Page 48 of That's Not a Thing

“You want anything?” he calls back to me as he reaches the refrigerator.

“No, thanks,” I say to the sliver of the back of his head that I can still see.

He pushes himself out of the chair then and stands to his full height. He opens the freezer and stares into it for a second before grabbing a container of Ben & Jerry’s. He then sits back in the chair as though he’s settling into a La-Z-Boy.

“I don’t understand,” I say as I bring my bags of groceries into the kitchen and start unpacking them on the granite counter. “You don’t need the chair?”

“I’m not paralyzed,” he says, turning the chair toward me and opening the drawer beside me to grab two spoons. “Not yet.”

I stare back at him.

“I’m just weak. I get tired. But I can still stand and get myself in and out of the chair.”

“Right,” I answer, as I wonder whether he would be comfortable discussing the many other questions I’ve been harboring over the past few weeks. I’ve assumed he’s been in and out of the chair in order to perform basic self-care, like bathing and getting into bed. I figure he stands to dress himself, that he doesn’t yet need help buttoning his shirts or putting on his socks. I wonder if now is the time to address all this. But I am also a little flustered being alone with him like this—for the first time, I realize, since he moved in with us.

We head back to the living room and I drop myself down on one end of the microsuede sofa, leaving a wide birth in case Wesley wants to get out of his chair again to sit on the soft cushions, but he just pulls the wheel-chair next to where I’m sitting and puts on the brake, settling in.

“What are we watching?” he asks, upbeat, like he’s been waiting all week for movie night. He hands me one of the two spoons he brought over and pulls the cover off the chocolate fudge brownie ice cream. I watch as he looks around for where to put the lid. He’s eyeing the coffee table, but it’s a few feet away, and I can tell by his face that he thinks getting the cap over to it will be an effort. I reach over and take the lid out of his hand, putting it down on the coffee table and picking up the remote in one fluid action. I return to the sofa, tucking one foot beneath myself as I sit back down and turn on the TV.

As I pull up the Netflix menu, I decide that now is as good a time as any to broach one of the topics that has been weighing on my mind.

“So, what about an aide?” I ask the question casually as I click on the button for comedies.

“What about one?” There’s a defensiveness in his voice.

“I don’t know.” I shrug a little, trying to sound light. “I just thought you’d want to line someone up, so that, you know, when you do need it, I don’t know ...” I lose my nerve for a moment. But then I catch sight of the ice cream cover again, streaks of chocolate on the inside, already melting a little against the sweaty cardboard backing, and I find my grit once more. “You’re going to need more help. It seems to me that you’d want more choice in the matter, that you’d want to come from a position of strength when you find a person to help you and not wait until you’re desperate.”

Wesley is looking at the movie menu on the TV, chewing on his lip a little as he thinks. “Yeah, okay,” he finally says, and I let out a breath. “I’ve kind of been thinking about it, too. Not, like, someone to move in here —just a few hours a day or something to start. When it’s more than that, I’m moving myself into a home. We’re not turning this place into some sort of hippie commune.”

I start to smile at the idea of a commune, but I catch myself as I note the serious expression on his face.

“Okay, good. Yeah, I’m glad you’ve reached that conclusion.” I respond like we’ve negotiated a business deal, but I feel a surge of relief that surprises me. I don’t know if it’s because he is making responsible choices for himself or because he said he’s going to move out before he reaches a catastrophic state. I don’t want to think too hard about it.

“Good,” I say again. “For a minute there, I thought you were going to be all salty boots about it.”

“Salty boots?” He laughs and looks at me sideways, the bright green of his eyes sliding in my direction.

“Yeah. Like, bitchy and resistant.”

He’s still looking at me like he’s suspicious, and now I feel the need to defend myself. “It’s a thing,” I tell him, like that settles it, and I go back to scrolling through movie titles.

I let the blinking cursor pass over one random film after another. There are so many titles that mean nothing to me, so I keep on scrolling. As I pass by the movieChef, with Jon Favreau, Wesley tells me to wait.

“You’ve got to be kidding, right?” I laugh. “How many times have you watched this already?”

“I’ve actually never seen it.”

“What?” I can feel my forehead turn into an accordion of wrinkles as my eyebrows shoot up in disbelief.

“What?” He shrugs. “Have you watched every movie ever made about lawyers?”

“Right. Okay, fair point.” I click on the movie, and the screen shows that it’s loading.

Wesley reaches over and puts his hand on my arm, like he’s trying to get me to look at him, which I do. When our eyes meet, the energy in the room shifts abruptly. In a split second, he’s gone from being my charity project back to being the man who used to light every flame inside me. I don’t know whether it’s the raw, elemental look in his eyes, the physical contact, or just having the time alone together, but suddenly he’s Wesley all over again. I feel myself unraveling in his presence, my heart rate revving, my breath hitching, and I have the fleeting thought that this man is becoming a verb, that he’s Wesleying me. I can’t manage to look anywhere other than his face, watching his eyes grow darker as he stares back at me.

“I’m really glad that we reconnected,” he says quietly.

“Yeah, me too.” I croak out the words. It’s like an invisible thread is pulling me closer to him. I’m vaguely aware that our movie should have started playing by now, that there must be some problem with the way it’s loading.