MARCH 7, 2016 / DELROV HOUSEHOLD

Asher swung his leg to the floor. The past few exceptionally cold days had made his left leg seize and twinge with cramps. Today was warmer, and he could happily report that his leg felt normal. The phantom pains were becoming less frequent. Asher was glad that his leg was acclimatizing to being exposed from the kneecap downwards. The sooner it became just an appendage rather than a wound, the sooner he could figure out how to resume racing.

Vasily greeted Asher as he entered the kitchen. "Morning. There's eggs and toast on the counter for you."

"Thanks," Asher leant on his crutch as he pulled open the cutlery drawer. "Did Vanessa stay the night?"

"No," Vasily said around a mouthful of his breakfast. "She drove home around ten yesterday."

Surprisingly, to both of them, Asher took the news rather well. In retrospect, he realised he had known his father had been falling in love again, if only subconsciously. He shaved more frequently, bought a new pinstriped shirt, which — knowing his minimalist lifestyle — was a big deal and started playing the radio in the morning again.

Before taking Vanessa on their first date, Vasily had asked Asher's permission. To anyone else, the gesture was odd, but Asher was touched. He understood what his father was really asking him. If this happened to be serious, could you accept another woman into this family?

"Yes," he found himself readily saying.

And it was a good thing. 

He wholeheartedly believed, now more than ever, that life was too short to be holding back from anything. Ekaterina was kind and resilient and just beautiful inside and out. He missed her dearly. But Asher believed that each person was created whole. They weren't carved with ridges and pockets that only one other soul could perfectly supplement. No, Asher knew that love could happen in many places at once, and each would be equally special. 

Beyond all his philosophical reasoning, it was just good to see Vasily happy and fresh-faced again.

"Do you need me to drive you to the physio on my way to work? We'd need to leave in about half an hour, though."

"No, it's alright," Asher took a seat opposite Vasily. "Ryanel is taking me."

"Okay. Good lad, him."

Asher nodded absentmindedly, buttering his toast. This would be the first time he and Ryanel met after the kiss. The kiss itself was not horrible. 

In fact, he could still summon up residual butterflies just by replaying the moment. Ryanel had frozen up for a few seconds. He'd pulled away ever so slightly to let a shaky breath out, which felt warm on Asher's lips, but they'd ended up kissing once more. Just a peck, but at least he wasn't rejected.

Afterwards, they'd messaged, but in the superficial way that young men on social media interact. It would be small talk — imagine endless questions structured "How was [the lecture/your day/the physio]?" — for a few minutes before one of them found a way to excuse themselves.

Mum needs help with the washing.

Dinner's ready.

I need to study.

Just going to do my physio exercises.

Whether he liked it or not, Asher had made his friendship incredibly awkward. They were stuck uncomfortably in limbo, where they couldn't go back to the way things were, nor could they traverse forward — whatever that meant — without airing the laundry. And given how confrontation-averse both men were, that might take yet another two weeks to happen.

After breakfast, a shower, dressing, Ryanel texted Asher that he was outside. Asher grabbed his keys and wallet, locking the door behind him. He lumbered down to the curb, giving Ryanel a smile. He couldn't tell if the smile that returned was sincere or not. Collapsing his crutch, Asher slid into the passenger seat.

"Hey."

"Hi."

"How is your morning going?" Asher cringed internally as he heard how contrived he sounded. It seemed the online facade was becoming more permanent.

"Alright," was the reply, followed by a prickly silence as Ryanel concentrated fiercely on driving.

Some time later, Ryanel spoke. "So what sort of things do you do in the physio appointments?"

"Hmm. He'll ask me how I'm feeling. How my exercises are going. Then he'll prod and poke my leg around the stub and ask me if this one hurts, if this one hurts. This time, I'll be getting a prosthetic fitted."

"That's great! Are you missing being mobile?"

"Yea, somewhat. I think I get around fine with the crutch. The most valuable thing a prosthetic would give me is the opportunity to return to motocross."

Asher didn't miss the way Ryanel's hand clenched the steering wheel tighter, his knuckles turning white.

"What? You don't want me getting one?"

"Of course I do," Ryanel paused as he made a left turn, "it's just what you want to do with it after."

"Racing? What's wrong with that?"

"Well, think about it. You have osteogenesis imperfecta. You haven't been training. The season's already started. And you're recovering from an amputation. I'm not saying it'll never happen, but you don't need to be so quick to jump back on the bike. Just really focus on rehabilitating yourself."

Eyes wide with disbelief, Asher stared at Ryanel. 

It was like he'd suddenly joined the masses of people who disapproved with him racing just because of his imperfecta. Granted, Ryanel was more concerned about his current injury, but the tone of voice was the same. He sounded like he was passively trying to prove him wrong. 

The same way Vasily had done at the start of his racing, with excuses, subtly condescending reasoning, trying to placate his anger as they both so delicately suggested he take his life's dream and shove it. 

"You know if I don't get back in this season, they won't look at me again. The tabloids are being melodramatic enough, everyone's scared of me racing," Asher clenched his jaw, taking a breath from his rapid-fire arguing. 

When he spoke again, he made sure to remain calm.

"But I'm not an invalid. I'm not anyone's responsibility. I'll sign any waivers they put in front of me. I'm not going to blame anyone if I get hurt, because I won't put myself in that position to begin with."

"You can't be sure of something like that, Asher. You can't be as cavalier with your safety as your colleagues."

The implication was clear. He couldn't act like his colleagues because he wasn't like them, deep down. Now that Ryanel had found out about his condition, his perception of him had changed slightly. Asher could see it. The careful driving. The parental advice. He'd become someone that needed extra care and attention. Someone weak.

He hated it.

"What would you have done in my shoes?" Asher asked accusingly. "If you'd grown up the way I did? Would you have stopped trying to play sports in primary school? You wouldn't have done something as cavalier as join a motorcycle club, right? Just be a timid child afraid of his next fracture—"

"—I never said that—"

"—then the timid child gets slammed by a drunk driver anyway! O Wise One, what would you do then?" Asher spat.

"I don't know."

"So quit telling me what's best for me. I'm trying to salvage whatever pieces of my old life make me happy. It's the only damn way I can even think of going on, so don't try to stop me."

Ryanel's mouth opened to interject before he bit down the words. He gritted his teeth and nodded, though every fibre of his being willed him to keep making Asher see reason.

The sign of the physiotherapy clinic drew closer, and Ryanel quickly parked alongside the curb. "Good luck," he said tersely.

As he exited, Asher tried to extend his crutch gracefully, though the leg caught in the doorway and had to be jostled out.

"Thanks for ride," he said hollowly, forcefully slamming the door shut.