***
At the restaurant, we sit in awkward silence and order our drinks, then the waitress leaves so we can choose our meals.
I stare at the menu, but I’m really thinking about how stupid I feel. Of course he lost his leg. That’s why he limps around. That’s why Bailey has made all these comments about his self-esteem. That’s why he’s being discharged.
Fuck.
How must that feel? If James is anything like Cooper, the military is his entire life. He’s not going to want to just give that up. How could he? Worst of all, the choice is being taken from him. He doesn’t get to decide if he reenlists or not. He doesn’t get to choose whether or not he continues working.
That choice has been stolen.
I barely know James at all and I’m pissed for him. I feel like he’s been robbed of his future and robbed of his time and robbed of his fucking body. This isn’t fair. Bad things are supposed to happen to bad people: not people like James.
“Kasey? Are you okay?” James’ voice draws me back to the present and I manage to nod, but he’s not buying it. “If you have any questions, sweetie, you can just ask.”
“What are you talking about?” I blush, feeling bad I was basically spacing out on our sort-of date. It’s a date, really. It has to be. It feels like one. Maybe we just met, but this is definitely a date. He didn’t have to come to dinner with me. He could have made up some excuse and gone home, but James said he wanted to come out with me.
We’re two young, attractive people at a great restaurant having dinner.
Maybe it’s not a date.
My lifelong insecurities start washing over me. Maybe he just felt bad that I wanted to go eat, but no one would come with me. Maybe he felt sorry for me. We sort of just fell into hanging out. This wasn’t planned, not like a proper date. If Cooper and Bailey had come along, it definitely wouldn’t have been a date, but they aren’t here, are they?
“My leg,” James smiles kindly. “If you have any questions, you can ask me.”
“What makes you think I have any questions about your leg?” I shrink back in my seat, suddenly completely embarrassed.
I have about a million and nine questions about his leg.
Did it hurt? That’s a stupid one. Of course it fucking hurt.
How did it happen? I wonder if he was on a mission. Was there an IED? Was he attacked? Was it friendly fire? What? Was he saving a baby from a burning building? What caused this hot, sexy airman to lose something so important to him?
Most importantly, I want to ask him if he’s okay.
I don’t mean physically.
Of course he’s not okay physically. He’s not bleeding out or anything, but his life is very different now without his leg. He has to think about everything he does. Fuck. I bet he doesn’t even get to run anymore.
“You haven’t said a single word since I told you I lost it.”
“You drove the car,” I blurt out, suddenly thinking of the most pressing question possible. I don’t know why, but at this moment, I just have to know. “How did you drive the car when you don’t have a leg?”
“First of all,” he says, his voice decidedly lower than mine was a minute ago. “I have a prosthesis. Do you know what that is?”
“Yes,” I manage to squeak out. It’s a fake. It’s a fake leg. It takes months to properly fit and get your permanent prosthesis, which means James is probably still getting used to this leg, if it’s his permanent one. He walks almost flawlessly, which to me, says he must have poured hours and hours and hours into physical therapy. Does the man never sleep?
“Secondly,” he continues. “I lost my left leg, which means I still drive with my ‘real’ leg. Does that make sense?”
I nod, totally embarrassed that I’ve just asked James all these super personal questions. The server returns and takes our orders, then leaves, and James smiles at me.
“You look embarrassed.”
“I’m sorry I asked you such rude questions.”
“I don’t mind,” he shrugs. “I’d rather you ask the questions to my face than ask someone else behind my back.”
“Does that happen a lot?”