Fridays (m/m)

 The First Friday

The clock strikes 5 pm, and the sleek lobby of VegaTech begins to fill with people. Most of them stare a bit, as they walk by me on their way to a well-deserved weekend. I’m an easy target to stare at, from the huge electric wheelchair to my habit of decorating it with pride flags. One of the men walking by gives me that furtive, out-of-the-corner-of-his-eye-once-over-look that I can clock as a certain kind of interest from a mile away. He’s cute enough, and usually, I’m always up to a flirt with a devotee, but today I ignore him. My sister Vanessa is now officially an hour late. That might not be a big deal for some people, but for me it’s a deal the size of the Louisiana Purchase.

Next to me, Steve is pacing. He’s a good guy and a great caregiver, but after a 12 hour shift stretching into a 13th hour, he’s just as annoyed as I am. His wife and kids are waiting back home, but I absolutely must not be left alone ever, for fear something could go wrong with my vent, and Steve will stick by my side until Vanessa is here to take his place. Among many other duties she has, it’s her job to take me to my weekly therapy appointment. I already missed it last week, and I’m still pissed off about it.

Steve points towards the elevators.

“Isn’t that dude over there on Nessy’s team?”

He’s right. A guy in cargo shorts and a dark blue VegaTech polo shirt, one of Vanessa’s fellow engineers, fresh out of the elevator, spots me hanging out by the reception desk and jogs over.

“Sorry, Toby! Nessy is still upstairs, the new manager just gave us a new deadline.”

Oh, yes, same as last week. Three months ago, the kind older gentleman who understood my sister’s time constraints as one of my carers was replaced by a jerk straight from company headquarters. Ever since my usually dependable sister has become flaky. I understand her worries, and of course, her cushy position at VegaTech is what keeps us afloat, but I also need to be at my appointment, or I’ll risk losing the very little function I have left as a c1/c2 quad.

That’s it. VegaTech likes to brag about their track record with inclusivity. It’s time to see what that’s worth. Using the sip-and-puff control, I turn my power chair around and make my way over to the reception desk.

“Hi, Kristy. Can you tell Mr. Gerber that Toby Burnett is here to see him?”

Hooked On A Feeling

I grip the steering wheel so tightly that my knuckles are white against the black leather. Is that little clacking sound the car makes normal? Maybe it’s just me, hyper-aware of everything right now. 

Because of Brandon. 

He sits beside me in the passenger seat, calm as ever, his right leg stretched out comfortably. The left one is a prosthetic, not that anybody could tell underneath his jeans. His hooks, much more obvious than his missing leg, glint in the corner of my eye, one idly tapping against the other in a steady rhythm to the radio. 

“It’s accessible,” I say again, glancing at him quickly before returning my eyes to the road. “I checked, like, three times. I called them, went through their website, even cross-referenced reviews. They’ve got ramps, an elevator, even grab bars in the shower.”

Brandon leans his head back against the seat, a faint smile tugging at his lips. He’s so handsome. My stomach churns. 

“You know, Jen, you don’t have to go through all this trouble. I’ve stayed in places that weren’t exactly...perfectly accessible, and I managed just fine.”

“That’s not the point,” I say, trying to keep my tone light but feeling the heat rise in my chest. “It’s supposed to be perfect. This is your first trip with me. Our first trip. I don’t want you worrying about managing.  I want you to participate in everything the spa has to offer.”

He chuckles softly. It’s so easy for him. That’s part of what I love about Brandon—he’s grounded in a way I don’t quite know how to be. He shifts slightly, his myoelectric left leg whirring faintly as the sensors adjust. He doesn’t seem to notice the sound anymore, but I always do. It reminds me of all the things I have to remember—things I don’t want to mess up.

“Relax,” he says, his voice warm but firm. “This trip isn’t about proving anything. I’m already with you, remember?”

I swallow hard, my fingers easing their death grip on the wheel. “I know. I just want it to be special.”

“It already is,” he says, his voice softer now. “You’re driving. I’m relaxing. And you’ve put way more thought into this than anyone else ever has.”

My cheeks flush, and I let myself glance at him again. He’s looking at me now, his hazel eyes full of unshakable calm. The hooks resting on his thighs gleam faintly in the sunlight. I know he’s not self-conscious about them, and he’s told me I don’t need to tiptoe around them either. Still, I can’t help myself. The sight of them makes my stomach tighten, a flash of heat that I force down with every ounce of willpower I have.

I can’t let it show. Not now. Not ever.

Let You In Again

The clerk’s fake smile doesn’t falter, but it’s still fake. I lean a little closer to the desk, gripping the edge. “You don’t understand. I can’t just sleep in my car. It’s freezing out there.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am.” His voice is syrupy, the kind that doesn’t actually mean sorry. “We’re fully booked. This storm caught a lot of people off guard.”

“Right, including me.” My voice is sharper than I mean it to be, and I feel bad for it instantly, but I’m exhausted, soaked, and the thought of sitting in my car all night makes my stomach twist. “There has to be something. A closet. A cot in the basement. I’ll take anything.”

The guy glances over my shoulder, probably hoping someone else will step up and distract me. No luck for him. The lobby is practically empty except for a guy passed out on one of the couches. The clerk’s fingers drum on the desk. “I’ve already told you—”

“Ellie?”

I freeze, grip tightening on the desk. That’s not possible. Not here. Slowly, I turn.

And there he is. Jack Baker. Ten years, and he’s still unmistakably Jack—sharp jawline, the same easy grin, even under the shadow of a soaked baseball cap. But what stops me, what shifts everything, is the sleek black wheelchair he’s sitting in. His hands rest on the push rims, his posture casual like he’s been here all along.

“Jack?” My voice wavers for half a second before I clamp it down. My brain is working overtime, trying to connect the dots. Last I knew, he was climbing mountains out west. Now he’s here, wheels glinting in the fluorescent light, grinning at me like we bumped into each other at the grocery store.

“Well, I’ll be damned,” he says, rolling a little closer. The grin doesn’t falter. “Ellie Thompson, of all people. Small world, huh?”