Chapter 1 Jocelyn
“Arm porn" was a trendy term I wouldn't mind getting rid of. It'd gotten a little out of hand if you asked me. Don't get me wrong, I could, objectively at least, understand why you'd turn your head at a completely impossible angle to catch a glimpse of a nice bicep, the kind that looked like someone shoved a softball under a guy's skin.
It was the double standard that irritated the shit out of me. Probably no woman in Green Valley has stronger arms than I did. Without breaking a sweat, I could probably crack a walnut with my forearms.
It was the happy by-product of:
1- Being confined to a wheelchair for the past seven years, thereby relying on my arms to power all my forward motion.
2- Discovering that baking was the second greatest love of my life after my dog, Nero.
Trust me, kneading bread was a better workout than just about anything.
But no one was waxing poetic about the rippling muscles in my forearms.
"Careful, the steam coming out of your ears might mess up your hair," my best friend, Levi, said from behind my chair.
He sounded bored, which didn't surprise me. He'd heard this rant a time or seven.
Immediately, my right hand came up to double-check that every blond curl was in the same place that it was when I left my house.
Whew. Not a corkscrew springing out anywhere. Very I'm ready to bake bread and muffins and cupcakes and cakes and all the delicious things. Or at least, that was how it felt when I studied my own reflection just before Levi picked me up.
"You see the issue, though, right? I've seen women practically wreck their cars when you roll up your sleeves."
Levi laughed easily. He did everything easily, the asshole. His hand landed on my shoulder in a condescending pat that had me rolling my eyes. "Of course, I see the issue, my little feminist warrior princess."
As he spoke, I aimed my wheelchair slightly to the right when a guy walking his dog refused to concede any space. He also refused to make eye contact.
I called those people The Blinders. For the most part, people's reactions to someone in a wheelchair—especially a young someone with incredibly sexy arms—fell into two main camps.
The Blinders and The Pitiers.
The Blinders pretended they couldn't see me, which I often attributed to the fact I made them uncomfortable. They could walk around just fine. Staring at a young woman stuck in a metal chair might force them to come to grips with their own mortality, their health … the things most people take for granted on a daily basis.
The man walking his dog might have looked at me if I was pre-TM Jocelyn. The fourteen-year-old me who could run like a freaking gazelle, who hopped, skipped, and jumped without a second thought until the day I couldn't anymore. Maybe he would've seen me and wondered why my hair looked like I stuck my finger in a light socket. But maybe he wouldn't have. Maybe he had blinders on for everyone around him. One of those people who did his thing, stayed in his lane, and didn't care how his presence affected those sharing space with him.
But it was just as likely that the blinders were because I was in a chair. If I'd been at my full standing height (somewhere around five feet ten), he might have shifted to give me more room with a polite smile on his face. I would've smiled back because if I was at my full standing height, it meant I could stand, and I probably would've taken that for granted too.
"Dick," Levi muttered, jogging forward so he could walk next to my chair instead of behind it.
"It's fine."
"It's not fine. He saw you. He could've moved his fat ass over six inches."
Because I couldn't reach his shoulders, given that his full standing height was around six feet one, I patted his leg condescendingly. "Aww, my little advocate warrior princess."
Levi sighed heavily because it was also not the first time, or seventh time, he'd been called that by me. He hated The Blinders. For me, it was a toss-up which was worse, depending on the day.
The Pitiers got this look in their eye that I roughly equated to, "Oh, you poor thing." They saw me in the chair and instantly made a lot of sweeping generalizations about what life must be like for me. When I took the time to think about what they saw when they looked at me, I imagined they saw a barren wasteland of not being able to have sex (false, not that anyone other than my vibrator knew that), never being able to have kids (also false, my doctor assured me), and always needing to ask for help to reach the top shelves at the grocery store (true, unfortunately).
Sometimes, The Pitiers spoke to me like I couldn't understand them. Like the chair somehow reflected a cognitive impairment as well. Only occasionally would I mess with them.
I never claimed to be a saint. Losing the function of your legs did not automatically make you a virtuous person. In fact, I'd met some real assholes who spent their lives on two wheels. Personally, I found myself somewhere in the middle. I just ... liked to keep some of my cynicism tightly wrapped unless I really trusted you.
Poor Levi.
He got the brunt of my opinions.
My mom probably would've listened if I unloaded them on her, but that never ended well.
"Who's training you?" Levi asked as we passed the entrance of the lodge. I could see the striped awning of Donner Bakery across the parking lot. Afternoon guests sat at the wrought-iron tables and chairs in front of the building, drinking sweet tea and eating whatever confections had been whipped up that day.
"I think it's Jennifer Winston, but I don't know for sure," I told him. My hands gripped the metal
