2022 Watty Award Winner ✨
In which a blind girl and a disfigured army vet attempt to find love and belonging in a big bad world.
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Olivia Harris is blind, and that's just the way it is. Naviga...
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ROMANCE IS A bad idea.
Connor knows it is, but he finds himself thinking about her more than he should. He shouldn't be dragging her into his life when he's still just trying to keep his head above water—it's not going to end well for either of them.
But he thinks about her.
He thinks about her when he's sitting alone in front of the TV, and he thinks about her when he's laying in bed. He thinks about the things she's said to him, things about moving forward and carving space for himself in this loud, angry world. He thinks about the round sound of her laughter. Yesterday in the shower with his hand wrapped around himself, he thought about the creamy skin of her taut stomach.
Romance is a bad idea, and sex is probably a bad idea too.
He's medicated and traumatized and grieving and drowning, and he can barely care for himself, let alone open his arms to care for another.
But he thinks about her.
And then he thinks about his dead father, and Omar, and James.
James. Christ.
James used to suggest a lot of stupid shit, like the tattoos, and for some reason Connor had a hard time saying no. A couple years ago, when they were back in Rawlings on leave for Christmas, the two of them got a little drunk with a girl they knew from high-school. Dark lights, laughter, her coy hips twisting against them both beneath the writhing thump of the music, and then after. Connor remembers the wetness of her mouth and James' hand pressing into his shoulder.
Thursday. His shiny young therapist sits across from him, smiling her shiny young polite smile. He doesn't feel like smiling. He doesn't smile.
"So, Connor," she begins. Gentle and fragile, a tone that means he isn't gonna like where this is going. "I thought today we might discuss a bit about the friends you lost." She glances down at her notepad and then adds, for clarity, in case Connor wasn't fucking sure which friends she meant, "James and Omar, right?"
Everything inside him coils tight and cold.
He never told her who his friends were. She must've found them from the newspapers and the records. It feels like an invasion, a violation, hearing her say their names aloud.
His skin burns and itches, his ears ring, the room is too small, the walls are too close.
She must notice how rigid he's gone, because she tries to switch gears. "Or if you're not ready for that, maybe we can explore some healthy ways of coping with the grief you're experiencing."
His entire system is a cauldron of opioids and SSRIs and benzos. Healthy isn't on the top of his list.
She's good at filling up his stubborn silences. "For example, I'm sure you've visited their memorials to pay your respects. You could consider visiting with someone you're close to, maybe to share memories or stories. You might find some relief in opening up about it."
