"Yeah. You're competitive. If you don't like feeling that way, then I have no doubt you'll work as hard as I ask to get you to the point where you don't feel like a failure." He stopped and leaned up against a desk. "Look, your walk may never be smooth, Joss. I won't bullshit you there. You need to re-frame the way you look at what you can accomplish."
With the side of my file, he tapped my biceps. "I see those muscles, and I can guarantee you've worked your ass off to get them, right?"
I lifted my chin. "Yes, I have."
"Good. Then let's get working on the rest of you, okay?" There was a walker about six feet behind him, and when he gave it a quick look, I knew what he wanted. "Show me what you've got, and we'll go from there."
When I started to wheel forward, he shook his head. I grumbled a really naughty word under my breath and locked my chair. He smothered his smile at my whispered expletive.
My butterflies were long gone, no matter how much he looked like Brad Pitt because I was too busy swallowing down the vain part of me that didn't want to stumble in front of this person. No one told you that your pride tasted like rotten acid going back down.
Quietly, Andrew sat back and watched my gait as I pushed up from my chair, braced my feet on the floor and made five halting, unsteady steps to the walker. I curled my hands around the handles and turned in his direction.
"Good." He walked to the other side of the room and motioned for me to follow, turning around to study my movements as I did. "Let's get to work, Miss Abernathy."
The sweat on my back was finally cooling as I drove back into Green Valley. Get to work, indeed. My legs hurt. And my back hurt. And my arms. The thought of going home, and how I'd never be able to talk to my mom about this without her getting that puckered expression on her face, like she'd just sucked on a lemon felt unbearable.
Are you sure that's a good idea? I'd hate for you to get your hopes up and then not have it work out. You're so good in that chair, sweetie.
I could hear the words clear as a bell. She’d said them years ago when I first told her I wanted to start working on walking sporadically. She'd never said them again, but no matter how hard I tried, I couldn't scrub them from my brain.
Without making the decision to, my car pointed itself to Levi's. When I pulled into the driveway, his big black truck wasn't there, so I parked closer to the main house. The Buchanans had put a ramp in the garage, and no, I did not take for granted how amazing it was that my best friend's family loved me so much that they modified their house to make it easier for me to be there.
After I parked and got my chair out, I pushed up the ramp in the garage and used my left hand to open the door into the mud room.
"Anyone home?"
"In here, sweetie," Mrs. Buchanan called from the kitchen. "Perfect timing."
"Yeah?"
She was at the large island, glaring at her stand mixer like it had sinned against her.
I smiled. "What's wrong?"
"The frosting is too loose, and I can't figure out why."
Leaning up so I could see what she was making, I nodded. "Mr. B's strawberry cake? I didn't miss his birthday, did I?"
Absently, she patted my shoulder. "Oh, honey, you didn't miss it. I just wanted to surprise him is all. He's been so busy at work."
I opened up the drawer to my right and grabbed a spoon, then reached over to scoop some of the frosting from the bowl. "'S'good. But do you normally put diced strawberries in the frosting? I thought you only put them between the layers."
Her eyes, the same shade as Levi's, lit with understanding. "You know, you're right. I don't normally put them in there, do I? Lord, I'm losing my mind. I think I'm going senile, Joss."
"No, you're not." I laughed. "But that would probably do it. Not much you can do about getting rid of the moisture in the berries."
With a shake of her head, she opened up the garbage and dumped the frosting. "Well, if this is any indication, I'd better practice the cake Sylvia wanted me to make for