ADDICTED

34

LEAH

"You don't have to get every door for me."

I looked down at James with pursed lips as I held the door from the garage open for him. He ignored my stare and rolled himself over the threshold and into the house. His arms bulged from the effort of wheeling around.

"You're in a wheelchair," I said. "Am I supposed to let you ram them all open?"

"Yes."

Rolling my eyes, I followed him into the kitchen. He stopped in front of the refrigerator and studied it.

"That's not going to—"

He cut me off by pulling one door open and getting it stuck on the foot pedal of his chair. I sighed.

After fidgeting with the door for several moments, he finally glanced back at me. I came forward, grabbed his wheelchair, and rolled him out of the door's radius.

"Will you pour me a glass of kombucha?" he asked resignedly.

It was so pitiful that I caught myself leaning down to kiss his temple. Fortunately, I realized my intention and righted myself.

"Of course," I told him.

While I poured him the juice and myself water, James rolled down the hallway. I could hear him tinkering around in the living room and then in the hallway again. For both of our sakes, I hoped he healed quickly.

I carried the glasses down the hall. He had ended up in his bedroom and now sat by the window, gazing out.

"Where do you want this?"

"My bedside is fine." He didn't pull away from the window.

After setting the glasses down on the little table by his bed, I leaned into the door. "They'll be here this afternoon to install handicap aids. Don't stress about this, okay? It's going to be just fine."

"You don't have to comfort me," he growled. "I'm just adjusting."

Pain lanced through my chest. "Okay. I'll be in the kitchen if you need me."

The hardwood felt especially cold under my feet as I walked back down the hall. I wasn't cut out for this. The aids would help—I would have to open doors and he would be able to get up the stairs without help, but he still couldn't cook for himself. He couldn't run or drive or probably bathe himself the first few times.

I'd never been a caretaker before. Foxy had been the only being to ever rely on me for things, and cats were pretty independent.

I found a pot and filled it with water. Setting it to boil, I retrieved a pack of dried noodles and chicken breasts from the fridge. The water heated slowly so I set up a dredging station with three bowls of the breasts, buttermilk, and flour. I mixed garlic and onion powder with bread crumbs and a dash of cayenne pepper into the flour. Now that the water was boiling, I dumped the noodles in and added a second pan of oil to the stove.

My hands moved automatically around the island, my mind on autopilot. I didn't want to think and cooking was my serenity. Learning to cook was the best decision I made during my post-trauma recovery, aside from the therapy itself.