Page 40 of That's Not a Thing

“Want me to get the lights?” I ask, finding the weird purple glow from the funky wall sconces a little too nightclub-ish for this reunion.

Wesley lets out a loud, exasperated breath. “I didn’t even ...” He starts over. “Sorry. Yeah. They’re there.” He points toward a panel in the corner.

I hit a couple of switches and the room lights up, plunging us back into a corporate scene—swanky corporate, but still greatly improved over the strip-club vibe that the dark violet lighting had been creating a moment ago. I lower myself into one of the leather chairs opposite him, keeping my back straight despite the way the seat’s plush middle is calling me to sink deeper.

“I like what you’ve done with the place,” I say, for lack of a better opener. I glance around at the bachelor pad style of the room—the stark, grid-like metallic shelving covering one wall, a Captain America shield displayed proudly on one of the higher shelves. There are a couple of black-and-white prints on the wall that look like updated versions of Keith Haring art, just trippier. Next to the sofa sits a tall silver halogen lamp that curves at several odd, robotic angles. It’s all very modern and rigid, and not at all how I would have pictured Wesley decorating. “All you’re missing is the animal-print rug.”

“Oh, this is all Calvin’s,” he says dismissively as he runs the back of his hand along his forehead, as if he’s wiping away sweat. “The guy I sold the restaurant to. We’ve basically made the transition, but I still come in a few times a week, just to ...” He looks at the ceiling.

“It’s gotten so much worse already?”

“No, I’m okay,” he says, sounding a little defensive.

“But the canes.” I gesture toward the side of the desk, where one dark cane still rests and the other has fallen to the wood floor.

“Yeah.” He sighs. “I have something called foot drop. My muscles can’t lift the front of my foot the way they’re supposed to.”

“I know what it is,” I say, thinking back to the many hours I spent researching ALS when I first heard the news. “Both feet?”

“Only the right so far. But the other leg is weak now, too.”

“Doesn’t this mean it’s time for a wheelchair? If you fall and get hurt, it will only make everything worse.”

“No,” he says with finality, his lips closing tightly.

I start to argue, wishing someone in his life were doing more to help him. “But—”

He cuts me off. “I can’t. I can’t be coming into this hip restaurant in some big wheelchair, weaving in and out of the tables. Think about that.”

“You’re not handicapped accessible?” I ask, surprised that the restaurant wouldn’t have been required to make those accommodations for people before opening.

“No, we are, but I’m just saying they won’t want me in here like that. I was supposed to be the enterprising super-chef rising to stardom, not some gimp knocking his wheelchair into the table legs.”

“Well, then maybe it’s time to do something else. Maybe it’s time to stop coming in.”

“Don’t you get it, Mer?” He lifts up, like he’s going to stand, but then slumps back into his chair. “This is all I have now. After you, I made this ... this ...” He gestures into the room, as if to indicate the restaurant, the cooking. “This is my life. If I stop coming, then that’s the end of all of it, of everything.”

“It’s not all you have. You have me,” I say. I’m not sure exactly what I mean, except that I know that I want to be there for him, to help him however I can.

“No, I don’t,” he answers, the anger in his voice growing. “I have an empty house in Irvington. And while you’re off with your new fiancé, living the life you were meant to have with me, I’ll be sitting in my dad’s old Barcalounger, watching bad TV, and waiting until I get sick enough to move into a hospital so that I don’t have to be alone anymore.”

“No!” I shout back, devastated by the picture he has painted, devastated by his regrets.

He looks back at me, a mix of challenge and defeat in his eyes as he cocks his head.

“I refuse to accept that,” I add, as I stand.

“Okay, Miss Fix-It, what other option do I have?” The tension in the room is billowing, but I thrive on this, the push and pull that I’ve always had with this beautiful, withering man.

“Well,” I stall, looking away from him. I shove my hands onto my hips and roll my eyes back toward myself as I struggle to concoct a plan.

“Yeah,” he says when I don’t offer more. “Exactly.” He absently begins opening and closing his fist again, like he did the last time I saw him. I notice his movements seem slower this time.

“Look,” he continues, more calmly, “I don’t mean to get belligerent. It’s really nice that you came to see how I am. I didn’t mean to freak out on you. It’s hard to remember that I have to behave politely around you, to maintain a respectful impartiality or whatever. It doesn’t feel like we’re so far apart, though, like years have passed since we were together.”

I know what he means. When I’m standing in front of him, everything is as fresh in my mind as if it happened only days ago. All of it—the beginning, the awful end, everything in between. Except so much is different now. I remind myself that Wesley is no longer my most important person. That title has to belong to Aaron. Aaron, who has invited me into his life, into his heart, his home. As I feel the urge to move toward Wesley, to protect him in any way I can, guilt creeps into my limbs, little pinpricks locking my feet where I stand. But this is what Aaron wants, I remind myself. He wants me to help, to take care of Wes during this time. And then I have the answer.

“It doesn’t have to be like that,” I say, a new energy taking hold of me. “I know what you should do. Whatweshould do.”