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pretty damn attractive.
    Plus, he’s giving me an excuse to drive my car to the beach with the top down, something I haven’t been able to get away with lately. I decide that if I use some really creative thinking, escorting someone from the center also counts as working at the center.
    â€œYeah, why not? I’ll come.” Then I hesitate. Finally I spit it out. “Can I … give you a ride or something?” Even though I have no idea how that would work.
    â€œNo, I drive.” He pantomimes using some kind of lever system and smirks up at me. “My car’s pimped out like you wouldn’t believe.”
    He seems confident enough about it, but I don’t want to watch the awkward little dance I imagine must be part of his actually getting behind the wheel. “Okay. So you want to just meet me there?”
    â€œSure. Thirty-Fourth and Dune. There’s a ramp.”
    We leave the building, and I take my time driving through town, loving the opportunity to drive on streets besides those that make up the route between home and work. The breeze is cool off the water, and I suck in big, greedy breaths, feeling for the first time in forever that I can actually breathe.
    Even though I take the scenic route, I arrive a while before Pax does, and I begin to question whether he’s going to show. Ten minutes later, headlights sweep across the boardwalk railing, and he pulls into a spot beside me. He drives an orange Honda Element, which I notice has side doors that open at the same time and provide Pax extra room to maneuver out of the car. I wait until he gets out, averting my eyes, and then join him. “Took you long enough.”
    â€œI’m a very careful driver now. Can’t apologize for that, though.”
    Then he changes the subject, scanning the horizon and nodding with satisfaction. “The beach is so much better after Labor Day. When all the shoobies are gone,” he says, referring to the hordes of annoying Jersey Shore tourists. “You ready?”
    I nod and follow him down the ramp to the beach. He brakes and stares down at the sand for a long minute. I notice there’s a folded woven blanket beside him in his chair.
    I realize I’m nibbling on my nails, hating all the uncertainties that crop up, the questions I don’t know how to ask. I get the sense Pax wants to get out of his chair, but I have no idea if he can, or will, or is waiting on me for something. “Can I … help you … or…?”
    He closes his eyes, and a small smile plays on his lips. “No, I got this. Just mentally prepping myself.”
    Pax tosses the blanket onto the sand. Then, very slowly, he leans forward until his closed fist hits the sand. He shifts more and more of his weight onto his one hand, his biceps and triceps flexed and shaking with exertion. He keeps shifting, and I fight the urge to look away, thinking he is less than a second away from face-planting in the sand. Which will be mortifying for both of us. But just as I think he’s about to lose control of the maneuver, somehow he slides off of the chair and lands, albeit ungracefully, on the sand. He pumps his fist three times in mock triumph.
    I exhale and settle down beside him, wrapping my arms around my knees, noticing in the moonlight the fine sheen of sweat on his face and shoulders. “That was pretty impressive,” I observe quietly. “You’re strong.”
    â€œIt’s more of a mental necessity than a physical one,” he explains. “It was one of the first really important lessons I learned about being in the chair. Feeling like you’re stuck in the chair, feeling like you’re entirely reliant on other people … Then it’s the fear that keeps you from living your life, more than the disability. A fear of going anywhere, a fear of falling out and ending up like a bug stuck on its back with no way up. Seemed like just about the