[Chuy]
Jess's ankle looked like she'd been run over by a tank by the time I got to the emergency clinic. It was swollen and red and purple from calf to toe. Jess had taken something for the pain that left her out of it, too, but it was obvious she'd been crying a lot. And it takes a lot to make her cry. The doctor filled me in on the gory details: category 3 ruptured ligament, which was the worst kind. She'd have to wear a boot during the day to immobilize her foot, use one of those scooter things you put your knee on so you don't put weight on your foot, and RICE--rest, ice, compress, and elevate--her leg. Worse, it'd be at least a month, and more likely two or even three, before she could walk. Jess didn't cry as the doctor repeated this to me, but I could tell it hurt even more than her injury. We ate Burger King on the way home, too defeated to find something healthy. The events before the accident barely crossed my mind that evening. Jess was in too much pain and distress to have horny thoughts.
I took the next day off and got the scooter and set up her office downstairs. We'd decided the best plan was for me to carry her downstairs in the morning, so she could use the kitchen, and then bring her upstairs at night. She was moody all day and even cried a few times. Normally, I have a good sense of what's going on in her head, so much so that there have been a few times that she's noted I know what she's really feeling better than she does and that I should go to her therapist for her so she can get some insights. I'm sure that's never been true, but that Monday, it felt almost ominously untrue. I intuited there was more than the accident, but Jess insisted it was the pain meds and knowing she'd have to call off her triathlon plans. I didn't want to push, but she was acting so out of character, I wondered if she'd hit her head at some point. Brain trauma is no joke. I had a friend who bonked his head hard skateboarding, and he was moody as fuck for weeks, despite normally being a super chill dude.
Tuesday morning, I felt a sick mixture of worry, relief, and guilt as I left the house to go into the office. Worry that more was wrong with Jess than just her ankle--and worry about how she'd do without somebody around to help her. Relief that I didn't have to sit with her all day when she was so moody. We've never been through deeply difficult times--no deaths, miscarriages, or things like that--but Jess went through a rough period early in her career where she made herself miserable with her anxiety and perfectionism. I was happy to be there for that, feeling I could be her safe harbor in the storm. But I knew she was getting help, and I felt it made sense. It was the Jess I fell in love with, just out of adjustment a bit. But Monday felt different, in part because she dismissed my attempts to help with the emotional stuff. Until she wasn't. We had sex four times on Monday, and every time, it felt off. Urgent, but unconnected, and thus exhausting. And then I felt guilty because a big part of me didn't want to be home with her.
Work was an even worse clusterfuck than it had been. The
always add more lanes
crew at the state department of transportation managed to hijack our project and turn it into a bigger freeway expansion project. Which, motherfucking morons, does not solve any fucking problems! Katie was irate. I was irate. When I texted Jess, she was irate. Everybody remotely connected to the project except for the DOT morons was irate. Katie and I spent most of the day on the phone with various fuckheads from the DOT explaining to them the restrictions based on wetlands, soft soil, land rights, etc., that made everything impossible. Except neither of us mentioned that the entire ideological framework they were operating under was disproven 50 years ago, because they're caught in a doomsday cult and can't accept reality. We even tried reaching out to some friendly state reps, praying that somebody would look at the budget for the new additions and cancel it. As if anybody ever overrode the DOT and their obsession with building more roads.
Wednesday, Katie called me into her office. "They're bringing in the Koreans."
We both knew what that meant--the local contractors, even
any
contractors in the U.S., did not have enough experience for this kind of project once the DOT got the scope expanded. We'd have to put in a tunnel underpass in soft soil without any bedrock. And bringing in the Koreans, Germans, Spaniards, or Japanese meant an order-of-magnitude increase in our work. Likely, without any additional time.
"Chuy, I need you to either commit to seeing this through or quit. I can't get this done without you, so if you won't be here, I'll get us out of the contract."
She didn't need to say that would mean her company probably would never see a state contract again. Maybe not a contract, period. "I'm trying to hire Jim Cotton from Green Street--you know him, right? Really solid. But that will be at least six months. I have some others I'm looking at, too, but the Brightlines and Cal projects have absorbed most of the American talent. I even reached out to a European recruiter last week when I heard rumors it would go this way."
I didn't reply. Not because I'm a brilliant negotiator, but because I understood saying yes meant a lot of travel and a lot of time at work, and Jess definitely needed me. Plus I'd gotten used to 9 to 5ish hours and liked them.
"Chuy? I know this is big, but I need you. And once I can get Jim Cotton and a few other vets on board, it'll be more manageable."
"I...Katie, I...Jess is immobilized for at least a month. She needs me around the house as much as I can be. This is..." I shook my head.
We went back and forth with her earnestly negotiating while I just tried to sort out what it would mean to commit, and to figure out what my other options were. There was a DOT job in Colorado, but that would mean working for a state DOT. I had a standing offer in New York, but we couldn't afford to live there. And no matter what we did, we'd paying for the townhouse and our housing until we could sell, which could be years.
Fortunately, Katie's desperation made her miss how close I was to saying yes and she went big. "I'll give you a 15% raise and, if I have to find a helper for Jess myself, I'll do that. If we complete this within four months of deadline, we get a hefty bonus. Give me a few days to work out the numbers, but I'll make sure the figures add up for you."
"Fifteen?"
She nodded. "In reality, with the bonus, it'll be closer to twenty. Maybe even twenty-five. Honestly, as good as you are, there's no way that figure makes sense except for my desperation." Which was very true.
"I need to talk this over with Jess. Can you work out the numbers this week?"
"You don't really have a choice, do you?" Jess said as we ate pizza I picked up on the way home. We didn't discuss it, but I think we'd silently agreed to not give a shit about our diets for a while.
I shook my head. "Not unless Gabby sends us our money."
She laughed. She hadn't laughed since the accident.
"Well, maybe I can whore myself out again. I've heard girls in recovery boots earn top dollar."
I laughed and took her hand. "I love you, Baby. I think we can get by without you selling your boot-ee."
"Are you sure? And don't you want to know what this boot-ee can do? Have you ever had a foot job with a big ass foot, all wrapped in shiny plastic?" She lifted her leg up from the chair it was resting on. "So sexy, Baby."
"The part that I think will raise the big bucks is that outfit. Cut off sweatpants and that oversized sweatshirt?" I waved my face. "Steamy!"
She wiggled. "You can almost tell I have tits."
"Your tits are so fucking sexy."
"Second only to Esmé, Gabby, and everyone with real tits." There was genuine sadness there.
I pulled her hand to my lips and kissed it. "I thought you worked out that I'd take your body over theirs any day of the week. I would, Jess. Make me into that Greek dude who sculpted his perfect lover, and I'd carve you."
"Thanks, Piggy. I know. Today was hard. Once I have this stupid boot off, I'll go back to sexy Jess."
"I love Jess. All of you. In a boot, or in a bikini. But, Piggy?"
"Pygmalion. The Greek dude."
We went back to talking about the whole work shit-show, including what kind of support Jess would need if I was out of town. Like how would she get up and down the stairs? We ended up deciding some housekeeping help would be good, but by the time I was likely to go to Korea, she'd probably be able to handle the stairs on her own. Realistically, that was likely a few months out.
