“Just park and leave me in the car.”
“Uh-uh, no way.” I stoop and march up the ramp, swivel his chair, and begin backing him down into the street.
The street has erupted into a cacophony of honking horns by now, and even my cheeks are going red at being the cause of the holdup. Still, I manage to get Matt’s wheelchair onto the blacktop, but then run into an additional hang-up when I have to bump his wheels up onto the curb. I watch the back of Matt sway clumsily in the chair as I hoist the apparatus onto the sidewalk.
I wipe my forehead, which is slick with sweat, and rest for just a moment with my hands on the rear handles of his wheelchair. The honking escalates. “Okay, God, I hear you!” I shout at them. The air outside the restaurant smells like cooking oil and marinara sauce. “Wait here,” I tell him.
“Lake, wait—” But I’m already sprinting back to the van. “Okay,” he calls after me. “But if you can’t find me, I’m having a beer at the bar down the street.”
Very funny.
I retract the ramp and throw the car into drive, this time heading a few blocks over, and find a parking spot about a five-minute walk away.
I hustle back to my brother with the sun burning my skin. Downtown shoppers and beach tourists step around where I’ve left him on the sidewalk, most with sour looks on their faces. A woman pulls her young child’s wrist closer to her and I catch her saying, “Watch out for the nice man.” And see Matt roll his eyes in response. I stare after her, wanting to yell at her that my brother isn’t the bogeyman for goodness’ sake, he’s just a boy in a wheelchair, but find myself thinking twice because sometimes he is sort of scary. At least to me.
“Gee, Lake,” he greets me. “Thanks for leaving me in the center of a busy sidewalk. Super swell of you.”
I grit my teeth, feeling disproportionately exhausted from the day already. “I’m doing my best, Matt.” But then I see it. The stairs up to Taterelli’s and no ramp. I am positive that on my date with Will a fact like that wouldn’t have registered. Taterelli’s sits in an old historic district of downtown. I scan the storefront and find no suitable way up.
“Shit,” I say.
“Shit,” Matt agrees.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. “I’m going for help.”
It takes me no effort at all to climb the six steps. A blast of cool air greets me in Taterelli’s, where the inside of the restaurant feels three shades too dark.
“Can I help you?” A hostess comes into grainy focus.
I’m looking around at the restaurant. I haven’t been here since…since Will. It looks exactly the same. Dark-red curtains. Tiny candles on each of the tables. Fresh long-stemmed roses sitting in a vase atop a grand piano that’s being played by a guy in a gray suit and cufflinks.
“Would you like to see a menu?” asks the hostess, politely.
She holds out a laminated booklet. I know that if I open it, there will be a list of entrées way too expensive for any high school kid.
“No.” I hold out my palm and push the menu back in her direction. “My brother. He’s in a wheelchair. See, we were trying to come in, but there’s no ramp. I need help getting him up. Please, can you find someone? Preferably someone big and strong,” I say, eyeing her silky blouse and waif arms.
Her mouth forms a dainty O of surprise. “Of course, of course. One moment.” And she disappears down a dimly lit hallway.
After what feels like an eternity, the flimsy-armed hostess returns with two young men in grease-stained T-shirts and rolled-up sleeves. They introduce themselves as Antonio and Teddy.
Frustrated by the wait, I usher Antonio and Teddy outside, where my brother sits with his head bowed over his lap. “Matt?” I venture.
Matt lifts his head. Sweat is dribbling down his nose and from the hair plastered to his temples. There are droplets in his eyelashes and he’s squinting and blinking and can’t seem to open them all the way to look at me. His hands rest uselessly on the armrests of his chair.
“I brought help.”
Matt’s mouth turns into a sneer and I feel more than see him harden. “And they’re supposed to what? Snap their fingers and magic me into the restaurant?”
“No.” I take a deep breath. I can’t help being embarrassed by the way Matt acts in front of other people. “They’re supposed to carry you.”
Antonio and Teddy hustle to either side of the wheelchair and position their hands on the handlebars and through the spokes of the wheel.
“Not a problem, buddy,” says Teddy.
Matt’s eyes snap into focus. “No. Lake. No. This is humiliating. I’m not a—Whoa.” The wheelchair teeters into the air. “Stop manhandling me, buddy. Put me down. Right now.”
Teddy and Antonio share a look. Teddy nods and they lower Matt to the ground again.
“I didn’t think you got humiliated,” I say.
His jaw clenches. “Leave me here. I don’t care.”
Teddy’s eyebrows swoop up, questioning.
“Come on, Matt.” I groan and tilt my chin to the sky.
I watch as a familiar darkness spreads over Matt’s face, slowly, like a building storm. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, a sign that I recognize to mean he’s shifted from uncomfortable to in pain. Because despite not being able to move from the chest down, his whole body can still wrack him with agony any time it damn well pleases.
I shouldn’t have brought him out here. I don’t know how to care for Matt. I don’t even know how to talk to him. “Please, Matt.” His gaze is stony. “There’s air-conditioning in there.”
He stares up at me through his lashes. After a long moment, he nods. “Fine.”
Teddy and Antonio make soft grunting noises as they spirit him off the ground and carry him into the restaurant like he’s royalty. By the time his wheels touch down, Matt’s using some very creative curse words.
Antonio disappears back into the kitchen the first chance he gets, shaking his head. “May I show you to a table?” Teddy asks, though.
“Christ, Lake.” Matt’s chin is squished against his chest. “My goddamn eyes.”
“Right.” I glance around and spot a napkin on a place setting at the first table in the fancy dining area. I quickly grab it. The silverware clatters noisily to the table. “Here.” I come back and gently lift his chin with my fingertips. I then dab the corners of his eyes, his lashes, and his eyebrows, where the sweat is still trickling, until it stops.
When Matt is able to fully open his eyes again, I’m caught, level with his gaze, staring into the gold-flecked irises.
“Thanks.” Matt’s voice is soft.
“Yeah, um, no problem.”