Well, technically, my cast has been replaced by a walking boot, which is essentially a cast that went to design school and came back with ideas above its station. It’s black and chunky and makes me look like I’m about to stomp through a nightclub or possibly invade a small country.
I love it.
My cast was a prison, and the walking boot is now my parole because I can actually walk. It’s not a graceful walk, in fact, I resemble a penguin who’s been at the sherry, but I can at least put weight on my foot and move without crutches, and that feels like the most incredible freedom I’ve ever experienced.
I mean, I’ve won academic awards and been offered professorships, but none of that compares to the euphoria of walking unaided to the corner shop for some milk.
“Ta da.” I hold out my foot encased in the walking boot triumphantly as Leo walks in the door. “Look at this magnificent piece of orthopedic engineering. I’m basically a cyborg now.”
Leo sets his keys down on the kitchen bench. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you. The doctor said I’m still healing ahead of schedule, which I’m attributing to my superior bone density and general genetic excellence.”
I’m being too bright. I can hear it in my own voice, the wattage cranked up to compensate for what’s happening underneath. Leo can probably hear it too because Leo hears everything.
This morning’s weirdness still hangs between us like a cobweb neither of us wants to walk through. I panicked. I know I panicked. And now I’m doing what I always do after I panic: pretending the panic never happened and hoping the other person plays along.
“Genetic excellence. Is that the medical term?” Leo asks.
“Come look at this,” I say. I demonstrate my new walk, which involves my boot clunking against the floor, arms held out for balance, a general air of someone who’s just been unfrozen from a glacier. “The doctor said I should be out of the boot in about two weeks. Then it’s just physio. He says I might be able to do a light jog by summer.”
“That’s great, Archie.”
It is great. Six weeks ago, I couldn’t stand without crutches. I’ve been slowly reassembling my independence, piece by piece, and today feels like the final corner piece clicking into place.
So why does Leo look like I’ve just told him something terrible?
He’s standing by the kitchen counter, watching me clunk around the living room. He’s not smiling.
Something’s off.
The thing I’m trying very hard not to think about is that last night, Leo looked at me like I was the only thing that existed. But when he tried to start a conversation about it this morning, I responded by making coffee in silence and telling him not to talk about it.
Cause and effect. You don’t have to be a genius to do the math.
“I’m thinking this calls for a celebration,” I say. “Pizza? The good place, not the sad one. I feel like my newly liberated ankle deserves the good place.”
“Sure,” Leo says. “But first, I need to talk to you about something.”
I’m fairly sure those words have never, in the history of human conversation, preceded anything good.
“Should I sit down for this? I feel like this is a sit-down conversation. Actually, I’m already standing on a newly liberated ankle, which feels symbolic. I’ll stay standing.”
He doesn’t smile.
He always smiles at my jokes. Even when he’s trying not to, even when his jaw is clenched and he’s actively fighting it, there’s always a flicker.
But there’s no flicker right now.
“Now that your ankle is getting better, I need to get back to San Francisco,” he says. “I’ve got meetings piling up that I can’t do remotely, and Tara’s been rearranging my schedule for weeks. I’ve been putting it off, but…”
He trails off.
“Right,” I say.
I once read that the human brain processes rejection in the same neural pathways as physical pain. At the time, I found it academically interesting.
It turns out it’s less fun as a lived experience.
