Page 52 of Star-Crossed
“Wait,” he said. “Let’s get in.”
He’d put this off long enough.
Cy bent at the waist to peel his jeans over his knees, revealing the black polymer cuff swallowing up his left calf.
Lyra’s gaze moved over it as if it were just another part of him, neither pitying nor perfunctory. As if it didn’t define him in any way. As if what she’d felt in the greenhouse was no more affected by this discovery than it would be by a birthmark. As if the questions she asked were motivated by curiosity rather than concern.
“Do you have to take your prosthesis off to get in the water?”
“Not this one,” Cy said. “It’s made by a company in Iceland that specializes in waterproof locks and adapters.” He knew she’d likely have no idea what the terminology meant but went on anyway. “I’ve been working directly with one of their consultants on a new line that supports outdoor climbing use. In fact, they’re integrating 3D printing into the fitting process, and…and I should definitely shut up before I bore you to sleep and you get hypothermia.”
“Don’t,” Lyra said. “Don’t shut up, I mean. I’d really like to know.”
In that moment, Cy felt something shift. Not inside him, but around him. Beneath him.
It made the world seem solid enough for him to offer her his hand.
Lyra took it without hesitation, following his lead as they walked to the large, flat rock by the steaming pool’s edge.
Carefully, Cy sat down, and they slid in together.
The sudden warmth of the water enveloped them like a sensual embrace, contrasting sharply with the chilly October air that nipped at their exposed skin. He watched her face, eager to drink in every detail of her reaction.
“Wow,” she sighed, her eyes widening in delight. “This is delicious.”
And it was, just as it had been the first time he returned here after his accident.
Never had he thought that sharing it with another human could intensify the feeling of sacred solitude he’d found here. And yet with Lyra immersed beside him, every sensory detail he’d so loved since he was a boy was distilled into an even more powerful draft. The water’s soothing heat. The refreshing contrast of the cool breeze. The heady tea of dead leaves and damp earth.
“You were saying?” Lyra prompted him.
“I was saying that I’d much rather you finish your thought about repressed rage than ramble on about transtibial imaging and supracondylar sockets.”
He watched as she waded through the murky water, bobbing to face him.
“When you get called a bitch as much as I do—”
“Who called you a bitch?” Cy asked, suddenly infused with a potent, protective wrath. “When?”
“Cy—”
“I’ll fucking rip their tongue out and stuff it up their asshole.” The water’s temperature seemed to rise by several degrees, boiling sweat to his brow.
“See? Now that’s the kind of thing you need to express on your own behalf.”
Cy allowed the thought some room to stretch its legs.
There was a fair amount of frustration in his day-to-day life. From the extra steps his prosthetic required during his morning routine to the heightened anxiety he felt every damn time he slid behind the wheel.
And that didn’t even touch the pain silently grinding him down daily, while the helpful smile remained welded to his carefully arranged face.
How many times? How many times in the course of one life had he smiled when he wanted to snarl? Grinned when he wanted to growl?
“I guess you might have a point,” he said.
“I know I do. What I think we need to do is— Yeek!” she gasped, and lurched toward him, comically clinging to his arm.
“What is it?” he asked, savoring the feel of her warm body against his chest. “What’s the matter?”
