CHAPTER ONE

MARCUS

“Oh, here, let me get that for you.”

Reaching across me she grabs the knife and proceeds to cut my chicken into small, bite-sized pieces as if I were a little kid that can’t be trusted with a sharp object.

This isn’t the first time it’s happened, and heaven help me, I doubt it will be the last. That doesn’t mean it doesn’t irk me.

Every. Single. Time.

“Here you go, sugar.” Handing me my fork, the server beams as her bright blue eyes bore into me. It takes everything in me not to snap.

After several long seconds of silence, her bright smile begins to dim and wilt around the edges. It’s obvious she’s waiting for a thank you or for me to be so overcome with gratitude at her cutting my food that I tear up and praise her for treating me like I’m some toddler instead of a full-grown man. I’m in a wheelchair. It’s my legs that don’t work, not my hands!

Gritting my teeth, I stab a tiny piece of perfectly cut up grilled chicken and shove it into my mouth. My gaze stays fixed on my lunch and, eventually, the helpful server moves away. Good thing I didn’t look truly helpless, or she might have actually tried to feed me my food.

A date tried that once. I snapped at her, and she left the restaurant in a huff. I enjoyed her meal as well as my own and felt zero remorse when I never heard from her again. Many first dates ended up being only dates.

I roll my tight shoulders and try to brush it off and just enjoy my lunch.

People mean well, I know they do. My own father, one of the toughest men I know, tried to baby me after the accident. When I told him his days of wiping my ass were long over, he laughed and eased up a bit. I expected that sort of treatment from my family. Total strangers going out of their way to do things for me was unexpected and completely unwanted.

It”s been six years since the accident that cost me the use of my legs and I think I’ve adapted quite well. Some things are still a struggle. They always will be and will probably get harder as I age. Feeding myself isn’t one of them.

I plow through my lunch, barely tasting a bite.

To make up for some of my rudeness with the server, I toss a healthy amount of cash next to my empty plate as a tip and wheel away from the table.

The hostess practically leaps away from her station to race me for the door, which she holds open for me.

With her body in the way, it’s more of a squeeze to get the chair through the door and I scrape my knuckles on the doorframe as I go. “Thanks,” I mutter, ignoring the sting in my hand and heading to my car.

A good-sized SUV is parked tight beside my car, their tires well over the line, making getting in the driver’s side door of my BMW Coupe difficult for all but a slim person. For someone in a wheelchair, it’s impossible.

I don’t even try to lower my voice when I growl out a string of curses and reverse course, heading back into the restaurant.

Getting the owner of the SUV to move his vehicle takes far too long and I’m late returning to work.

Since I work for myself, it’s not a big deal, but it’s the principle of the matter that infuriates me. I wouldn’t have been late if people could learn to respect the fact that handicap parking is wider for a reason.

My chair is fairly easy to maneuver and is pretty streamlined. Someone with a bulker one or an electric model needs even more room.

I shouldn’t let it sour my day, but between that and the server cutting my food, my mood isn’t the best when my brother calls me close to four.

Blowing out a deep breath, I try to shove my disagreeable attitude down before answering the phone. Chase is probably calling about his son Daniel’s upcoming birthday party. It’s been marked on my calendar for months now, so no way I’m going to miss it.

“Yo, baby brother,” I answer.

“Marcus, I’m not interrupting anything, am I?”

I roll my eyes. Chase is always calling at odd times and since when has he cared about interrupting anything? “No, it’s fine. What’s up?”

“It’s about Dan’s party. We decided to have a pool party, take advantage of the nice weather before we close up the pool for the year.”

Makes sense. Plus Chase and his wife bought the house in January and this is the first season they’ve been able to fully use it.

Before I can joke about breaking out a speedo, something I haven’t worn since my college swim days, Chase continues, “So if you want to stop by for cake after six or just to drop off his gift during the week, that’s fine.”

A wave of hurt crashes over me and for a moment I’m tossed about, unable to rise above it and speak.

Getting into and out of a pool isn’t as easy as it once was. Nothing is like it once was. But it’s not impossible or even that difficult since I’ve done it at the health club several times a month for the past three years. I don’t need a pool lift or even a pool wheelchair. Chase’s pool being in-ground with two ladders makes it just like the club’s pool, only on a smaller scale.

I don’t even need to get into the pool. I’m fine dousing myself with sunscreen and hanging out on the patio and watching everyone else swim. Just a chance to socialize some and see my nephew.

Swallowing hard, I force a lightness into my tone I don’t feel. “Yeah, that’s fine. I already had plans anyway. I’ll just mail him a card and check.”

Chase’s laugh fills my ears and I feel a faint throbbing at the base of my neck, a sign of an impending headache. “Great. I figured as much. Check in with you later, bro.”

He hangs up and I drop the phone onto my desk. Scrubbing at my face, I sigh and look across my office. The bright blue gift bag on the chair near the door catches my eye. I picked up Dan’s gift three weeks ago and wrapped it that same day. It’s been sitting there, waiting for the party. A daily reminder of an upcoming event I was looking forward to, celebrating my only nephew turning ten.

Tilting my head back, I close my eyes and try to rein in my disappointment. This is yet another thing I’ve had to deal with. Being constantly excluded from things. I should be used to it, but this snub burns me like hot sauce in a paper cut.

The phone rings.

My eyes fly open, and I grab for it, hoping that maybe it’s Chase calling me back because he heard something in my voice, and he wants me to come to the party after all. I’m not above taking a bit of pity if it means sharing in family activities.

The sting of bitterness is sharp when I see not Chase’s name, but Grandma Deborah’s, on the phone screen. It was a foolish, irrational hope that I was silly to cling to for even a second.

I shove that bitterness down like I do so many other pointless feelings and emotions. Life isn’t rosy or fair. I learned that six years ago when a drunk driver slammed into me. Why should I start to think life would be fair now?

My mouth thins as I ponder the timing of her call. Grandma never drove. Grandpa Henry was always the driver in the family and even when he could no longer drive, grandma expressed no interest in getting behind the wheel of their big Caddy. Before grandpa’s death, my dad, Chase, and I would take turns taking grandpa to his appointments and running grandma to the stores and her weekly hair appointments.

After the accident, nobody wanted to ride along with me.

Except grandma.

Soon after I got the modifications done to my new car, she called me up and said, “Heard you’re a road warrior again. When are you going to pick me up and take me for a spin?”

To say I adore my grandma doesn’t even come close.

Everyone else sees the wheelchair first. She still sees me and treats me no differently. It’s refreshing and something I sorely need just to remind me that I’m still me. Because some days I really do feel like I lost myself, in addition to the use of my legs, that day and it scares me.

Driving her to a party to which I”m not invited is going to severely test my patience. But for Grandma Deborah, I’ll suck it up.

“Marcus!” Grandma’s voice cracks as she gleefully shouts my name before I can even say hello.

“Grandma!” I shout back just as exuberantly. Or I try. It’s hard to match her energy. Even in her eighties, she’s a force to be reckoned with.

Wanting to get things over with, I rush on. “What time do you want to be picked up for Dan’s party? Chase already informed me it’s a pool party.”

“Oh. Nobody even invited me.” She laughs. “They probably don’t want my wrinkled old butt to scare the kids.”

I can’t help grinning at that. “Well, that makes two of us because I was informed I don’t need to come either.”

“We could crash the party and throw a candy bar in the pool. Have them guessing which one of us did it.”

Since my brother asked me after I was released from the hospital into rehab if I’d be in diapers for the rest of my life, her joke is actually pretty funny, and a chuckle slips out. “You’ve been watching those old 80”s movies again, haven’t you?” I tease.

“Always. You should swing by sometime and we can watch one together again. It’s been a while.”

“Only if I get to choose.”

Her laughter rings out. “You have horrible taste. Which brings me to the reason for my call. I set you up on a date.”

All traces of humor leave me, and I groan. “Not interested.”

“Too bad. Be at The Stone Grill on Tuesday at six.” Without giving me a chance to say anything in response to that, she hangs up.

Staring down at my phone, I shake my head and pull up my calendar. No surprise, I’m free that night, so I put my “date” into the calendar and then get back to work.