answers for her. "I wish I could, but I don't remember anything about that day." I breathe deep and let it out slowly, feeling light-headed by the action. "Take care of yourself, Jordan. I'll call you in a few days. Give Max a hug for me."
I end the call before she can respond, berating myself for saying too much. I don't want Jordan to know I'm blind because the last thing I want from her is sympathy. What do I want from her? I don't allow my mind to answer. Being blind is one thing, but having Jordan Holloway know about it is quite another.
≈ ≈
Awash in conflicting thoughts about Jordan Holloway, I fail to hear the opening and closing of my hospital room door, until Kate's seductive voice stirs me from my reverie.
"I've got your final paperwork to sign that essentially makes you an out-patient at Criss Cole. Did they tell you that you're being awarded the Medal of Honor?"
I grimace, while pushing myself away from the window ledge, unseeing. "Doesn't matter."
"Oh it does," she says, touching my hand and placing a writing pen in it. "Sign here, just like we practiced."
"How do I know what I'm signing?"
"You can trust me."
I nod. Right now, Major Kate Richards, famed psychiatrist, is the only one I trust. She touches my hand, the signal we worked on a few days ago, indicating where I should be signing. I hear the shuffle of papers and wait for her next move. I could be signing my life away. But then, what is my life these days? Blackness swims at me.
"There. All done. You're officially no longer a patient of this hospital. You are officially an out-patient with Criss Cole in Austin, Texas. It's all arranged."
"I'm packed, ready to go. I guess my mom will be here soon enough to cart me home."
"There's been a change of plans," Kate says softly.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it's your last night in town. I thought I would cook you dinner. At my place. Your mom is meeting you in Austin tomorrow morning."
I swallow hard, knowing we may have just crossed over to a different threshold in defining our relationship. There are a lot of things to consider about this. I'm not looking for anything long term. I'm not looking for anything short-term. I''m not looking for anything because I can't fucking see .
My mind races with all these competing thoughts, but I remain silent, even as she takes one of my hands and clasps it between both of hers.
"Kate," I say with a sigh. "I don't. We can't…"
"Hey," she says. "We can just be friends. Okay?"
"Okay."
I close my eyes and just nod.
"I just thought, maybe, you'd like a home-cooked meal and I was going to take you to Criss Cole, myself, in the capacity as your friend, your companion for this road trip. Nothing more." The tremble in her voice betrays the casualness of her words. Her body shakes next to mine.
"Friends," I say to another woman for the second time today. "We can be friends."
I force myself to smile.
≈ ≈
A friendship with Kate lasts through the car ride to her apartment in Georgetown, through a home-cooked meal of Le Cordon Bleu, which I suspect she's gotten from a take-out restaurant. Even the Tiramisu for dessert is suspect. She finally admits she bought it at a famous deli just down the street. The woman is mixing French cuisine with Italian, but her secret is safe with me.
Ironically, she has a love of jazz music like one of my former girlfriends and I find myself wanting her even more by the time we start in on the second bottle of wine.
I'm out of practice, out of shape, out of options, even. I long to ask her what she looks like and in lieu of actually posing this question, I begin to explore her hair, her face, and her body with my hands. This brazen touching in search of answers leads to more.
I'm selfish. Alone. Blind. Vulnerable. Pick one. Part of me wants to have sex and just get it over with. All my insecurities about being blind and being able to still perform will finally be answered. Maybe, I'll resume my old life and fuck my
I end the call before she can respond, berating myself for saying too much. I don't want Jordan to know I'm blind because the last thing I want from her is sympathy. What do I want from her? I don't allow my mind to answer. Being blind is one thing, but having Jordan Holloway know about it is quite another.
≈ ≈
Awash in conflicting thoughts about Jordan Holloway, I fail to hear the opening and closing of my hospital room door, until Kate's seductive voice stirs me from my reverie.
"I've got your final paperwork to sign that essentially makes you an out-patient at Criss Cole. Did they tell you that you're being awarded the Medal of Honor?"
I grimace, while pushing myself away from the window ledge, unseeing. "Doesn't matter."
"Oh it does," she says, touching my hand and placing a writing pen in it. "Sign here, just like we practiced."
"How do I know what I'm signing?"
"You can trust me."
I nod. Right now, Major Kate Richards, famed psychiatrist, is the only one I trust. She touches my hand, the signal we worked on a few days ago, indicating where I should be signing. I hear the shuffle of papers and wait for her next move. I could be signing my life away. But then, what is my life these days? Blackness swims at me.
"There. All done. You're officially no longer a patient of this hospital. You are officially an out-patient with Criss Cole in Austin, Texas. It's all arranged."
"I'm packed, ready to go. I guess my mom will be here soon enough to cart me home."
"There's been a change of plans," Kate says softly.
"What do you mean?"
"Well, it's your last night in town. I thought I would cook you dinner. At my place. Your mom is meeting you in Austin tomorrow morning."
I swallow hard, knowing we may have just crossed over to a different threshold in defining our relationship. There are a lot of things to consider about this. I'm not looking for anything long term. I'm not looking for anything short-term. I''m not looking for anything because I can't fucking see .
My mind races with all these competing thoughts, but I remain silent, even as she takes one of my hands and clasps it between both of hers.
"Kate," I say with a sigh. "I don't. We can't…"
"Hey," she says. "We can just be friends. Okay?"
"Okay."
I close my eyes and just nod.
"I just thought, maybe, you'd like a home-cooked meal and I was going to take you to Criss Cole, myself, in the capacity as your friend, your companion for this road trip. Nothing more." The tremble in her voice betrays the casualness of her words. Her body shakes next to mine.
"Friends," I say to another woman for the second time today. "We can be friends."
I force myself to smile.
≈ ≈
A friendship with Kate lasts through the car ride to her apartment in Georgetown, through a home-cooked meal of Le Cordon Bleu, which I suspect she's gotten from a take-out restaurant. Even the Tiramisu for dessert is suspect. She finally admits she bought it at a famous deli just down the street. The woman is mixing French cuisine with Italian, but her secret is safe with me.
Ironically, she has a love of jazz music like one of my former girlfriends and I find myself wanting her even more by the time we start in on the second bottle of wine.
I'm out of practice, out of shape, out of options, even. I long to ask her what she looks like and in lieu of actually posing this question, I begin to explore her hair, her face, and her body with my hands. This brazen touching in search of answers leads to more.
I'm selfish. Alone. Blind. Vulnerable. Pick one. Part of me wants to have sex and just get it over with. All my insecurities about being blind and being able to still perform will finally be answered. Maybe, I'll resume my old life and fuck my
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