CHAPTER FIVE

ALICE

I listen to Marcus’s message for probably the fourth or fifth time while at work. My skin prickles as heat flares through me at the sound of his deep voice saying my name. I’m thankful for an office with a closed door so nobody can see my reaction because I’m positive a guilty flush is burning my cheeks a bright red.

Despite a somewhat rocky start, I thought the date was going well until the end. I don’t know what I said or did, but it was like a curtain dropped over Marcus’s face. Gone was the engaging grin. In its place was a glower.

When we exited the restaurant, I became aware of the difference in our heights due to him being in a wheelchair. I tried not to be too obvious but couldn’t help sneaking peeks at his legs.

He was wearing dark dress slacks that matched his suit jacket and his feet shod in shiny black dress shoes were on the footrest, with a blue strap going around his calves. I suppose that was to keep his legs in place. I didn’t want to stare or ask. It seemed far too personal of a thing.

I was kinda hoping for a kiss when we reached my car. Instead, Marcus asked for my phone number while he rattled off his. After that, he wished me a good night and wheeled away.

I was left wondering if he had a ride coming to get him or how he’d get home. It was on the tip of my tongue to call out and offer him a ride when I came to my senses. I love my car, but I didn’t know if I could even fit his wheelchair in the trunk.

Or if I would need to help him into or out of the passenger seat. I’m pretty fit, but Marcus didn’t look like a small man, and I doubted I could lift him without hurting myself and possibly him.

I’d never given much thought to how people with disabilities got around, other than seeing the mobility scooters at the grocery store. Part of me felt guilty about that.

Now sitting here relistening to his message and realizing I’m attracted to him even with the wheelchair causes the buzz of guilt from last night to grow louder in my head. I shouldn’t think of it like that. A wheelchair isn’t a bad comb-over, this is something he has no control over.

A tiny voice inside my head insists that I’m merely being realistic. I’ve never been out on a date with a man in a wheelchair before, or anyone with a physical disability. This is all new and unchartered territory, so it’s okay to be somewhat apprehensive.

Clicking away from my voice messages, I begin to look up a few things on my phone. No way I’m going to do that on my company laptop. That’s all I need is one of the sites I look up dinging the company’s monitoring program. Even if this isn’t anything bad like porn, I don’t want my boss or anyone else aware of what I’m doing on work time.

Instead of it being a quick search to satisfy my curiosity, I find myself going down a rabbit hole instead. I don’t know Marcus’s level of disability, so I concentrate on just lower body paralysis.

It’s a lot to take in.

And even at home I’m still turning things over in my head when grammy calls.

“Alice, how did the date go?” she immediately asks.

“You never mentioned he was in a wheelchair!” I blurt out.

“What’s that, dear?” she asks sweetly.

I pull the clip out of my hair and run my left hand through my strands as I begin to pace around the room. “Wheelchair. He’s in a wheelchair, Grammy Brooke.”

“Oh. I didn’t know that.”

Stumbling to a stop, I stare at the wall, not seeing anything. “You set me up with him. How could you not know?”

I don’t miss the soft sigh she lets out. “I never met the man.”

Silence hums between us. Then I finally manage to croak out, “What do you mean you never met him?” Blinking rapidly, I resume pacing. “You sent me on a date with some random man?! What if he was a serial killer or something?” I rage.

Grammy laughs. “Of course he’s not Alice. Don’t be silly. He’s the grandson of my friend Deborah here at Honeysuckle Senior Center. Even better, he’s your match.”

“My match? According to whom?” I demand.

“Why us, of course. The matchmakers.”

Shaking my head, I blow out a long, slow breath. Leave it to grammy to be in a matchmaker’s groups!

Undaunted by my snappish attitude, grammy asks, “Other than the wheelchair, how did you two get along?”

“Surprisingly well,” I admit.

“Splendid! When are you seeing him again?”

The unanswered message sitting in my voice mailbox immediately pops into my head. “We haven’t sorted the details of that out yet,” I hedge.

Her sweet laughter fills my ear again. “Ahhh… blooming romance, so sweet. I remember when your Grandpa William and I were first dating.”

Grammy launches into a story that she’s told me over a dozen times already, and I listen with only half an ear. The other half of my mind is working over the subject of Marcus.

I do want to see him again.

There’s just something about him that makes me feel warm and gooey inside. He’s not the handsomest man I’ve ever been out with. My jerk ex-fiancé Richard was tall and handsome with the type of blond, good looks that had women turning their heads when he came into a room.

Sad thing is, he did more than turn their heads. He also had no problems hopping into their beds as well.

Marcus isn’t Richard. Thankfully.

“He is your match.” Grammy’s words echo in my brain.

I shake my head. If he’s my match, what does that say about me?

“Oh, here I am going on and on,” Grammy’s voice cuts into my thoughts. “You’re always so busy. Let me let you go. Have fun with Mark.”

“Marcus,” I correct automatically as a riot of butterflies takes flight in my stomach at saying his name out loud.

There’s no denying or hiding the fact that I’m attracted to him. Perhaps there is something to this match stuff.

And far be it for me to mess with Grammy Brooke and her friends’ matchmaking attempts.

Ending the call with grammy, I call Marcus. Getting his answering service, I leave a message asking him to have lunch with me on Thursday at a local park close to my work.

The rest of the evening, I anxiously check my phone to see if he responded via text or called and I missed it. When he finally texts me, it’s almost ten and I do nothing to stop the excited yes that slips from me.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve been so worked up about a man and a date. I need to calm myself down and not build up anymore unfair expectations. It’s only going to lead to disappointment.

I can tell myself that all I want, that doesn’t stop me counting down the hours when Thursday finally rolls around.

When I’m sitting on a bench at Lynnwood Park, my lunch bag placed by my side and mindlessly scrolling through my phone, anticipation sings sweetly throughout me. My feet tap, my legs bounce slightly to an unknown rhythm, and I simply cannot keep still.

It doesn’t help that he’s late.

Again.

Maybe I should message him? Perhaps he couldn’t get a ride here and doesn’t know how to get public transportant.

Clenching my hands around my phone, I let out a huff. Am I only thinking he might be helpless about things due to his disability? Why do I keep doing that?

This was a mistake.

If I can’t see past the wheelchair, we don’t have a hope of making any sort of relationship work between us. I’ve gotten so upset when people, okay, mostly men, look at my physical appearance and only go from that and here I’m doing it to Marcus.

My stomach gives a loud gurgle. Another look at my phone shows it’s fifteen minutes past our agreed upon meet-up time.

All this worry and anticipation and now he doesn’t even show up or give me the courtesy of a text! How hard is it to send a text?!

Rolling my tight shoulders, I grab at my lunch bag and pull out my meal. At least it’s a beautiful day to eat outdoors, I think sourly, tearing off a big bite of my PBJ.