The Realist by Abbie Zanders

Author:Abbie Zanders [Zanders, Abbie]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Abbie Zanders
Published: 2014-12-03T06:00:00+00:00

Chapter 6

Clarissa

I watched Travis as he stalked across the grass to the barn, a symphony of male movement my body wanted to dance to. What remained of the pack of shingles was slung casually over one shoulder, though I knew how heavy those things were. A hammer and a small crowbar dangled from the tool belt slung low on his hips, swaying with the movement of each confident step. A light sheen of sweat glistened over his bronzed, bare back and shoulders, making it impossible to turn away.

Travis Maxwell was a man who owned his body. He was comfortable in his own skin. I envied him that.

That was something I couldn’t relate to. I’d never been particularly happy with my body. I’d always been too short. Too fluffy. My boobs were too big, my hips too wide for my diminished height. These days, I wish I’d spent less time worrying about that and more time appreciating the fact that at least everything had worked well. Since the accident, I tried not to take anything for granted anymore.

Even simple things – standing for long periods of time, walking too far – could be difficult. Other things, like climbing or running, were next to impossible. Rather than feel sorry for myself, though, I said a prayer of thanks every night, because a bum leg was better than no leg, and I’d come damn close to losing mine.

Like most life-changing events, it wasn’t directly my fault. I was on my way home from my weekly trip to the local farmer’s market, a canvas bag in each hand filled with fresh produce. The market was only a couple of blocks from our house, and it had been such a beautiful day that I’d left the car in the garage and decided to walk instead. I was thinking about the recipe for herbed, roasted vegetables I wanted to try that night.

A car ran a red light while I was in the middle of the crosswalk. I never saw it coming.

I woke up in the hospital a couple of days later and found out what happened. Bottom line: the guy was drunk. Nearly eighty years old, he was already soused at ten o’clock in the morning. Wasn’t his first time, either. He’d had his license revoked and had seven prior “incidents”.

As part of his “punishment”, he came to see me in the hospital. The kicker? He was one of the nicest old men I’d ever met.

He was also the only visitor I had, except for the obligatory ones from my ex, Mark. Mark used the evening visiting hours wisely, though. While I stared dead-eyed at the tiny mounted television screen above me, he pulled out his laptop and caught up on the work he was missing “because of me”. I never quite figured that one out, since he hadn’t taken a single day off that I knew of. If he had, he sure as hell hadn’t spent it with me.

The nurses and doctors kept telling me I was lucky to be alive.

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