UnConventional Page 3

  I rush toward the exit, only pausing to signal to Melanie I’m leaving, and don’t look back.

  * * * *

  The entire elevator ride up to my room, all I can think about is how I’ve cheated on my husband. It’s a sin to lust in your heart, even if you don’t act on it, right? I imagined, wished to be kissing Santiago, a man I just met, when I have Stephen at home. Stephen, who’s always taken care of me, who rescued me when I was nineteen and has provided for me ever since.

  I pull my necklace out of my shirt and finger the St. Anthony medal, an action I’ve done so much over the past decade I’ve worn off the inscription. But I still remember it: So you can always find your way. I bite my lip, gripping the medal tightly, stifling tears that hover on the periphery of my vision.

  I was a freshman in college. Just started my second semester when it happened. It was Mardi Gras season, and my parents had gone to a party. I’d been invited, but now that I was in college had decided I needed to attempt some shred of independence, so I hitched along with some of the girls from my dorm and went to the parades.

  I still remember—it was late, I was drunk, and so were my dorm mates—and the streetcar had stopped running, so we were walking toward one of the frat houses not too far from the parade route, hoping to join the after-party. My cell phone rang. It was the first one I owned, something my parents had insisted on when they’d relented and let me move into the dorms instead of living at home. Not everyone had mobile phones back then, so I felt privileged. I hardly used it and rarely gave out the number, so I was perplexed as to who’d be calling me so late. Maybe my parents to check that I’d gotten back from the parade okay?

  I know it sounds melodramatic, but my entire world changed in that instant. The voice on the other line reached me in fragments. A car accident. Just off the Crescent City Connection, near Tchoupitoulas. My parents. Killed instantly.

  I remember sinking to my knees—right there on the grass of the neutral ground—discarded shards of plastic beads, cups, broken coins parade goers had missed all digging into my flesh. I couldn’t even cry. Maybe because of the alcohol, but I think it was more the shock, as if my heart had been suddenly and painfully ripped from my body. Although a few of the girls stopped to check on me, it was like I’d stepped into some strange parallel universe where I was trapped, alone and isolated.

  I’m embarrassed to admit I spent the first couple days and nights after that horrific call drenched in drink and denial. I skipped class and spent my nights in whatever bar I wandered into first, staying until I ran out of cash for drinks, dragging myself back home—instead of to my dorm—at five or six in the morning. I’d climb into my parents’ bed, inhaling their lingering scent, and cry until I passed out, sleeping off the alcohol and pain.

  I had no other family, no siblings, nothing. My mother had been the guiding force in my life, and suddenly she was gone. It was easier to run from my new reality, to walk, hungover, trancelike, through the now empty rooms of the small shotgun in which I’d grown up than to face responsibilities. School. Bills. Funeral arrangements.

  Two days after the call, I sat at the counter in a bar not far from the parade route. Packed with college kids, tourists, and the occasional local, partying hard long after the last float had rolled off into the night. I’d gotten there early, using the last of my textbook money, not caring if I passed out at the bar and got hauled away to the drunk tank. At least I thought I didn’t care what happened to me. I was drunk enough to have my mind and reflexes dimmed, but not so drunk I couldn’t say no.

  He wasn’t tall—probably only five-seven—but broad-shouldered with thick biceps and bulging pecs that suggested he spent most of his free time on a weight bench. He had his dirty-brown hair cut long, lying against his shoulders, making a slight S shape along the side of his face. At first he was charming, and I was grateful for the distraction, for getting a couple shots paid for out of someone else’s pocket. But then it turned south—fast. He grabbed me, attempted to kiss me, tried to pull me with him, off the bar stool.

  “I’ve got this great place in the Quarter. Come on. I’ll take you there, babe,” he said, flashing a grin that revealed the slightly yellowed teeth of a chain-smoker.

  “No,” I said, struggling to push him away, but my muscles wouldn’t coordinate, and he was strong—much stronger than my petite self. I felt like a rag doll in his arms, and my struggle seemed so futile I was ready to yield to him, letting myself go weak under his grip, when an arm pressed between us.

  “Get your hands off my girlfriend.” The voice was very deep.

  I remember trying to get my head to move, my eyes to focus, but it was like I was fainting, maybe from the alcohol, maybe from the stress, I don’t know. But soon I found my arms had been freed and another set of hands were on me, supporting me, pressing my body against his. He was tall—very tall, my head resting against the edge of his ribs—and thin. He smelled faintly of chemicals, like my high-school science lab.

  The blond sized the tall, deep-voiced stranger up. “She was flirting with me,” he said, taking a step forward. A challenge.

  The stranger said nothing, but he held his ground, squaring his shoulders. He was enormous. Basketball-player tall. Towering at least a foot over Blondie, and clearly not intimidated.

  A moment of hesitation passed over the blond’s face before he finally decided to count his losses. “Sorry, man.” My eyes were shut now, but I could hear his reply was more an acquiescence than an apology. Still, he backed off, fading into the rush of voices, clink of glasses, and music.

  “Are you okay?” The deep voice again. He placed me on the bar stool, offered me a glass of water.

  I sipped it carefully, feeling sick, finally managing to look at him. He clearly wasn’t one of the college crowd, his medium-brown hair cut short and parted on one side, yet slightly mussed. His glasses perched on the end of his nose—a rectangular tortoiseshell frame that managed to look both cute and nerdy. A grad student, maybe; he was at least ten years older than me.

  “I don’t know,” I finally managed to say.

  He sighed, drummed his fingers on the bar, as if thinking what to do next. “Do you have someone I can call?”

  I burst into tears, leaning my head against his chest. He—hesitantly—embraced me, patted my back.

  We stayed like that a moment, until I finally got the strength to look up at him. His gray eyes were soft, his thin lips pursed together, his glasses askew. “At least let me take you somewhere, make sure you’re all right.”

  He offered his hand, and I slipped mine into his, my palm lost in his grip as he helped me off the stool.

  “I’m Stephen,” he said. “I’ll take care of you.”

  And he did. Stephen’s logical, clear head helped me through everything surrounding my parents’ deaths. The funeral, listing the house, packing up and selling the belongings and furniture I couldn’t keep. Made me realize life goes on.

  For the last ten years, Stephen has kept his promise, at least on the surface. We have a nice house, a quiet life; I don’t need to work. But lately—this year, especially—I’ve realized how much I still miss my mom, even after a decade. Stephen’s good with managing bills and such, but when it comes to truly taking care of me…

  Melanie and I have always joked about the convention sluts. Women so unhappy in their marriages that they come to a convention like this just to have random hookups, only to return home at the end of the week to their husbands, who have no idea that their wives secretly hate them and fantasize about men they barely know while their eyes are closed during sex.

  And now I’m becoming one of them.

  Chapter Three

  I wake up a little after my normal time—4:30—feeling drained, both emotionally and physically. I managed a couple thousand words before finally crawling into bed last night, but I’m tapped. My body, used to its early-morning wake up (in order to beat Houston’s horrendous traffic every day) refuses to submit to more sleep, so I d
rag myself to the dresser and slip on my workout clothes. I pause to glance at my reflection in the mirror, sighing at the mess of my hair: a tangled, frizzy disaster. I mold it into a bun and secure it with a hair tie. How many people will be using the hotel gym before five in the morning the first day of the convention, anyway?

  I grab my earbuds, phone, and key and dash out the door. The hotel is quiet; not even the maid staff is up this early, or if they are, they’re out of sight, perhaps preparing their carts for the day ahead.

  I follow the signs to the gym, which is on the third floor, apparently above the swimming pool. As I ride the elevator down, a part of me regrets not bringing a suit, not that I love to show off my body. I may be petite, but I have a woman’s curves: big hips, narrow waist, and moderate but full breasts. Although I’m no pig, if I didn’t exercise every day before work, I could easily cross the line from womanly to fat.

  The elevator bell sounds. The doors open, a sign opposite immediately announcing the gym is to the left, with more exercise facilities to the right. This hotel is so huge you need a GPS to find your way around it. The concierge didn’t think that was funny when I suggested it.

  As soon as I step out of the elevators, I can see the gym. Its big glass doors and walls offer little shelter. Unless you’ve managed to snag one of the machines toward the back center, in which you’re offered some protection from judgmental passersby. Of course, because of the large windows overlooking the pool, you’re likely to be seen from below or the side if not in front. Great.

  I stare at the large empty room for a moment, the machines still. A row of flat-screen TVs hang from the ceiling, all tuned to a news network. Either they’re muted, or the glass is soundproofed enough to shield me from their assault. A fleeting thought of escape passes through my mind. It wouldn’t kill me to skip one workout, would it? This is supposed to be a kind of working vacation, and I’d promised myself, as part of “Operation Thirty,” that I’d try to let my hair down, live a little. I never sleep in.

  Because I usually can’t.

  I swallow my pride and open the door, grateful the TVs are silenced, closed-captioning scrolling across the screen. The beautiful announcer—yes, I refuse to call the talking heads who read the news reporters—is doing a story about a two-faced goat. Or two heads. Something like that. If you think twenty-four-hour news channels are uninteresting during prime time, try watching them at five in the morning.

  The gym is completely empty, which is a small relief, so I pick an elliptical on the edge of one row, slip on my headphones, start my favorite workout playlist, and secure my phone to my arm.

  Although listening to punk always makes me feel old, there’s just something so awesome about the sound—the whiny, inarticulate voices, the upbeat tempos even when the songs are sad—that I love. Especially for exercising.

  Joan Jett’s cover of The Mary Tyler Moore theme song, “Love Is All Around,” blasts out of my earbuds as I pump my arms and legs, working off the four cocktails I had last night. I’m in the zone, singing to myself, when I glance up at the TVs, and in the reflection, I can just make out the doors behind me closing. Someone else is here. Would it be weird for me to slow down to try to see who it is? Finally, I settle for a quick glance over my shoulder.

  I’ve missed them, so I ease my pace subtly, then attempt a second, sideways peek. My heart skips a beat. Not because I almost lose my momentum and stumble, but because I spy an empty wheelchair. The user is nowhere to be seen, obviously hidden by the rows of machines. They’re probably using the weights, and although I catch only a few glimpses at a time, I pray it’s a man. Maybe I can get a good view of him when I finish my workout. I could start to walk to the door, then act like I forgot something, giving me a chance to check him out.

  Although I can’t explain it, I’ve always found guys in chairs attractive; braces and forearm crutches are even better. It’s something I’ve never told anyone, especially Stephen. But whenever I spot a cute guy remotely my age in a wheelchair, or the even rarer sight of a guy with forearm crutches, my stomach flutters; my heart beats faster. I almost forget about my music, stealing glances at the chair and imagining what its owner will look like. Is he tall? Short? Light- or dark-skinned? Blond or brunet? The chair itself is a nice one, its frame a dark red like an expensive sports car. Two bars spring out of the frame, leading down in a trapezoid, meeting at the footrest, a black plate ribbed with chrome and flanked by two clear casters. The wheels are black, with matching push rims, the spokes like the blades of a fan. This is the type of a chair owned by a guy who takes risks, who probably drives a fast, sexy car and thinks the speed limit is more of a suggestion than a law.

  Although I want to keep leering, hoping for even a reflection of the chair’s owner, I decide I need to focus and finish my workout. The All-American Rejects’ “I Wanna” starts up; it’s one of my favorite workout songs because it’s peppy and fun and really singable, so I momentarily forget myself, belting out the lyrics as I jog.

  The song has only just finished, the first few notes of the next beginning to play, when I think I see something in my peripheral vision. I look over, and the guy in the chair is there, beside me, watching me. I can’t get a good look at him, but it seems as if he’s trying to get my attention, so I slow my run to a walk, finally coming to a stop, slipping my earbuds out of my ears. My heart sinks into my stomach, the man in front of me too painfully, impossibly good to be true.

  He’s everything I hoped and imagined he would be.

  And more.

  “Santiago?”

  Suddenly, all the little details I noticed on the plane fall into place. His legs, so straight and still, why the flight attendant kept asking if he needed anything, the way he shifted his weight, being last to disembark. Last night, his chair must have been hidden by the gaudy tablecloth. And I did rush out awfully quick. That would explain why he didn’t come to me, perched several steps up with Melanie.

  “Uh, you can touch me if you want, but can I at least buy you breakfast first?” He grins.

  It takes me a moment; he’s referring to the lyrics I was just singing out loud. My entire body turns scarlet. Oh. “You…heard me?”

  “I think they may have heard you in Jackson Square. But it’s okay. You’re cute enough to pull it off.”

  My blush deepens; I have to grip the machine to stay upright.

  He laughs that incredible, rich laugh of his. He’s wearing a faded tee and loose-fitting basketball shorts that reveal his surprisingly meaty calves, covered in a light layer of dark hair that makes me want to reach out and touch them. Oh God. Now, more than ever, I can’t think about touching him.

  “Sorry. Embarrassing you: probably not the best pickup strategy.” He takes a breath. “Let’s try this again. I’m Santiago. This is my chair. I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced.” He pauses, his hands on his push rims, smiling, giving me a chance to take him—and the chair—in, not realizing I already have. “I promise I only joke inappropriately fifty percent of the time. It’s hard to be witty when I’m asleep.”

  I laugh. My nervousness evaporates.

  “Can I treat you to beignets? Maybe you can tell me about that novel you’re writing?”

  “It might take more than doughnuts to bribe me into talking about that.” The flirtation catches me by surprise, but Santiago’s eyes sparkle.

  He grins. “I still have a few sets, and then I’m going to swim for a bit, but is it okay if I meet you in the front lobby at…” He checks his watch. “Seven?”

  I feel as if I’m vibrating with excitement, but Santiago doesn’t look at me oddly, so I know the tremor is an illusion. Not trusting my voice, I manage a nod.

  He beams. Truly. I mean, light shines out of him and makes the room brighter. His hands on his rims, he’s about to turn around when he pauses. “Actually…I’ve been to New Orleans dozens of times, and I’ve never taken the streetcar.” A part of me loves how he says the city name like a native would—not quite
the stereotypic single-syllable N’awlins, but close. Not the three syllables of true outsiders, nor the weird four syllables of the news broadcasters. It’s closer to one-and-half syllables, and it reminds me of home. But, surprisingly, rather than make me sad, it pulls a smile onto my face. “Let’s do that. There’s a stop right outside the lobby, if memory serves. That’ll take us to Café du Monde.”

  My face scrunches up in confusion. “You know they aren’t…accessible, right?”

  One cheek tilts up in a slim smile. “Yeah. That’s kinda why I want to do it now, before I can’t get in one anymore. Well, I’ll let you get back to it,” he says with a wink.

  I watch him turn, squeezing around the machines, grasping the equipment with his hands to pull himself through the tight spaces. I notice the back of his chair has two little black loops mounted to it. I wonder what they’re for. Some kind of luggage rack? And how is he going to manage the streetcar? I suppose I’ll find out.

  I force myself to look away, back at the display on the elliptical, wondering if it’s dangerous to try to continue my workout when my heart’s already racing.

  Chapter Four

  I step out of the shower and stare at myself in the mirror, wondering what Santiago sees. I certainly know what I see in him: a man to whom I already felt an intense attraction, who could easily have caused any woman to swoon. Then, like cold water splashed in my face, he shocks me this morning with a sleek set of wheels.

  My whole life, I’ve felt my heart speed up at the glimpse of a guy in a chair, devoured any fiction I could with a “wounded hero,” even read outside my normal genre taste if it meant a sexy wheeler. Somehow, though, I’ve always felt there was something wrong with me. I was too afraid to tell my mother—from whom I otherwise kept no secrets—worried what she’d think of me if she knew.