We also ran a 10K together a few months before he was paralyzed. That was the ultimate competition. We were neck and neck the whole time, but I pulled ahead at the end and bested him.
“You wanker,” he’d said, panting and out of breath at the finish line. But he had a wicked grin on his face, and for a fleeting second, I wondered if he’d let me win for some reason. I’d pushed the thought out of my head, though, preferring to believe I’d won on my own.
Later, when he was in his wheelchair, his legs unable to work, his arms nearly useless, too, he’d said, “You know I let you win the London 10,000.”
“You did not,” I told him.
“I so did. It was easy. Right there at the end? You remember?”
“You can’t accept that I beat you fair and square,” I’d told him as I heated some soup for his lunch at his flat in London.
“You can’t accept that you were beaten by a cripple.”
I spun around. My jaw was set. My shoulders were tight. “Don’t say that word. Ever.”
He rolled his eyes. He was quite good at that. “I’ve accepted it. You should, too,” he said. It had been one year since he was struck by a drunk driver while heading home from a night out with friends.
“Even if you’ve accepted it, I don’t want you using that word. Also,” I said as I turned back to the stove, “you ought to accept that you had the full use of your legs for the London 10,000, and I still beat you.” I smirked, and he promptly tried to ram his wheelchair into me.
He was unsuccessful. “We’ll race again. I’ll beat you this time just to prove it. Even in a chair.”
“You’re on.”
As I navigate an uneven patch of sidewalk on my way to meet Christian, I can’t help but think Ethan would have found a way to race again. I also can’t help but think how lucky I am to be able to easily manage the streets of Paris, even when the sidewalks turn cobbled, even when the street corners are so narrow they’d never be able to accommodate a motorized chair like his.
Some days, I’m acutely aware that everything I can do with ease, including the most basic physical accomplishment of walking, are things my brother was unable to do for the last three years.
I can’t take a second of my life for granted.
Even if that means going out with friends on a Friday night. Life is for the living, Ethan said one evening when he was too sick from an infection to make it out of his house. Don’t stay home. Get out. Enjoy it. Enjoy it extra for both of us.
“I will,” I whisper as I walk, talking to a ghost. “I will.”
Then, I do my best to shove off the thoughts, focusing on the here and now.
When I reach the bar, I find Christian already draining a glass of beer. He’s shouting at the TV—a ref just called a penalty against the Danish team, a quick glance at the screen tells me.
“Did you see that? That’s so bloody ridiculous,” he says, gesturing wildly to the TV.
“Yeah, your team deserved it.”
“No way. The refs all have it against us.”
I laugh as I grab a stool. “That’s it. No one likes the Danes except, you know, everyone.”
He flashes a smile, his teeth gleaming white. “It’s because we’re so good-looking. Tall, broad, strapping.”
“And humble, too. Don’t forget that.”
When the bartender comes by, I order a pint and drum my fingers along the bar as I wait.
The game goes to a commercial, and Christian pulls his gaze from the set. “So, you’re stuck here in this shitty city with us riffraff for another few months.”
“Yeah, Paris is awful.”
He flashes a smile. He loves Paris. He once told me his dream job was to become a kept man of some gorgeous French woman. Preferably, she’d be a few years older. Younger women don’t hold his attention. A woman a few years older? That sparks his interest. And ideally, he’d service her needs every night and stroll along the river every day, he’s said. He hasn’t found her yet, but I do admire his dedication to the dream.
“How are you handling it?” he asks, his tone a touch more serious.
“It’s not too bad. It’s only three months. Especially since the client is a fun one.”
Christian arches a brow. “Fun? As in female?” He lets the last word linger, like it has more than two syllables.
I laugh. “Did I say the client was female?”
“No, but I highly doubt you’d say a male client was fun. You want to bang her, don’t you?”
It’s like he can read my mind. “No,” I say, with denial operating at full blast in me.
“Liar.”
Thankfully, the bartender arrives with my beer, giving me a temporary reprieve. “Thanks, man,” I say, then slap a few euros on the bar. The bartender nods and drops them in the till.
After a swallow, Christian stares at me. “Waiting.”
“What are you waiting for?”
He smacks my shoulder. “Just admit it. You said she’s fun. Therefore, you fancy her,” he says, adopting a singsong teenage girl tone.
“Fancy is so snooty. You can just say ‘I have the hots for her.’”
He points his finger at me. “You admitted it. I knew it.”
“Bastard,” I mutter.
“So you fancy her. What’s she like?”
An image of Joy pops into my brain. Curvy, clever, witty Joy. Long legs, fantastic hair, lush lips. A sense of humor that goes on for days. A smile like sunshine. Not to mention a certain zest for life I haven’t quite experienced before. From the pink door, to the terrace, to her boldness in asking for contact lens solution and croissants, she’s something else.
“She’s fun and smart and brainy and a little crazy,” I say,
