A laugh slips out before I can stop it. I’d throw a towel at him, but that wouldn’t help the naked situation. “That wasnotfunny.”
“You laughed.”
“You’re hallucinating.” I groan. “Can I not go one day without you seeing me in a compromising position?”
“I mean, I’m not complaining.” He flashes me a casual grin. “I thought I heard you call me, so I came to see if you needed something.”
“And I was just checking if you were back.” I swipe my pair of knickers from the top of the bed. “Forgot my undies.” I crush them into a ball. “I’ll be out in just a sec, if that’s okay? Or I could grab my things and change out here while you shower? Whatever’s easiest.”
I don’t know why I’m still holding both towels. My hair towel has shifted to the side of my head during our collision, and my stringy, wet hair is escaping like Medusa’s snakes, and the one between my knees is being gripped for dear life though it’s not covering much.
He’s struggling to get his crutch up from the floor, so I say fuck it, let go of both towels, and bend over to help him. When I stand, his line of sight is firmly set on the ceiling. “Sorry. It’s not that I don’t think you can do it. I just…” I slap my thighs. “I don’t know how to…” I shrug, my face burning, and not only because I’m broaching a sensitive subject. When in doubt, go to comedy.
He rolls his lips between his teeth. “I could’ve picked it up myself.”
“Didn’t want to watch you wobble around like Bambi on ice.”
“Bambi was cute.”
“You’re not.” I’m acutely aware I’m as naked as the day I was fucking born, and he’s standing in shorts and a t-shirt doing his level best to not look my perky nipples dead in the eye. “You gonna keep staring or say thank you like a civilized human?”
“Trying to remember how to speak.”
It’s my turn to roll my lips. “Try not to make a habit of flinging your stick around.”
“Don’t make a thing of it, Fly-Half.”
I jerk my chin as the bulge in his pants. “Bit late for that.” I sigh. No time like the present… “I don’t want to ignore the fact you’re a person with a disability, but I also don’t want to be accidentally condescending or offensive.”
His face softens, and his gaze meets mine for a fraction of a second before he looks back at the very interesting white ceiling. “I appreciate that.”
“I wonder if that benefit of the doubt thing you talked about earlier might go both ways? Like, if I do something like help pick up your crutches, you could assume my gestures aren’t about seeing you asless, but about recognizing your rhythms, reducing friction in your day, and treating your prosthesis like just another part of you—no fanfare, no spotlight.”
He relaxes even further, in fact, something changes in his eyes. “I’d fucking love it if that was possible, Rhiannon.” The emotion in his voice makes my throat clog. “I’m so used to people treating me like I’mdifferently abled, disabled, handicapped with my limb difference.” He says the words with bitterness. “Ghosty has been a part of my life for a long time.”
My mouth twitches. “Ghosty?”
He nods, then pats his thigh. “My super tasteful name for my stump. I have phantom limb syndrome—sensations in my leg. Tingling, prickling, temperature changes, or general pain. I figured calling it Ghosty stayed on the right side of tasteful.”
The way he talks about it eases something inside me, and a rush of guilt for how I’ve been thinking about his situation, like he’s a victim or “suffers” from having a prosthetic limb, threatens to buckle my legs, so I reach for the towel, and rewrap myself.
“I just want to be treated normally. I make jokes about it, feel free to laugh; it makes it awkward if you look at me likeyou’re not sure whether to laugh or not laugh. I’m a funny guy, don’t make me feel like I’m not just because you’re not sure whether it’s okay to laugh about my leg or not. I lost my leg, not my edge, or my sense of humor.” He winks at me.
I roll my lips together, my cheeks twitching. “Okay, got it. What else?”
“Really?” His brows jump.
“Yeah. Absolutely. What you’re telling me is… if you put your foot in it, that’s only half your fault?”
He stares at me, but the corner of his lips twitch and there’s a crinkle at the edges of his eyes. “That was terrible.”
“See? Equal opportunities banter.” I wiggle my brows at him, unsure which of us I’m trying to make feel more comfortable.
I don’t know anyone who has a residual limb like he does. This is my first encounter, and I’d like to learn how to be compassionate but not weird. As much as I’d like to ask him to teach me everything he thinks I need to know, that’s not on him. That’s on me. I’ll do some reading, educate myself, and bring any remaining questions I have to him to clarify.
“Do you have a list of things for new people in your life? Like dos and don’ts? I don’t want to putmyfoot in it either.”
I may not want to be in a relationship with him for real, but the world needs to think I am, and that means being compassionate and understanding without making his disability the centerpiece of our dynamic. Even if our dynamic isn’t real.
