Ishake my head, not accepting that at all. “No,Ineed to be the best.”
Insteadof reassuring me thatIam still the best, he says, “Why?”Itisn’t so much a question as a demand for an answer.
Ishake my head. “Youwouldn’t understand.”
“Tryme.”
Ican’t because maybeIdon’t fully understand myself.It’sjust a feeling inside.Adrive.It’snot somethingIcan explain, soIjust stay silent.
“Okay, then, let me take a shot at it.Isit because if you’re not going to open yourself up to being loved, you crave the next best thing— admiration?Andyou figure that being the best will get you that?”
Inarrow my eyes at him asI’mgrinding my teeth.
Sullyraises his hands. “Ipushed too far.Iapologize.”
“Youdidn’t push too far.Itjust isn’t true.”Whatis pushing too far right now is my pain level.It’staking so much of my focus just keeping it under control.
“Okay, okay,” he says, trying to placate me, even thoughIknow he still believes it.Hetwists to grab some papers off his desk. “Igot your medical report from the field.Brokenfibula.Brokenrib.Bruisedspleen.Markedbruising on ribs, legs, and back.Thereare several recommendations listed.Here’sone: recommend rest for one to two weeks before light office work.”
Helooks from the papers back to me. “Thatis datedMondayafternoon.Thosekinds of injuries take time to heal, and they aren’t going to heal very quickly here.Gohome,Zoe.Giveyour body the rest it needs.That’syour mission right now.I’llsee you here nextTuesday, if you’re feeling up for it then.Ifyou’re not, take another week.”
Ihave to stop to rest halfway between my office in theGlobalIntelligenceDivisionand the front door, where myUberdriver is picking me up.WhenIget back in my hotel room,Isit on my bed, take off my stupid boot, and chuck it at the floor.Ihate the thing.Iglare at it,like it’s the embodiment of everything that’s stopping me from doing whatIneed to do.AndifIcan’t do whatIneed to do— the one thingIexcel at— what amIeven good for?
Iflop back onto my bed, my good leg still on the floor, and stare up at the ceiling, not really seeing it.Anhour later,Ihaven’t moved an inch whenIhear a light knock on my door beforeLedgeropens it with the keycardIgave him yesterday.He’sjuggling the key card, a big vase of happy-looking flowers in each arm, and a bag with dinner in it.Seeinghim is like a light is turned on whenI’vebeen in darkness.Itmakes my whole insides happy.
“Thefront desk said these came for you.Ithink this one is from your work,” he says as he sets the first one on the small table, “andIthink this one is from mine.”Hesets the second one down, and then looks down at where my boot landed on the floor. “Isee you two had an argument.”
Inod. “It’sunclear who won.”
“Lookslike you put up a good fight, though.”Hesets the bag with dinner on my desk. “Areyou ready to kiss and make up with it?BecauseIbroughtThai.”
Isit up. “Really?ForThai,Ican make peace with the boot.”
Hepicks the cursed boot up, then once again, gently gets my foot strapped into it before taking my hand and pulling me up from my despondency bed soIcan walk to the table.
Iwatch the way he does everything.Takescare of me.Getsthe food set out.Asksabout my day as we eat.IfIhad to analyze his body language through it all,Iwould say, “Thatman loves that woman.”Isee it in everything he does.
Buthe shouldn’t love me.I’mnot everything that he must think thatIam.Ifhe knew the real me, he’d see thatI’mnot worthy of it.Mymom knew it.Myfoster parents all knew it.
Theysay that love is blind, so maybe that’s what’s going on here— love is just making him blind.Butthat blindness won’t stick around forever.It’swonderful, andI’msoaking every bit of it in.Seeinghim whenIthoughtIwouldn’t feels like getting a surprise gift.
Beforelong, though, he’ll realize thatI’mjust…me.
ButI’llgive the guy points for consistency because he also stops by to bring me dinner the next night.AndonFridayandSaturday, too.
Everyday that he’s here in my hotel room,Ifind that we touch more and more.Abrush of hands as we are both reaching for the same thing.Anarm offered whenIget off balance.Helpstretching my cramping leg.Arub of my calves through the ache.
OnSunday, he comes over in the early afternoon.Weplay card games and seated basketball with my trash bin and crumpled up papers.Wesit on my bed and watch romcoms while eating ice cream.Andinstead of giving each other space, like we did inBelgradewhen eating on the same bed, we sit side by side, close enough that our upper arms are touching.WhenIget tired and lean into him, he wraps an arm around me, supporting me.Andwhen we need real food, he orders chicken parmesan and has itdelivered.
Weare touching more and more, and less and less of it is just accidental.Buthe never tries to kiss me.Partof me is relieved becauseIknow the kind of longing thatLedger’skisses cause in me.Butpart of me wants it so badly thatIno longer care whether it might be painful for future me or not.Ijust want this man’s lips on mine.
Loveis blind, andIam very grateful for that.Asmuch asIresisted help at the beginning,Ireally love having someone look out for me like this.Tohave my back when it’s impossible to do many of these things myself.Itfeels healing.Andnot just to my body, which is getting stronger every day, but to my soul.Iwant to hold on to it as tight asIcan whileIhave it.Tosoak every bit of it in.
“Myfamily gets together for dinner onMondaynights,”Ledgersays before he leaves. “Whatdo you think about coming with me tomorrow?”
“Idon’t know.I’minjured—Idon’t want anyone to see me like this.”Iespecially don’t wantEvelynLancasterto see me like this.Notthat she doesn’t already know thatImessed up on the mission and got injured.
“We’reall operatives.We’veall been injured.Everyonegets it.”
