I can count and slept with half the bar staff?
I manage to parallel park without hitting a curb or neighboring car, but I take my time doing it, just like I take my time pulling the key from the ignition, then fiddling with my purse, then climbing from the car. By the time I’ve gotten Wyatt’s wheelchair set up and ready for him, I can feel the sweat gathering along my hairline. My psychologist in college always said that I should do this—that I should face my fears and the places I’d been the most troubled in order to conquer my demons and harness my panic. Right now, though, my panic feels out of control and I feel anything but capable.
Deep breaths, Carson. Deep breaths. But not big obvious deep breaths that make you look like you’re hyperventilating or a psychopath.
“You okay?”
I let my gaze slide over to Wyatt’s face, which, to his credit, looks genuinely concerned. And that makes me want to fold in on myself and collapse. But I manage a smile and shake my head.
“I’m good. Sorry. I’m just tired.”
With an ease and agility that’s pretty damn impressive, Wyatt shifts himself from the higher Jeep seat to the much lower wheelchair. He uses his feet to lower the foot rests and I can’t help but notice that they move—I mean, like they work. Which is when I decide this is a brilliant thing to say out loud.
“Your feet work.”
He glances up at me, eyes wide, then down again at his scuffed black chucks.
“Um . . . yes? Is that a problem?”
“No, I—”
I shove a hand through my hair, and tug on it a bit, until I feel the soreness in my scalp like a small chastisement.
“Sorry—I guess I thought that when people are in wheelchairs, they can’t use their legs at all.”
Wyatt grins and releases his parking break. “Mine work—just not well enough for me to rely on them. I do physical therapy, but the chair’s a little more steady and stable than my stems. I still
“It’s down in Federal Hill—there should be plenty of parking.”
“Oh. Um, great.”
Because that’s what I was worried about—traffic and the accommodations of my vehicle. Totally.
“Your band used to play locally, right?”
Wyatt glances at me. I can see a small smile play over his lips.
“Yeah. You hang around that scene a lot still?”
“Now?”
He nods and I snort a little laugh.
“No, not really. I mean, there was a time that I went out a lot—it was easier than facing the pressure of school. But I’m trying to get my shit together and all that.”
“Right,” he says. “Well, that’s a good thing.” He turns to look out the window and I want to swallow my own tongue. As hot as he is full-on, that profile is beyond sexy. It’s been a long time since I’ve wanted to take a guy home, to hide under my covers with him until all my problems have seemingly disappeared.
Wyatt makes me want to be that girl again, but different. Better. A better version of the girl I used to be.
He directs me through the downtown streets and I’m only half paying attention when we pull up to The Factory. I blink at the flat black building a few times and feel my stomach drop into my feet.
This used to be my spot. I would hit The Factory every Friday, and like clockwork I’d be walking out after an hour, drunk or high, only partially dressed, sucking on some guy’s neck while trying to hail a cab. It was my worst-of-my-worst place. It was my depths of anxiety-riddled despair.
And yet, here it was, in the daytime. Small bistro tables and chairs peppered the front and side porches. There was a sandwich board sign with specials written in chalk on the corner. It was an innocent, innocuous restaurant.
Only it knew all my worst secrets.
“You in the mood for burgers?” Wyatt’s gazing at me and I swallow hard, then nod.
“Sure. Burgers sound great . . .”
And they do. From anywhere but here. Still, what am I supposed to say to that, really? Hey, Wyatt, I got loaded here more times than I can count and slept with half the bar staff?
I manage to parallel park without hitting a curb or neighboring car, but I take my time doing it, just like I take my time pulling the key from the ignition, then fiddling with my purse, then climbing from the car. By the time I’ve gotten Wyatt’s wheelchair set up and ready for him, I can feel the sweat gathering along my hairline. My psychologist in college always said that I should do this—that I should face my fears and the places I’d been the most troubled in order to conquer my demons and harness my panic. Right now, though, my panic feels out of control and I feel anything but capable.
Deep breaths, Carson. Deep breaths. But not big obvious deep breaths that make you look like you’re hyperventilating or a psychopath.
“You okay?”
I let my gaze slide over to Wyatt’s face, which, to his credit, looks genuinely concerned. And that makes me want to fold in on myself and collapse. But I manage a smile and shake my head.
“I’m good. Sorry. I’m just tired.”
With an ease and agility that’s pretty damn impressive, Wyatt shifts himself from the higher Jeep seat to the much lower wheelchair. He uses his feet to lower the foot rests and I can’t help but notice that they move—I mean, like they work. Which is when I decide this is a brilliant thing to say out loud.
“Your feet work.”
He glances up at me, eyes wide, then down again at his scuffed black chucks.
“Um . . . yes? Is that a problem?”
“No, I—”
I shove a hand through my hair, and tug on it a bit, until I feel the soreness in my scalp like a small chastisement.
“Sorry—I guess I thought that when people are in wheelchairs, they can’t use their legs at all.”
Wyatt grins and releases his parking break. “Mine work—just not well enough for me to rely on them. I do physical therapy, but the chair’s a little more steady and stable than my stems. I still
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