She got all upset and squiffy, and she stormed out of my room. From that minute on, all I could think about was kissing her. When I finally got her to see me again, you better believe I didn’t waste any time.”
“Hmmmm.” I wheeled back a little, getting out of the way as my dad stood up to retrieve some more uncut pieces of wood. “Interesting. I can’t believe you never told me this.”
“You never asked,” he retorted. “And I’m kind of wondering why it came up right now. Is there a special someone in your life, son?” He cracked himself up saying the words, and I couldn’t help laughing, too, even as I rolled my eyes.
“No.” The moment I said that, an image of Zelda popped into my mind, the way she’d looked that last night, her blonde hair cascading over me as she bowed her body down to suck my dick.
“You didn’t bring girls home back when you were in high school, but I always got the feeling you weren’t lacking for female company.” He shot me a meaningful look, and I felt my face heat. Only my father would put it that way, would use that language to intimate that his son had been a man-whore back in the day.
“I wasn’t a good guy back then, Dad.” My voice was soft, tentative. “I wasn’t the kind of man you would’ve wanted me to be. I was arrogant and conceited—and I treated girls like shit. A lot of them, too. I wish I could go back and undo it—but I can’t.” I fell silent for a few beats, struggling to find the words. “I think maybe that’s why—this—the injury, the wheelchair—that’s why it happened to me. It’s a punishment because I was a dick.”
I expected him to rush to reassure me that I was wrong, but he didn’t speak right away. Instead, he lifted a plank and examined it closely, a small frown line forming between his brows.
“This is going to be the seat,” he announced absently. “I need to make sure it’s cut just right.” Glancing my way, he exhaled long. “Eli, son, you’re a smart kid. You’ve got your mother’s brains, as well as her looks. So I hope you can hear the idiocy of the statement you just made. You’re in a wheelchair because you took a bad, unfortunate hit on the football field. It’s nobody’s fault—not yours, not the kid who tackled you, not the coach, not your teammates for failing to block better for you. We talked about this right after it happened. It was an accident. It sure as hell doesn’t have anything to do with who you were or what you did. It’s not a consequence of sleeping around or of being a jerk to girls.” He paused, smiling a little. “Now, if a girl came up and slapped you across the face, or if, God forbid, you’d ended up with an STD, we’d be having a different conversation. But this isn’t your fault. And if you’ve internalized some need to beat yourself up—stop it. You’re better than that.”
I fiddled with the handle brake on my chair. “Maybe. Maybe the injury isn’t the penalty. But maybe I used up all my mojo with women back then, and now I’m never going to find another one to tolerate me.”
“If you’re talking about a relationship, Eli, it might take some doing. You’re going to have to think about how to treat a woman, about whether or not you’re ready to be in love with someone else. That means putting her feelings, her wants and needs, ahead of your own. It’s nothing you can take lightly.” He rested one hand on his hip and smirked at me. “If you’re only talking about sex, though, I don’t think it would take much to find your mojo. Stop moping, start smiling, and the women are going to come flocking.”
I thought about that. I pictured myself living that way again, hooking up with a different girl every night, sometimes more than one girl on the same night. It made me shudder, and it made me feel just a little nauseated.
“I don’t think I want that anymore,” I heard myself saying. “But I’m not sure I know any other way to relate to women, other than trying to get into their pants.”
“Be a friend, Eli.” Dad picked up a paper pattern and laid it carefully on the sheet of wood. “Start there. And if you’re lucky, that friendship