Tears by Francine Pascal Page B

her nails.
Every little thing she did tonight seemed to be more irritating than the last.
    â€œJust try to get into this.” Ed groaned. “It’s
The Last of the Mohicans.
It’s a totally famous old book, and this is a Michael Mann classic.”
    Heather snorted, without even bothering to look up at him. “Why is that guy always running up a mountain with no shirt on?”
    â€œHe’s an Indian. He’s trying to save his people, for God’s sake. Watch the movie.”
    â€œWhatever.” Heather groaned, too. “I
am
watching the movie.”
    Ed turned back to the screen, scowling. Actually, that was the problem. They
were
watching the movie—instead of using it as a background to drown out the sounds of making out, as was tradition. He tried desperately to think of ways to cut through this endless tension. If he didn’t tell her how truly pissed he was, he was likely to explode.
    And if you really didn’t want to talk to her, you wouldn’t have invited her over.
    True. There was no arguing with himself.
He always lost.
Anyway, he didn’t enjoy the fact that things were so awful between them. Because he was positive that there was a huge part of Heather that wasn’t about money at all. That was the Heather he’d known before—the Heather he’d fallen in love with years ago, before the accident. He just had to find her inside
this
Heather. He just had to dig a little.
    â€œIntermission?” Ed asked.
    Heather nodded curtly.
    He pressed pause, then reached over to the bars above his bed and hoisted himself into the air. “And now ye shall be entertained by the smooth orthopedic maneuvers of Shred Fargo, all the way from his wheel-chair...and into your heart!”
    Heather smiled wanly. At least she’d stopped picking her nails. If he could show her the progress he’d made, then maybe she would perk up. After all, she hadn’t actually seen what he could do. Maybe shewould be more enthusiastic after the show. And maybe then they would cut through this impasse in their relationship—blow everything wide open so they could put it all back together piece by piece. Get back on track.
    â€œWatch,” he instructed.
    Slowly Ed pulled himself up on the walking bars, ramrod straight. Then gently he lowered himself, using his arm muscles to keep himself in the air.
Focus,
he ordered himself—imagining Brian there by his side, screaming and blasting music. Ed’s biceps bulged with the pressure. He looked down, watching as his feet floated toward the floor. Then touched the floor. Biting his lip in concentration, Ed forced his fingers away from the bar, transferring weight from his upper body to his legs in a mental leap of faith.
    Standing.
    One second...two...three—
    â€œWhat are you doing?” Heather shrieked.
    â€œWhat does it look like I’m doing?” Ed croaked. He glanced at her with a red-faced grin, his entire body shaking from the strain. “I’m standing, that’s what I’m—”
    â€œWell,
stop it!
” Heather jumped off the bed. Her eyes were wide, her forehead creased. She ran to Ed’s door and flipped the latch to lock it. “Are you crazy?” she hissed, enraged. “Your folks might see you.”
    â€œHeather.” Ed emphasized each syllable of hername. His concentration was beginning to wane.
The pain in his legs was swiftly turning to torture.
He would have to sit in a second or two. But not yet. Not until she understood the magnitude of this event. “I’m standing on my. . . own. . . two. . . feet,” he choked out, quavering.
    â€œShhh. Ed.” She jerked a thumb at the door. “Someone might hear you.”
    â€œJesus!” Ed glared at her. “I’m standing, Heather!”
    â€œI
see
that,” she hissed back. “Now, would you please sit down?”
    All at once his legs gave out on him. He collapsed to his bed.