UnConventional Read online

  Not that I ever had the opportunity to give in to this…thing…before, but I always thought I’d be too scared or intimidated or nervous if I ever did meet someone like, well, Santiago. But rather than being a struggle, from that first moment on the plane, things have felt easy. Right.

  Ugh. I pull clothes out of the closet, praying to find something that isn’t too plain; after all, I only brought work attire, and I don’t exactly dress sexy for the office. How can Santiago and I be “right”? I pull on a pair of flattering slacks and my favorite sleeveless blouse, a pale green I’m told brings out my eyes.

  I could make a whole list of “wrong”:

  I’m married.

  I’m here for work.

  Santiago deserves someone better.

  It’s wrong to find Santiago’s wheelchair sexy.

  I don’t even know him, and I’m obsessing.

  I shake my hair, struggling to pull it into something halfway decent. How can that be fair? Why can’t I find Santiago especially attractive now that I know he’s not able-bodied? Too many of the heroines in the stories I read or watch love the hero in spite of his injury. How can it be wrong to want someone because of it?

  My stomach does a flip as I slip on my only pair of earrings—simple pearls, a gift from my mother. I’m a horrible person, a freak. Would I still find Santiago attractive without the chair? God, yes. That makes it okay, right? I press my cold palms to my warm cheeks. Di, relax, I tell myself, fixing my St. Anthony medal around my neck, leaving it uncharacteristically exposed. I try to imagine my mom’s voice saying, Take a deep breath.

  Maybe I can’t do this. Maybe I should have told him I don’t eat beignets. I mean, I don’t. I haven’t. Not since the December before my parents died. I could still cancel…

  But I don’t want to.

  I check my image again. I look decent, I guess. Tired, sad, bland, vaporous. I finger the gap on my left finger. Am I being not just unfaithful to Stephen, but deceptive to Santiago? Is it wrong that right now, in this moment, the idea of hurting Santiago—whom I just met—makes my heart ache more than betraying my husband of ten years?

  * * * *

  I’m nervous as I step off the elevator, dozens of conflicting thoughts buzzing around my head like warring wasps, coupled with the knowledge that I’m late. I’m usually a punctual person. The type of girl who shows up ten minutes early for everything. Probably hard to believe, considering I was the last to board the plane, and that by the time I get down to the lobby, it’s almost seven fifteen.

  But it took me nearly fifteen minutes to peel my feet from the carpet, to force myself to leave my room, to stride toward the lobby with a mixture of trepidation and fear.

  This hotel is huge, and the lobby is no exception. Large and spacious, flanked by the bank of elevators on one side and the bar and restaurant on the other. A large pathway leads back toward the convention area, with a set of escalators that take you to an underground walkway beneath the street, enabling guests to avoid the hazards of Poydras and Convention Center Boulevard.

  Between where I stand and the front desk, chairs are arranged in a circle, giving guests a place to lounge while waiting. The seats are spaced at intervals, in pairs, with gaps at all four compass points. A large table with a beautiful but domineering floral arrangement occupies the center.

  I approach cautiously; from what I can see, all the chairs are empty, nor do I spot the metallic red of Santiago’s wheelchair. I am fifteen—nearly twenty, now—minutes late. Perhaps he gave up on me? I continue approaching and spot a hint of brown hair through the foliage, a shoulder. Walking around the circle, I finally glimpse him, surprised to see him sitting in one of the chairs, reading a folded newspaper.

  He’s dressed simply: the same black shoes I noticed on the plane, khaki slacks, and a pale blue button-down, the sleeves rolled up, revealing his gorgeous forearms, a light dusting of dark hair against olive skin. But what draws my attention next is the pair of graphite gray crutches propped against the chair beside him, and my heart skips a beat. They’re unlike any pair of forearm crutches I’ve ever seen—obviously custom, with unique cuffs and ergonomic handles, their sleek sticks solid and smooth, unmarred by pins, capped by tips that aren’t your standard rubber. They look expensive. Every bit as sexy as his wheelchair, even if these are less flashy.

  Nervousness crashes over me suddenly, and I find myself unable to say even hello. He tosses the newspaper into the seat beside him and looks up. A smile tilts his cheeks, although it’s more reserved than his usual grin.

  “Already slipping into New Orleans time, huh?”

  My face flushes, and I stutter, trying to explain myself. How do I tell him I almost didn’t come without making him think I don’t like him? All I manage to do is look down at my clothes and mutter unintelligibly.

  “I’m teasing you.” His smile softens. “Let me guess: couldn’t decide what to wear?”

  I hate the way I flush so easily. I’m like a freaking chameleon who can turn only two colors: white and scarlet.

  He laughs, his full, genuine laugh, which eases some of my anxiety. “Relax: I have four sisters. I’ve never understood what it is about the female species that makes getting dressed such a complex ritual.” He glances at his watch. “We should get going. Once the streetcars get busy, they’ll never let me on.”

  I watch, trying not to gape, as he grabs the crutches, slipping his arms into each. I can see now they’re directional, with a unique platform angled for each forearm. My stomach does a little flip as he uses them to lever himself to his feet. He stands with practiced ease, but I can tell by the subtle crease of his brow it’s not as effortless as he makes it seem. I notice the unique forearm rests keep his arms at a softer angle than the expected nearly 180 degrees, minimizing the stress on his wrists and shoulders.

  I back up reflexively, surprised by his height—even though he couldn’t be much more than five-nine, after seeing him sitting all this time, it’s a little disorienting. My heart is rapping against my chest as if it were trying to escape my body, and I hope my stomach has calmed by the time we get to Café du Monde, because right now I’m not sure I could keep anything down.

  Sensing my nervousness, or perhaps simply used to people being awkward around him, he shifts his weight, tilts his head slightly with a subtle smile. “This is Rightie,” he says, indicating his left crutch, “and this is Leftie.” His smile grows along with mine, his right cheek dimpling endearingly.

  “You named your crutches?”

  He chuckles, shakes his head. “Nope. But it made you smile. Shall we?” He maneuvers toward the gap, then pauses to wait for me, looking back expectantly when he notices my hesitation. “You can walk beside me. I promise not to whack you.”

  My face heats, but he laughs. I swallow, trying to enjoy the experience. I’m walking, actually walking, beside a drop-dead sexy guy who uses forearm crutches. Any moment now, I’ll wake up back home in bed next to Stephen, frustrated and depressed. I guess I might as well enjoy the experience while it lasts.

  The Poydras streetcar stop is just outside the hotel entrance, so we exit together. It’s early, but a few people are flitting about, and I notice how many long looks—if not outright stares—he gets. Other than the crutches, which are obviously for balance, he walks well, I observe, his knees bending and unbending naturally, if a bit stiffly. It takes him a little extra effort to pick up his feet, and his hips dip slightly, alternating with each step. It’s subtle, but I think I could spend all day watching him. Right crutch, left leg, left crutch, right leg.

  I wonder why he needs the crutches, the chair. My mind is racing through possibilities as we reach the empty stop, shaded by a relatively new-looking canopy. The day is partly cloudy, the sun hidden from view, and coupled with the shadow of the shelter, it seems earlier than it actually is. Although it’s humid, it’s surprisingly pleasant for early June, especially after coming from scorching Houston.

  “I have a degenerative muscle di
sease,” he says as if reading my mind as we approach the tracks, the streetcar nowhere in sight.

  My mouth falls open of its own volition and closes only because his smile broadens and he lets out a small laugh.

  “It’s all right. The fact that you didn’t ask first thing shows surprising self-control.” His eyebrows furrow. “Or a serious lack of coffee. One of the two.” He flashes that smile again.

  My cheeks pink, and I tuck some hair behind my ear. “Oh, well, I…”

  “It’s okay. I’m used to it. Plenty of people don’t even know my name and they already want to know what’s wrong with me. My mom would tell you it’s that I’m thirty-six and unmarried. She has ten grandchildren, but the way she talks to me, you’d never know it.” His smile falters, and he takes the chance to head toward the edge of the platform, peering down the tracks in each direction. “Looks like we might be here awhile,” he says with a sigh. He turns. “If you don’t want to wait, I understand.”

  My eyebrows dip. I may be married, but this is totally fantasy come true: I can’t get over how hot his hands look, clutching the grips of his crutches, the subtle lean of his body as he shifts his weight onto them.

  “Are you kidding?” I say with a bit too much enthusiasm. “I mean, I don’t mind.”

  His smile returns. “Great. I hope I can make the wait worth it.”

  * * * *

  “I’m not saying Citizen Kane isn’t a historically significant film, but it’s not a movie I want to just casually watch.” Santiago hunches beside me on one of the benches, absently spinning one crutch. Apparently a disadvantage of my being late to meet him means a longer wait for the streetcar, and he decided to sit so he wouldn’t get tired.

  “So you’re saying art has to be entertaining? Shouldn’t it make you think?”

  He stops twirling his crutch abruptly. “The two don’t need to be mutually exclusive. Last Temptation is fantastic, but Life of Brian is just as insightful, and I’m willing to bet more people want to watch Monty Python over and over.” He smiles faintly, his right cheek dimpling. “What I’m saying is—”

  “‘Always look on the bright side of life’?” I sing. A grin blooms across my face, mirrored in his.

  “Exactly. Life is too short to be unhappy. You need to enjoy it.” He gestures with one crutch. “Hence, early morning beignets.”

  My smile dips to a frown. “Life isn’t all about happiness. If everyone just did what made them happy, the world would be a pretty chaotic place.”

  Santiago shrugs, slips on his crutches.

  “Lots of things can get in the way of happiness,” I say, staring straight ahead, not able to look at him. “Obligation, practicality, survival.”

  I hear the rumble of the streetcar before I see it and notice Santiago’s pushed to his feet. For a moment he looms over me.

  In a soft voice, he says, “Sometimes the only thing keeping you from happiness is yourself.”

  * * * *

  “So you should get on first,” Santiago says, bracing himself with one crutch, filling my hands with quarters. “Pay for both of us, then go ahead and take a seat. I won’t fall, but if I do, I’d prefer it not be on you.” He smiles, and the light catches his hair just right, pulling out his natural red highlights.

  With a rumbling clank, the streetcar arrives. The doors open, and, being early, no one gets off. As instructed, I hop on, depositing the coins in the receptacle near the driver. Then I hesitate, looking back at Santiago. He’s dropped his arms out of his crutches, but the cuffs, which open sideways, cling to his forearms. He has a hand on each metal support bar, ready to pull himself up and onto the first step, the one that folds out when the door opens.

  The driver scowls at him, speaking in a thick New Orleans accent. “Hey, now, I ain’t got no special accommodations for you. You oughta take the bus. They got one a dem lifts for people like you.”

  “She already paid for both of us,” he says simply, using his arms to pull one foot, then the other, onto the step.

  The driver sighs and gives me a look that should make my blood freeze and my heart stop, but he says nothing else. Santiago steadily works his way into the car, one foot and step at a time, the metal of his crutches clanging against the poles. The final step makes me nervous because of the position of the support poles relative to Santiago’s body, but he manages, and I hurry to sink into the first-row seat. The streetcar immediately lurches forward, but Santiago keeps one hand firm on a support pole, the other has a crutch planted to help brace himself.

  The car is empty, so there’s no one other than the driver to witness Santiago as he joins me in the seat, slipping off his crutches, standing them between his legs. He’s flushed, sweat beading on his forehead, but he’s beaming.

  “Yeah, not sure how much longer I’ll be able to do that,” he admits.

  I glance out the window, the ugly scenery of flood walls and train tracks passing by. “Then maybe you shouldn’t’ve wasted the effort on the Riverside streetcar. The St. Charles or Canal lines have much prettier views.”

  He scrunches up his face adorably, thinking. “Eh, I could manage to do that once or twice more. Maybe not today, though,” he says with a laugh.

  “I think you’ll find those drivers even less patient,” I say, leaning in, whispering. Our thighs touch, and a tingle courses through my body.

  “Then you’ll have to accompany me. You can use one of my crutches to threaten him with while I lug my lame ass up into the streetcar.”

  I burst out laughing and have to slap my hand over my mouth. Santiago joins me. We look at each other; his eyes sparkle. God, I want to kiss him so badly. I can’t be thinking any of this, I know, but I imagine what his lips will taste like.

  Sweet. Faintly of coffee.

  * * * *

  I walk beside Santiago, watching him carefully pick his way across the tracks, expertly using his crutches to compensate for the uneven ground. The sun’s come out stronger, and he’s slipped on a pair of sleek wraparound sunglasses to shield his eyes. I’m starting to wonder: is there anything about this man that isn’t sexy?

  We reach the gap in the flood wall, a gentle slope down to the parking lot, beyond which is the French Quarter, and Santiago pauses, hesitating, staring at the ground.

  “Tell me again why we didn’t get off at Toulouse?” I shield my eyes and look up at him, the line of his shoulders outlined by the sun.

  He sighs. “I…don’t do slopes well,” he admits as he cautiously eases down the slight dip, carefully placing his crutches. His knees seem less stable, bending when they should lock, staying locked when they should bend. His feet also seem to drag, his toes pointed downward with each stride. Stumbling would be easy; he has to make a concerted effort to lift his toes and brace himself with his crutches to keep his balance. He moves slowly and steadily, but it’s not the relatively easy, seamless movement of his usual walk.

  I remember now that the Toulouse stop has a long, steep hill leading down to the street, a difference of maybe ten or twelve feet. Watching Santiago slowly proceed down this small, gentle ramp, I understand why he chose to get off here instead.

  As we cross the parking lot and Santiago negotiates a second small slope, I wonder why he bothered with the streetcar at all. Surely it would have been easier to take a cab to Café du Monde?

  Again, as if sensing my thoughts, he says, once we’re on level ground, “It’ll all be worth it once I’m covered in powdered sugar.” He grins, shifts his weight, and points a crutch toward our left. “If memory serves, we go that way, right?”

  * * * *

  The Decatur Street Café du Monde is a tourist destination, kitty-corner to Jackson Square. Open twenty-four hours, seven days a week, the 250-year-old coffee stand is usually packed with tourists, the line sometimes stretching blocks during peak hours. Now, only a few tables are occupied, and Santiago and I sit in the shade of the large, iconic green awning, waiting for our order to arrive.

  “God, I love tablesi
de service,” he remarks, stretching his hands. His sunglasses perch on the top of his head.

  I nod. Carrying a tray must be impossible, or at least difficult for him when he’s not using his chair, I imagine. “So…” I begin, trying to formulate the question on my mind, willing my tongue to cooperate. My heart seems to have settled into a high-speed dance, and I’m sweating even though it’s not that hot.

  “Am I always this sexy? Yeah, pretty much.” He drops his hands and shrugs with a smirk.

  That pulls out a laugh, and I find myself relaxing. “Are you always such a dork?” I say teasingly, feeling my cheeks heat.

  He scratches the back of his head, then leans forward conspiratorially. “My sisters used to call me ‘Diego the Dork.’ I guess you can take the boy out of the dork, but not the dork out of the boy.”

  We laugh together. “That made no sense.”

  “It didn’t, did it?” His eyes meet mine for a long moment. “Seriously, you wanted to say something earlier.”

  He’s right, but I momentarily can’t recall. Then I spot his crutches, leaned against a vacant chair beside him, and remember. I get caught up in the joviality of the exchange, the words flowing from my mouth before I can stop myself.

  “Don’t tell me you pulled those out just to ride the streetcar,” I ask, even though they seem far too expensive, and he too experienced in using them, for that to be the case. I cover my mouth, trying to hide my face. Deep breath, Di.

  He follows my gaze to the crutches, lets out a laugh. “No. Well, for the convention, because there’s lots of walking, I usually stick to the chair so I don’t get tired. But normally, I walk. Gives me more flexibility. And it’s kind of ‘use it or lose it.’” He smiles a faint half grin. “Although I have no regrets, I hope you don’t mind catching a cab back.”

  I can’t help laughing; he’s sucked away my nervousness again. “Is that going on your tombstone? ‘I have no regrets: I took the streetcar’?” Then I turn scarlet as I realize how callous that could be. I know he mentioned his disease gets worse; what if I crossed the line, even if it wasn’t intentional? Oh God, I always told myself if I ever were lucky enough to meet a hot guy in a chair or who used crutches, I wouldn’t be awkward about his disability, and yet… “Sorry.” My hand flies to my medal, rubbing it between my fingers. “I’m trying not to be weird.”