Page 19 of Frozen Flames

My sketch turns from a small rose to a woman holding the flower. With each line, I can’t make sense of my actions as I draw Claire’s upper body holding the rose between her fingers. My pencil focuses on her eyes before finishing off the natural pout of her lips.

I don’t know how long I keep at it.

For some reason, it brings me complete serenity.

Every feature of her face is perfection for an artist. I hate that I’m thinking these thoughts, though it doesn’t change the fact that I am.

Eventually, Claire knocks on my door, and I’m quick to close my sketchbook before she steps inside.

“We need to talk.” The conviction in her voice, and maybe the fact that I just spent time drawing her, is the only reason I don’t take forever to turn my chair around. “So here’s the thing…” She clears her throat, her eyes lasering in on mine. “I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to stay in your room all day.”

“Really?” I ask, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “I thought you had to feed me my meds and train with me?”

Her brow arches, and she tilts her head, crossing her lithe arms, bracing for war. I can already envision my next sketch of her.

God, what’s wrong with me?

“I’m serious, Harvey. It’s great to train, but you need more movements, andthatincludes doing things you used to do—just differently,” she says before sitting on my bed.

I want to tell her to get off—only Gemma sits there, careful not to break my spirit as she hangs out with me.

“So ride a Harley, jump out of a plane, and tattoo tits and thighs?” I snort when she blushes, shaking my head at her portrayed innocence.

“You can tattoo again when you’re ready. You mentioned that you draw, that’s something else. What about friends?”

I shrug. “I still talk to some of them.”

“You don’t hang out anymore?”

I sigh. Why is she asking me all these questions? Clearly, that’s not part of her job description.

“We game together,” I say, hoping to satisfy her curiosity. “That’s my way of connecting with them. I’m not about to go out with them every weekend.”

“Why not? You could…”

“Because I don’twantto. It doesn’t matter that I can—nobody wants to go clubbing in a wheelchair and have people move around to give you space or have drunk idiots trip all over you. Besides, most clubs are barely accessible anyway…”

“I see.” She takes a deep breath, like she hadn’t thought of that. “From now on, I’ll prepare daily activities for us. I don’t care if it’s playing Scrabble or going outside. I know it’s winter, but well…we’ll just have to be creative. What do you say?”

I want to warn her to butt out of my life.

That I don’t want to play Scrabble with her.

That we’ve already been doing other activities anyway.

That she doesn’t get how much of a pain using a wheelchair in the winter is—the water from the wheels flicks all over, and that’s without the cold-ass wheels.

Besides, she can get paid for scrolling through Instagram all day. Why is she even complaining?

But instead, I tell her, “Yeah, whatever.” Anything to get her out of my room. Also, if I’m being honest with myself, passing the time outside of my room with Claire will surely be a good distraction from Gemma’s absence.

“Alright. Since the weather’s horrible today, we can watch a movie.”

That’s how we end up in the living room. She encourages me to transfer to the couch as part of my “movement.” I often do, but some days like today, I don’t trust my legs to transfer as well when the butterflies are swimming away, numbing the active parts of my legs.

I do the transfer anyway, keeping my chair close to the couch.

“So what do you want to watch?” she asks, searching through Netflix with the remote as she sits on the other end of the couch.

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