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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CONNOR CAN STILL sense the cool pressure of her fingers, smooth against the warped flesh.
No one's touched him there, bare fingertips, no latex, gentle and fluttery like that, not even his mother. He wanted to shrivel away, except he found himself softening, the blank blue of her clear gaze washing across him, whole and unblinking. Her hand saw him in a different way, a way that was closer than anyone else has dared to get.
It hurt beneath the ribs, and her smile sparkled.
He could feel his insides melting, soppy and warm, and they still haven't hardened back to their usual shape.
And he won't admit it to his pain-management doc, but he forgot about the pain, forgot about the Vicodin, until he dropped her back outside her house and watched her disappear through the door.
The child who took a tumble. Connor's first-aid training kicked into gear, his hands skimming for fractures or tears. It's been a while since he felt useful like that, but even then, he was something other than a human being, something other than a helping hand. That kid was just being a kid, but full-grown adults are often no better.
There was a reason he didn't insist on walking the kids home. It's either pity or suspicion or discomfort when people look at him, sometimes all of the above.
Except Olivia. Olivia doesn't seem to pity him one inch.
Does your penis work? Because if so, I don't see the problem. He lets out a bark of laughter at the memory and buries his face into his pillow, his skin crawling with heat.
She smells clean, like soap and wildflowers.
She sat beside him on the bench. Her slim, round thigh pressed up against him, and he felt things he hasn't felt in a long fucking time.
He likes spending time with her. The enclosed walls of his apartment used to feel safe, a barrier between him and a world that seems to have no place for him. But these days, he feels trapped indoors, bored and wired.
Her life is vibrant. She has friends, she's close with her parents, she's starting grad school in the fall.
He's been frozen in place for months, alone. Maybe it doesn't have to stay that way.
On Thursday, his therapist gave him homework for the week. Reach out to one person he knew from before Iraq, a colleague, or a friend from high-school. One conversation, the shrink said. Or maybe a drink, if he's so inclined.
