“Don’t cry, Benji,” he says.
“Too late.”
We talk for an hour. The conversation moves between the hard things and the light things, his rehab and my clients, his body and my vendors. Halfway through, he shifts on the pillow and the collar of his shirt pulls to one side and I see the edge of his collarbone and my brain short-circuits for a full three seconds while he’s talking about his discharge timeline.
“You, okay?” he asks. “You went quiet all of a sudden.”
“Your shirt moved,” I say. “Your collar shifted and I lost the ability to process language for a moment. It’s fine. I’m okay now. Please continue. I lost my train of thought there. You were saying something about insurance forms.”
He smiles. “Benji, you’re ridiculous.”
“I’m also still thinking about that photo. For the record, I’ve been thinking about it all day. I thought about it during the centerpiece meeting, and I thought about it at the grocery store, and I’m thinking about it right now while you’re telling me about parallel bars. I feel guilty about that because the parallel bars are important and I should be fully present, but your shoulders keep interrupting my emotional processing.”
“Goodnight, Benji.”
“It’s only seven-fifteen. Where the hell are you going? Do you have a date?”
“Nowhere. But I wanted to say goodnight because the way you just said all of that is going to keep me powering through tomorrow morning’s session.”
After we hang up, I sit on the balcony in the dark. Miami is mine. I built this life. Six years of weddings and vendor relationships and the reputation I earned one bride at a time. My mother living twenty minutes away. Dante two blocks away.
But the Panhandle has a man in a wheelchair who told me he missed me. Who kissed me and made me feel wanted. Whose mouth I think about every time I close my eyes.
I want both. And for the first time, both feel possible.
My phone buzzes again much later at eleven-fifteen. I’m back out on the balcony. I should be asleep because I have a ten o’clock venue walkthrough but I’m not asleep because my brain won’t stop replaying the way his voice sounded when he said “I stood up.”
Mickey:You still on the balcony?
Benji:How did you know I was on the balcony?
Mickey:Because you told me two hours ago that the balcony is where you go when you can’t stop thinking. And I just told you I stood on the parallel bars. You’re not sleeping tonight.
Benji:Are you calling me predictable?
Mickey:I’m calling you consistent. There’s a difference. Can I call you?
I hit the video button before he can. His face fills the screen. He’s in bed, the phone propped on the pillow beside him, the room dark except for the light from his screen. His face is half-lit, the shadow cutting across one cheekbone. He’s wearing a white shirt and the collar is loose and I can see the hollow of his throat.
“You look tired,” I say.
“I’m not tired. I’m wound up. I couldn’t calm down after we talked.”
“Excited about the bars?”
“Yeah, the standing. All of it.” He shifts on the pillow and the shirt pulls tighter across his chest. “It’s hard to explain. I spent weeks trying to get vertical and today I did it. And now I’m lying here flat again and all I can think about is what it felt like to be up there. Eleven seconds. My arms shaking. But I was standing. My feet were on the ground.”
“I’m so proud of you.”
“Please don’t cry,” he says.
“I already cried. Two hours ago. This is round two. I have unlimited rounds of tears in me where you’re concerned.”
He laughs softly. “What are you wearing?” he asks.
I blink. “What is this? Did you just ask me what I’m wearing?”
“I’m asking because the last time I saw you, you were in a fitted white T-shirt and jeans and I’ve been thinking about it for days. I’m curious if the balcony outfit is different.”
