Lean On Me #Wattys2016

Part 9

Ashlyn

My heart is broken. Not tiny little crack broken, but oh my God it hurts broken. Watching Mateo fall cut me. I know how hard it is for a grown man to feel defeated even when he can hide it, but Mateo's defeat slapped down loudly and remained down longer thanks to his injury. My gut had me reaching for him, but thankfully I pulled back before he could see. I've been doing this work long enough to know that dwelling on it only makes it worse.

I covertly look at his legs while he finishes the run beside me. The fall didn't rip his pants, but there is a dark splotch of blood on his sock that keeps growing and I imagine it's from his skinned knees. I bet it's hard to go from active Marine to disabled, but he seems to be trying to figure out how to pull himself out of this injury and back into his normal life. I think sometimes that's where my patients set unrealistic expectations for themselves. He's never going to be the old Mateo, but this new one—he's all right too.

"I'm going to clean your scrapes," I say, taking his front steps two at a time while he lags behind. I do it so I'm not insulting him. If I stay back or not move to my full ability, he'll think I'm placating him. I want him to try and keep up with me.

"I'm fine."

I roll my eyes, "Of course you are." I huff a little, "You're also bleeding. You want to waste twenty minutes limping around to get the supplies and try to tend to it yourself?" I turn around and start to go back down the stairs. His hand reaches out and grips my arm. It's the first time he's intentionally touched me and I feel like my chest might explode. It's a beautiful, burning feeling right around my heart and although I can't see it, I'm guessing it would look like glitter in a windstorm—twinkling and brilliant.

"Fine. Come help." He lets go of my arm and continues his walk up the steps. I pass him and wait at the top.

"Why did you choose this building?" I ask as I for him to catch up.

"I needed to be close to the hospital. I'm not clear to drive yet." He steps past me to unlock his door and I feel the strange need to reach out and touch him again. I tangle my own fingers together to keep from making a move.

"You didn't need a place with this many stairs." I might be poking the bear at this point, but I just can't understand why he'd set himself up to be tortured every time he wants to leave his house.

His dark brown eyes stare back at me and I can tell the truth is right on the tip of his tongue. I'm practically on my toes, leaning closer to hear it. I hope he trusts me enough to share. "I'm fucking lucky to get the opportunity to go up and down these stairs. If pain in my leg is the worst thing that ever happens to me then I'm also a pretty fucking lucky guy in general." He says the words like he's thought about it a million times. I don't doubt for a minute he has. It must be lonely day after day for him, and I glance back down at the stairs that I'm sure look like an insurmountable climb every time his toes line up at the base of the first step. The wound in my heart rips open wider and now sorrow begins to seep from it, rushing into my lungs and gathering in my throat. I swallow it down.

Mateo swings the door open and gestures for me to enter. "I get to climb those stairs to get coffee or grab a beer. I get to walk down them to meet a friend and then rise with them on my way in for the night. At the top is my apartment perched above US soil. My buddy...he wasn't that lucky." His expression is unchanging.

"I'm sorry."

"So am I."

I step inside his apartment feeling like my heart weighs a million pounds. He tosses his keys from his pocket onto a small table. Then he points towards the hall to where I'm guessing his bathroom is. "All the medical stuff is under the sink. Red box." He waits for me to head towards the hall before he moves again. I find the box and pull it out, sorting through all the bandages. There are tons, evidence that his wounds used to require a great deal of dressing.

I'm holding a few items when I quietly immerge from the hall. He doesn't see me. His eyes are clamped closed and his mouth is pulled tight in a grimace. His hand rubs at his thigh. We are the same age, but when I look at him I see a life sped up by pain and loss. I know old soul refers to someone who is naturally easy going and wise, but it seems to fit here too. He's experienced so many things that take a lifetime to see—only he had it all in quick succession. It's so many losses all at once. His freedom, his friend, his mobility, his knee, and those are only the obvious things. Each like a rock tossed into a still pond, the force of the stone rippling effect after effect through his life.

I look down at the supplies and crinkle the packaging so that he's not surprised by my sudden appearance. When I lift my eyes his face is once again blank. The hand that had been kneading his injury is now fisted at his side. "This should take care of it," I announce cheerfully as I move in front of him. I roll up the legs of his pants to find his knees practically shredded. His right one is beginning to swell. He's not looking at the damage, he's look at me.

I clean them up carefully, applying a gauze pad and tape over the antibiotic cream. When I'm finished, he looks down at my work and chuckles. My brows pinch in question. "What?"

"I look like a child. I'm not bleeding to death, Ashlyn. Do we really need such a big bandage?" His smile is brilliant. It's the first full one I've seen since I've met him and it makes my own smile emerge. He's still laughing softly.

"You can never be too careful," I defend, but I laugh when my words only make his chuckle louder.

"No, I guess you can't." He folds his arms across his chest still looking in amusement at his two very bandaged knees.

"I'm a physical therapist, not a doctor." I toss a roll of gauze at him and he catches it in his fist without even looking. He definitely has the reflexes of a military man.

"Thank you for the run," he says sweetly with a genuine smile on his face.

"You're welcome," I answer proudly.

"And for the new knee pads," he tries not to laugh, but loses control. He's almost doubled over from the deep chuckles at my expense. I press my lips into a tight line and prepare to argue, but he's right. It looks ridiculous.

"Fuck off," I insist, and toss the roll of medical tape at him. He doesn't even try to catch it, only laughs harder at how ineffective my revenge was.

When he finally stops laughing, he looks up at me, "See you tomorrow?" And I can see the vulnerability in his expression. I make him sweat it out a minute before I answer. Turning to go I say over my shoulder, "Yes I'll see you tomorrow." Before I make it all the way to the door I shout back at him, "And you better be wearing the new knee pads I made you."

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