Johan looks confused. I don’t blame him.
“I’m breaking up with you,” I say. He opens his mouth to protest, but I shush him. “There’s nothing you can say to change my mind. Not, I didn’t mean it like that, or you’re acting rashly. I’m not. Your visa expires soon. You have to go home. I’m not coming with you, Johan.”
He’s full of words. I can tell by the look on his face. In the end, he merely nods and walks away. I feel an immediate sense of relief.
When I go back inside and latch the deadbolt, my eyes are on my bedroom door. The light is off, which means Judah is probably already in bed. I take a quick shower and curl up on the couch with my cell phone. Then, without overthinking things, I text Judah.
Are you awake?
I vigorously chew on my lip until my cell phone chimes.
I am now.
I hide my face in my pillow for a second, then start typing again.
Sorry. I think he’s jealous. He showed up to check you out.
His reply comes quickly.
I’m sure his jealous streak was sufficiently assuaged after he saw my wheelchair.
What difference does that make? You have bigger arms than he does.
Wheelchairs are heavier than fish!
I giggle and roll onto my back so I can keep texting him.
I broke up with him.
The text dots appear, disappear, reappear like he can’t decide what to say.
And then…
That’s good. So now I can kiss you.
I choke on my own spit as it pools in my throat. My body feels warm, and all of a sudden I’m breathing like I just ran five miles through a field of feelings. I get up and cross the living room, pausing at the bedroom door, only slightly hesitating before I push it open.
I can see the swell of his body under the covers, the light on his phone as he holds it above his head.
“Judah,” I say. He drops his phone on his face and makes a groaning noise. I laugh, then launch myself at the bed. I crawl up his body and straddle him. He’s holding his phone again, but as soon as he sees what I’m doing, he tosses it to the nightstand. Light pools in from the kitchen. His face is anxious … intent. I lean my body down until our chests are pressed together and kiss him. The first time Johan kissed me it was awkward, the slow acclimation of lips pressing together until we somehow found a rhythm. With Judah, it’s natural, like we do this all the time. My self-doubt races in, and I begin to pull away, but Judah wraps his arms around my back and holds me there. We both smell of toothpaste and shampoo. He kneads my back as he kisses me—his lips fluent and his tongue rhythmic. I feel his hardness between my thighs and know that if I were to touch myself, I’d be wet. When he is assured that I won’t leave, he moves his hands to my hips and rotates them down in a circular motion, then back up. He is grinding our bodies together, as if to declare that everything works but his legs. I moan into his mouth, not just to feel the weight of him inside me, but to know what it’s like to be that deeply connected to someone I love.
I’m wearing only a T-shirt and panties. I lift my hips so that I can grab at his pajama bottoms and pull them down. He springs free, and as soon as he does, he pushes my panties aside in a single swipe, and slides me down onto him.
“Oh shit,” I say. “If you had another one of these things, you could walk on them.” He smacks my butt, and it’s so dark I can’t tell if he’s smiling. After that we don’t talk. We just move … the ugly girl and the cripple guy.
The next morning, we lie in bed until my phone begins to incessantly ring. I try to ignore it, but when the caller tries several more times, I gingerly pick it up and look at the screen.
“It’s Johan,” I tell Judah. “He wants to meet up to talk.”
I chew on my nails, feeling the weight of Johan. He must have woken up with renewed perspective after my outburst last night. But I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to spend hours mopping up the mess our feelings have made. It’s kaput, as Johan would say. A dead dog.
“Maybe you should,” he says. I shake my head.
“Right now you’re here, and I want to be with you. He can wait.”
He searches my face, but I’ve become better at hiding my expression.
“Do you want to talk about what happened last night?”
I breathe in the smell of his skin. My cheek is pressed to his chest, and I shake my head. “I’d rather do it again actually, and not talk about it at all.”
“Okay,” Judah says. “But first you have to make me breakfast.”
“Perfect. I have frozen waffles and canned orange juice.”
DESPITE THE CONSTANT DRIP OF RAIN, thunder in Seattle is as rare as the sun in winter. When it rumbles, shaking the windowpanes in my apartment, I run for the window to see what’s happening. Judah, fresh from his bath, is reading a book in the living room. He laughs at me when I trip over a pillow and crawl the rest of the way to the window to look out.
“It’s thunder,” I say incredulously, still on my knees.
“Yes,” he says. I turn and sit with my back against the wall. Because my bathroom is not equipped with the hoist that Judah needs to lift himself in and out of the bath, I helped him instead, surprised at his upper body strength and how little he actually needed me. I think on this now, as I sit staring at the maleness of his beauty—the wet hair, the broad expanse of chest. It was shocking to see his legs. It looked as if two pieces that did not belong to him were hastily placed on his body. Frail and thin, free of hair, I averted my eyes when I helped him out of the bath, and then I felt ashamed. What right did I have to avert my eyes from his body when I was naught but a monster underneath my skin?
“How come you’re so good at being in a wheelchair?” I say softly. Judah sets his book aside, folding his hands on his lap.
“I decided very early on that I wanted as little help as possible,” he says. “There wasn’t always going to be someone around to do things for me, so I taught myself to do them.”