Baby Steps

Riley, Several Days Later

Ignoring the ache in my back is not working. Perhaps it's just because I've been instructed not to twist, that I have a strong desire to do so. To shirk my muscles against the pain. I don't, however. No fucking way am I doing anymore self-harm. I'll follow instructions exactly.

That means all that I can do is raise and lower the bed seeking a sweet spot of relief while I wait on my next dose of mildly effective pain relief.

Row has gone out for breakfast for us both. We've begun by-passing the hospital food entirely. I'm a bit worried about what that might mean in practical terms. What goes in must bloody well come out. So far the nurses have assisted, but it's been a horribly embarrassing process, called a "bowel program." This "program" involves "encouragement" to develop a regular schedule. The bowel program is not one I'm keen to inflict on Row at any point in time, so therefore I've managed to coax the nursing staff to schedule my needs while she's out in the mornings, showering at Bodie's and picking up breakfast.

Its terrifying how much your life can change in an instant. A little more than a week ago, I was speeding around LA in my Jaguar, brokering deals and strategically planning how to position my artists. Now I'm looking at the ceiling, trying to map out plans for my most basic needs.

It's impossible to predict exactly how I'll manage this particular need, and many others, when I am released from hospital. The doctors are vague about everything at this point, including when I might be released.

I've broached the subject of hiring an at-home caregiver with Row. There are practical things to be considered—not the least of which is her privacy and confidentiality. No one cares to gossip much about me; I've always been very much behind the scenes as Rowan del Marco's husband. We rarely ever did red carpets together in the television circles. She's usually photographed by herself or with Stone Randolphe—the bloke who plays Garreth, her A&R guy on the show—the man intended to be Stellas long-term love match—the opposing ship to StelLars, so to speak.

So when it came to Row's emerging image as a TV celebrity, she was often more associated with her main co-star than her actual husband. Which was fine. I've always gotten a good vibe from Stone when it comes to his professionalism. Moreover, playing up their duality is the way both the show and I preferred to position it, since her father always harbored some reservations about the impact to her image—her being so young and married to her somewhat older manager. Honestly, I always got the impression he felt somehwhat embarrassed by our elopement. Like it said something about his parenting. As if she were a child-like Juliet and not a twenty year old woman who'd been functioning as a adult making her own choices since sixteen.

That's not at all how it appeared, because by and large the industry paid our marriage no mind. We were hardly ever seen in public together at music industry events, once we were married. I most often went stag, attending with my musical artists. Row didn't have any interest in remaining a fixture in those circles. Of course, I understood why and never pressured her.

She didn't want to be reminded of a world she had removed herself from, by refusing to carry on with Strut after her injury.That's the thing. Strut could have survived Row's hand injury. She could have continued on, being the lead singer and the primary songwriter. We could have gotten in a lead guitarist. It might have even been possible for Row to continue playing backing guitar—it's her strumming hand, not her fret hand that's damaged. But she would neither try to recover her guitar skills nor even consider singing without a guitar strapped on. Moreover, if she couldn't rival her father and Trace's mind-blowing skills on an electric guitar solo, she was simply done with being in a rock band. She cut off her nose to spite her face.

I understood it, though. It's much how I felt, after Priscilla died. If I couldn't have her sharing my microphone, I'd never walk on the goddamn stage again, I vowed. And I didn't.

Well, except for the occasional soundcheck now and then. Marley is right. I do still enjoy playing guitar. Even more than that, I enjoy the synch of playing with others. But even if I follow Marley's advice and pick up my guitar on a regular basis again, it could never be more than a hobby.

I have a job. A very involved job, with a lot of people relying on me.

None quite so tricky to deal with as my ex-wife.

She's right about not bringing more management into the mix if she's planning to take a step back from her acting career. Managers expect to grow careers, or at the very least make decent money promoting a stable one. They do not like to sign on only to find they must handhold a reluctant star who's willing to take massive losses to back out of their very lucrative commitments. If we brought someone else in to sort out this mess that's going to ensue by breaking her contract, there will likely be bad blood. Lots of things will be said around town about Row's professionalism. Perhaps even more legal woes might ensue.

But despite Row's obstinate abdication as a musician, and now her plan to do the same thing all over again with her acting career, she is still a celebrity, and apparently she's still going to be my concern as a client at least through the dissolution of her Girl Band contract. And since she will be moving back in with me on a temporary basis to get me back on my feet, her professional and my personal life will continue to intersect.

Furthering complicating the matter is the human interest factor always involving a celebrity. Any run of the mill gossip columnist will be able to confirm the situation—that our divorce has just been finalized but we will be once again cohabiting. I expect there will be some interest in my injuries and how that is impacting our personal relationship. To be frank, perhaps more interest than there has ever been in us as a couple.

People love a good tragedy.

Which brings me full round to the problem of my personal needs whenever they let me out of the bloody place. We can't just ring up any old caregiver service and ask them to send someone unvetted over. We need professionalism and discretion from anyone we allow into our home.

I mean...into Row's sphere.

Row was quietly agreeable when I suggested she have her mother ask around about the best agency to provide such needs. Marianne's connections are such that if she doesn't know something about something domestic-done-celebrity-style, she knows someone that does. So Row called her mother, but there was some tension or displeasure in Row over that matter. I couldn't quite read that one-sided conversation. Perhaps she and her mother are still at odds over the intervention.

Even so, Marianne is a lot of things but she is not a grudge-holder. She will help accept Row's decision to help me, and help us both, for her daughter's sake. Of that I have no doubt. Marianne is an extremely wise and compassionate woman.I may not deserve her good grace, but she will give it.

The phone rings. I pick it up, expecting it to be Row, but it's Mac. Madam and the kids are in Nashville, hanging close to TrayKat whose farm is about halfway between their Atlanta base and the Heartley farm. Both Mac and Adam call me every day, sometimes separately, sometimes together. They all do, actually. Leed has been by twice and texts constantly. Trace calls only once a day, because he instinctively understands the overwhelming amount of well-wishing I'm receiving, but when he does he tells me not to give a moment's thought to Soundcrush issues, assuring me they can certainly manage their own needs with minimal coordination from Marley, for as long as I need to recover.

Row returns, interrupting my phone call with Mac. She's got an overnight bag and she seems excited. The cheshire grin on her face, the fact that she's wearing a bit of eyemakup this morning and the way she's got her long mass of straw in a simple braid, recalls something of her old persona. Certainly her old spirits.

Mac, I mouthe, pointing to the phone.

Row grabs the phone from me, says, "Call back later, bitch. Riley has things to do. Mwah." And tosses my phone on the nightstand.

"That was rude," I correct her.

"That was Mac. Rude is the way we roll," she dismisses me, as she's pulling things out of the bag and tossing them on the bed.

I shrug. I suppose it was the way they rolled, once. Row's been rather subdued around the band since our problems became public. But she's right...a rather long time ago, she and Mac vied to be the biggest bitches on the bus. Only to one another, mind you. No accounting for women's catty ways, I suppose.

She holds up two of my T-shirts against her chest. Soundcrush and generic Under Armour.

"The nurse called me and said to bring clothes. The doctor has ordered your PT and it starts this afternoon. Which statement to want to make at your first session? Bad-ass or work horse?"

I point to the Under Armour, simply because the dry fit is more comfortable for sweating. I imagine there's going to be a lot of sweating. Definitely from exertion. Hopefully from movement as well.

"Okay, let's get you dressed," she says, tossing out a pair of athletic shorts.

"I'll call the nurse," I reach for the button but Row takes my hand.

"No, Riley—we don't need the nurse. You can sit up on the side of the bed just like they taught us when you were fitted for your back brace..." she gestures to the device sitting on the credenza that I will be employing today for the first time. Beside it is the walker that was used to position me in a nearly upright position on the side of the bed for said fitting.

She's still holding my hand, rubbing my fingers as I consider. I'm aware that she takes every opportunity to do this, since I told her it was a comfort to me. It's a small thing between us, considering what we once were, but at this moment, I suddenly realize it's a big thing as well, because it's her right hand she's reaching for me with, her right thumb that she's easily stroking my knuckles with, and her right grip that is applying a warm pressure.

"It's stronger," I say in surprise, looking up at her face quickly. "Do that again!"

She squeezes. Her grip has definitely improved. I'm not imagining it.

"After all this time?" I query.

She nods. "A new therapy. Completely non-invasive. Radiowaves. Science is a modern miracle. I'm getting better, and so will you. Let's get you started on your therapy..." she's turning her attention to me, but I'm still examining each finger, insisting that she flex and curl. Her thumb, pointer and middle fingers definitely have more strength and quicker motion.

"That's wonderful."

"It is good news, I guess," she say softly trying to pull away again.

I hold on. I fold her fingers open, pinching the pad of thumb. "You," and "you," I squeeze the pad of her pointer finger, "and you," a final tweek to her middle finger. "Could strum now, most certainly."

I don't talk to Row. Just her fingers. They aren't scowling like I imagine she is. She tugs harder, and I risk a glance. She looks annoyed at my suggestion.

"One moment and you may have it back, but let me deliver my congratulations..." I murmur. I pull her hand to my lips, delivering a light congratulatory kiss to her knuckles. Never the shiny pink star. Always the knuckles, as if the scar didn't exist. Her hand smells like plumeria.

Her scowl softens. "Thank you. But you aren't calling a nurse to help you dress. You have to let me help you do some things or you make me feel like there's no point at all to me being here with you."

I sigh. "Fine."

We raise the bed to its full height as she tears off the covers and tosses them to the chair. She helps me remove the robe from my arms, since I must be careful with the twisting at this point. She has everything laid out on the rolling tray for ease of reach, down to sock and shoes. I smile. I've never seen Row arrange anything methodically, except her sequence of guitars in a stage stand.

She positions the tray just so and draws the walker near.

"Okay," she says, standing at the ready like someone might spot a gymnast.

There's no acrobatics here, just a slow and deliberate action where I focus hard to sit perfectly straight, scoot forward using the trapeze bar for assistance, swivel on the bed and force my legs to move to the side. What once would have been an effortless motion now requires attention and a fair amount of exertion, though it's hard to exactly quantify whether that exertion is more mental or physical.

It's like the pins and needles sensation. Not the same sensation but akin to the process of moving such a limb. You want to move it, you dread moving it because it's uncomfortable, but you do move it, although the movement feels slow and foreign. Not to mention there's the ache in my back running interference to my brain with distinct signals of alarm.

But by the grace of god and the skill of Dr. Gregory, I am moving. All the parts. It just requires extreme effort and force of will. After what seems like a very long time to me, I'm sitting perfectly upright, feet on the floor, though I can't really feel that part, hands braced firmly on the walker as a precaution, I was directed— just in case I lose my balance or start to slide off the bed or such.

Row's eyes are roaming me. "Okay?"

"Okay?"

"Not dizzy?"

"I'm fine."

She bites her lip and puts a tentative hand on my shoulder. "Because I forgot to lock the door...I need to step away. Unless you just want me to help...quickly..."

In fact I do feel light headed and my back hurts and I'm already panting just from the exertion of scooting to the edge of the bed, and the panting makes my ribs ache. We probably need to do this quickly, but I'll not have Bodie or Leed waltzing in at the moment. "Christ, Row. Well, go lock the bloody door, then!" I snap at her.

She scurries across the room and back. She looks nervous, and she just stand there fingering the t-shirt, waiting I suppose for me to tell her what I want her to do.

This was a mistake. We should have called the nurse. Experienced and emotionally uninvolved, a nurse would have the task accomplished by now.

I take a deep breath. "I'm sorry, alright? I'm sorry."

"Okay," she says neutrally. "Are you in pain?"

"A bit."

"Let's get you dressed and comfortable, then..."

She reaches around me, unsnapping the hospital gown, it down to my wrists, lifting one hand off the walker at a time, and discarding it. In a moment, she has my t-shirt on. I hadn't really given much thought as to how this dressing would be accomplished but apparently she has, because she picks up my shorts and tosses them over her shoulder, then edges the walker away, placing my hands on her hips for balance instead.

I'm staring right level with her chest. We haven't been this close to one another in a long, long time.

"Okay, I'm going down—"

I snort.

"On my knees," she continues.

"Still, so many jokes, so little time, love,"

"And you...can walk your hands up me..." She ignores my pitiful attempts at humor, takes my hand off her hips and guides it to her shoulder as she lowers gracefully in front of me. "Like this."

She's crouched with balance I currently envy, my hands on her shoulders. She's working the athletic shorts around my ankles, drawing them up, rising to a half table top position. Her eyes meet mine.

Those ice gray slayer eyes. They always run right through me. Especially when they are at their tenderest or fiercest. Or especially when the emotion is mixed, as it is now.

Her eyes never leaving my face, she pulls the trapeze bar above my bed into the position so that I can lift with it. She waits. My hands are loathe to leave her body.

Which is rather ridiculous considering this is the farthest thing from sexy that could possibly be occurring. But I haven't had this much physical contact with Row in a long time.

Reluctantly, I let go of her and reach for the bar.

"Okay, remember how they told you..."

I nod, looking down at my feet, making sure they are planted well, since I can hardly feel them. I push, all the way up through knees and thighs, pulling from the trapeze, lifting slightly so that she can ease my shorts into position. Just as quickly my ass is hitting the bed again, softly but I can definitely feel it in my back.

"You did it," she beams at me.

I didn't do much. I was pulling more than standing and I only bore my own weight for a brief second. My grin is more in response to the hug she gives me than any accomplishment I feel.

"Aooow, darling...the ribs..." I gasp into her ear.

"Sorry, sorry," she reduces the squeeze, rising, but still hugging me. I'm staring up at her, and she's standing between my legs now. Funny, that movement seems to happen all on its own. I reach for her hips again. She steps closer, bending her head down to mine.

"You can move, Riley. All by yourself, you see? You can use your legs. You're going to be fine," she whispers down at me, stroking my hair. Her eyes flit to my hair. "Wow, the nurses aren't washing your hair? What the hell? Uggh..." she wrinkles her nose, raking through my rather oily mop, examining me like a mother orangutan.

Right. This isn't a tender moment. I release her with a sigh.

"Bit difficult not to get the bed wet, I guess" I clip.

"Well, this is unacceptable," she murmurs. "This is...gross."

"Thanks so much." I jerk my head from her inspection.

She gives me a long-suffering look. "You can't help it. I didn't say you were gross. Just...you know..." she grins evilly. "your hair."

I tweak her long, straw-like braid, setting it to swinging over her shoulder. "My oil slick can hardly be worse than your haystack."

She's kneeling again, putting on my socks and shoes. "Yeah, it's a mess. I really need serious hair therapy. I had an appointment at this exclusive place—so hard to get, booked it weeks in advance— but my dumbass ex flipped his car five times, and I had to cancel."

"Touché," I murmur softly, replacing the braid gently down her shoulder. "Fives times? Bloody hell. That's the first I've heard of that."

"There's a video from the highway camera," she says lightly.

"You've seen it?"

"The police were here yesterday. You were sleeping. They want to interview you...or whatever...at some point, but after I talked to them awhile, they said you can make appointment to be interviewed once you're released."

"After you charmed them, you mean? Or did you simply throw your del Marco weight around a bit?"

"Both, plus I mentioned that we have a number of attorneys on retainer, should various needs arise."

"Blimey, you sound like a manager, not talent."

"Well, I learned from the best." She aggressively tightens my laces. "Too tight?"

I shrug. "Don't know, can't really feel it."

She looks troubled. She melts sideways on the floor, curling her legs under her. She puts her chin on one of my knees, curling her hand around my calf, rubbing slowly in an upward stroke.

"Can you feel that?"

I run my hand down the back of her braid, nodding slowly. Then her fingers slide slowly down again, at some point the sensation of her touch goes away but I don't look to see if she's still touching me. "Now?" she says hoarsely.

I give her the slightest shake. "Not so much."

She rises to her knees in front of me, her face searching mine. "Five times, Riley. The officer that called me couldn't tell me a thing. I sat in the surgical waiting through for...I don't know how many hours, not knowing if you would be wheeled out dead or alive. "

I take her head in my hands. "I'm sorry I put you through that. It was truly the most reckless, unconscionable thing I've ever done. I'm so sorry."

She nods, leaning into my face. The eyes again. Ice now. Pupils barely visible. Slaying me. "I forgive you." She kisses me on the cheek.

She forgives me, she says. She's slaying me still, because I do believe she means it.

"Thank you."

I think about all the things I've tried to learn about forgiveness. It's not a feeling, but a commitment, one source says. It's a spectrum of acceptance, another says. Or a sin wave that evens out. It's a different state of being for everyone, yet another.

Of all the things...the commitment theory resonates with me most. Maybe it's not about being in a state of forgiveness, but making a promise to surrender the anger each time the thought of the betrayal rises.

"Rowan...I..."

And I wish I could, but I'm not there.

She senses my reluctance. She shakes her head, her braid thrashing over her shoulder again, as she gives me a sad smile. "You don't have to say it back." She rises, tugs at my dirty hair again, and says. "It's not like saying I love you or anything," she says lightly.

I think it's exactly like saying I love you.

I stare down at my feet, that I can't feel, and force them to move by inches.

I think about Rowan's body, it's effortless movements.

It's effortless, naked undulations.

Stella and Lars in episode four.

Rowan and Aidan in Bungalow number two.

She's retrieving the back brace now.

"Leave it, you don't know how to put it on," I say wearily.

"We can play around with it," she's adjusting the straps. "The physical therapist can make sure we did it right—"

"Leave it." I don't quite snarl, but my words are firm. I don't want her touching me at the moment.

She stares at me, the thing still in her hands, realization coming that my mood has descended. A knock on the door draws away her hurt expression, and she goes to open it.

As she pulls it open, I really don't pay much attention to the bloke with an athletic build that enters. All I can see is the wheelchair he's pushing.

He's saying things. Introducing himself. Blake something, he says. He's talking with Row about my back brace. I'm looking at the chair.

It's the first time I will ever sit in one.

Eighty percent chance of recovery.

Row focuses on its majority nature, as if it were a weather report.

Eighty percent chance of rain surely means the prediction will happen.

I haven't had the heart to point out the math to her in more concrete terms.

Eighty percent recovery means four out of five people with my injury recover enough to walk. One in five with kind of injury I have don't recover enough strength, or gait, or balance to walk again.

One in five confined to a wheel chair.

That's not great odds.

And I cannot feel my feet.

Will I be the one in five?

Will a wheel chair become my temporary companion?

Or the last partner I will ever dance with?