Chapter 20 - Sparks Will Fly

It feels like my body has been in the arena with a bot as I trudge to the hotel bar, the only place with food this time of night. I felt good this morning, so I didn’t take my cane. My limits and abilities change constantly, and I haven’t figured out how to anticipate when I’ll need it. I should probably always bring it.

I’ve been working on the bot since 8:00 a.m., and while everyone else called it a night at 10:00 p.m., I snuck back to work another few hours. We got a lot done today, after Travis and Fatimah spent an hour begging Joel for the new parts before finally convincing him the cost was worth it. The magic words? “You have to spend money to make money.”

My tired, foggy brain can’t fully wrap my head around the time on my watch, but I think it’s past midnight.

I slump against the bar, waving down the bartender. “You guys serve food this late, right?”

He shakes his head. “Normally, but the kitchen is down for the night. Sorry. The room service kitchen is operational, though.”

I stop myself from banging my head against the bar in frustration. I think if I put my head down, I’d fall asleep, anyway. “Okay, thanks.” If I could afford room service, I would have already done that. My stomach growls as I hobble away.

Is there some place still open for delivery that’s cheaper than room service? I could drive to the closest 24-hour fast food place, but I’m not sure I should drive right now. I’m inert in the hotel lobby, wracked with hungry indecision and exhaustion.

“Are you alright?” Jacob hovers near me, barely out of reach. He’s like a fruit fly that’s impossible to get rid of, always showing up at the most annoying moments.

“I’m fine.”

His plush mouth thins into a tight line, dimple nowhere to be found. “You’ve been standing here staring into space for five minutes.”

Shit. Why was he watching me, anyway? “I was thinking. I’m fine.”

One dark eyebrow rises. My stomach growls so loudly that I’m pretty sure the receptionist forty feet away heard it. His eyebrow lifts even higher. “I was about to go get some food. I wanted to get out of the hotel for a little while. I’m happy to drive if you want to come,” he offers.

I don’t. I really don’t. I should go upstairs and go to sleep. But I’ve spent all day problem-solving, hunched over the disassembled pieces of my future. I’m starving from the combination of my muscles having worked so hard to keep my body up and my brain working at capacity the whole time. I wobble on my feet, and his hand shoots out, ready to catch me. He stops short of touching me.

“When was the last time you ate?” he asks, sounding angry. His tone digs into a well of frustration I thought I was too tired to possess. The show provides us with breakfast and lunch, but for dinner, we’re on our own since most people are done working for the day. Our team skipped lunch so we could use some of the machinery to cut new parts without waiting in line. When they went to grab something to eat later, I stayed to hold some pieces in place while the resin cured because we were out of clamps. I only realized someone had brought me back some food after it had been sitting out for hours and was no longer safe to eat.

“I’m fine,” I mumble. “I had some peanut butter cups earlier.”

“I’ve been an asshole,” he says, softer. “But you don’t look okay, and I want to help. I can bring you something if you don’t want to go anywhere.”

I’m almost entirely certain that if I go back to my room, I will fall asleep the second I sit down. Plus, I know I’ll struggle tomorrow if I don’t refuel now. Chronic illness is a constant calculation of how much I can handle up front and how much I need to recover on the other side. The numbers and variables change constantly, leaving me stuck calculating impossible equations in the dark. I know I’ll be in worse shape if I don’t eat now. I’m out of any option that doesn’t involve endangering myself and others.

Except for Jacob’s offer.

“Fine,” I mutter. My stiff body creaks and groans as I move towards the door. “Let’s go.”

* * *

Jacob’s radio is the only sound between us, and even that is hushed by the dark night. He navigates through the streets expertly.

“Where are we going?”

“There’s a 24-hour diner near here. We can get food to go or eat there.”

I weigh the decision of making small talk with him over a meal versus waiting to eat. My brain puts up a summary protest, but my stomach decides with another growl. “We can eat there.”

Jacob’s surprise is obvious in the red glow of the stoplight. He opens his mouth before quickly shutting it and giving a terse nod. A few minutes later, we pull into the parking lot of the tiny diner.

Past 10 p.m., all diners are liminal spaces. They exist out of time and space in their own bubble of weirdness and perfection. There are people who I’m not sure exist outside of diners in the middle of the night: truckers who all appear vaguely the same; a waitress who seems like she’s existed in the same state since the 1970s; a group of two or three strung-out college students who have been here since the beginning of time. And now, two rival robot builders.

Being anywhere with Jacob is equally liminal. Somewhere not quite in reality but not quite out of reach. We’ve spent a lot of time in the same places; we know a lot of the same people. There was a time when we spent a lot of time together. It seems so far away, buried and unreachable under all the rest—even if, since I arrived at Circuit Smack, memories of him keep spontaneously erupting. I’ve spent the last eight years trying to avoid any interactions with him. It’s like an alternate reality as he steers me towards a booth with his hand on my lower back.

I bury my face in the plastic-coated menu to catch my breath, suddenly out of my depth. I feel that way a lot lately. Not only at Circuit Smack but around Jacob. I’ve barely succeeded at keeping my head above water for the past fifteen years, so any change to the current is terrifying. His deep gray stare pulls me under, along with the disastrous drag of our bot.

The ancient but timeless waitress appears and takes our orders, which, much to my chagrin, are exactly the same: cheeseburger, no lettuce, fries, a Sprite, and a slice of cherry pie. Can I have nothing for myself in Jacob’s world?

“Where are your rings?”

I flex my hands in confusion before looking. My fingers are bare. “I must have left them in the Bay.” They should be safe until morning. The only people allowed in are security, staff, and contestants. My sterling silver rings aren’t worth a fraction as much as the equipment in there.

“Are they for fashion or support?”

“That’s kind of invasive,” I mutter.

Color rises in his cheeks. “It was. I’m sorry. Is it inappropriate to say I think they are cool?” It’s not the first time he’s said that, but maybe he’s forgotten.

“No,” I say, nail tracing a crack in the Formica table. He’s trying to be nice. Even after everything, even if he owes me more than this small favor, I don’t need to be rude when he’s being actively polite. “Sorry, I’m tired.”

His intense gaze makes me want to hide behind the menu again. “You don’t need to apologize to me, Mari.”

The waitress reappears, bony arms expertly balancing a tray. “Cheeseburger, no lettuce for you,” she says as she places it on the table. “One for you. And here are your drinks, and forgive me, but we only had one slice of cherry pie left. I can grab you an extra fork if you want to share.”

“It’s okay, Mari can have it.” He gives a brilliant smile to the waitress. She sets it down with a wink. My cheeks are redder than the filling.

The moment her back is turned, I dive into my burger. I swear I can feel my health bar regenerate like a video game character as I eat. I’m almost giddy with relief.

“They’re for support.” The words bubble out of me, no longer restrained by tiredness and hunger. Jacob, much less ravenous, watches me closely. “I have hypermobile Ehlers-Danlos Syndrome. It’s a full-body connective tissue disorder that causes loose joints and ligaments, partial and full dislocations, and lots of other less-than-fun things,” I explain. I feel like an after-school special, but there’s no other way to explain it.

“The rings keep my fingers from hyper-extending and provide extra stability.” I start on the French fries. They might be the best fries I’ve ever had. They’re hot, crispy, and divine. He tilts his head, eyes unfocused. An expression that hasn’t changed since we were kids. “Whatever you’re thinking, you can ask.”

“They’re metal, right? That’s a hazard while building.” I didn’t think someone could look perturbed while eating a French fry this delicious, but he manages.

“I usually take them off when I work.” Hence them being left in the Bay. It also explains how swollen and sore my hands are, having worked so much today without support. They radiate hot discomfort. “I could get some plastic ones, but mine are custom-made, and the plastic, pre-made ones don’t fit as well.” I shrug. It’s the unfortunate truth. Custom mobility aids help but are so expensive. Off-the-shelf things can hurt you as much as they can help you if they don’t fit right. “They would be safer to work with, but they’re uncomfortable. Not that wearing an exoskeleton on your hands is ever comfortable, but at least my metal ones fit well.”

His eyebrows draw together. “But your hands hurt when you don’t wear them.” It’s not a question. It’s a fact, one that bothers him for some reason. Why does he suddenly care about what hurts me? He hasn’t for a while.

“They still hurt when I wear them, but they hurt more when I don’t.” I shrug. “For a lot of people, myself included, hEDS is a dynamic disability. There are days when it sucks a little less, and days when it sucks a lot more. Some days I can go hiking or be really active, and some days I can’t get out of bed without support. But there’s always a base level of feeling bad.”

“When we were kids, you seemed fine,” he says. “Is it something that developed later?” He looks into the distance, trying to focus on a memory. “You got your rings our first year of college.”

I freeze, French fry halfway to my mouth. Our first year. When we were friends. “Do you remember how clumsy I was, always getting hurt?” He nods. I try not to choke on my words. “I hid it from most people. No teenage girl wants to feel defective.” I try to shrug away the sadness of teenage Mari. The sadness of adult Mari, too. I know there’s nothing wrong with me as a person, only with the biology of my body, but it’s still a lot.

Every time I think I’m finally comfortable with my disability or feel like I have a handle on my pain, something changes. It’s hard to feel whole and unbroken when you are constantly playing catch-up with your own body. I’m much more comfortable with everything now than when I was newly diagnosed as a teenager, though, even on my worst days. I’m proud of that, but I have a long way to go. Internalized ableism has deep roots that are hard to dig up, even when I know where they are.

He flinches like the thought was thrown at him. “Is that why you use a cane sometimes now? The hEDS? You’ve used it more recently than the first couple days you were here.”

I nod, trying to ignore my uneasiness that he noticed. “I dislocated my knee about a year and a half ago. It never really healed right. I have a lot of weakness in it now. I’m still getting used to being seen with a cane. Needing one.” I pause to eat another fry, and he waits patiently. “My rings look like an accessory, but a cane is different. People look at you differently when you need a mobility aid, not just a support aid. Some days, I don’t want that attention.” I try to click my rings together before remembering I'm not wearing them and pick at my well-chipped nail polish instead. I’ve been getting used to people seeing me with my cane here, but I don’t know if I’ll ever be ready to use it on camera. That feels so much bigger. “Some days, I don’t realize I should have been using it until it’s too late, like today. I’ll be okay in the morning and then feel awful in the afternoon and have to decide whether to expend the energy to go get it or push through.”

His pout has not budged. Even grumpy, under the sallow lights of the diner, he’s gorgeous. His unmoving face is a statue carved just for me. “But without it, you could get hurt again?”

“I’ll get hurt again, regardless. It’s inevitable. I always hurt, anyway.”

“But you’re more likely to get hurt if you don’t use your rings or your cane. And if you use them, you hurt less.” Another statement instead of a question, paraphrasing my words back to me.

I shrug.

The mid-level horror and frustration Jacob radiates coats my skin like dried sweat, sticky and uncomfortable. Why did I even tell him? Does he think I’m broken? Does he think I’m weak? Why does it matter to me when he already thought I wasn’t good enough?

“Let me get this straight. You work multiple jobs, take part in an incredibly demanding hobby, and take care of your sibling while dealing with a constant, increased risk of severe injury?” he asks.

How does he know all that? I guess most of it isn’t a secret; some of that hasn’t changed since we were kids. But I said nothing back then, and who pays attention to someone they hate like that? Sure, I know what he does for a living. Most people know. He is, after all, a rover-building genius. It translates well to our chosen hobby and makes him practically a rock star. I know little else about him past the age of nineteen, except that he turned into an asshole somewhere in California.

“Well, Ava is old enough to—”

“Mari, you used to bring her to community build nights in her stroller,” he says. I open my mouth to protest, but he interrupts me again. “Alone.” His knuckles are white around his dappled plastic cup.

I scowl at him. Why does someone who ruined my chances of building a better future get to be angry about my circumstances? Why did I even tell him?

“My dad worked hard, okay? It’s not like we could afford to leave her with a sitter much.” My delicious food turns to ash in my mouth. Acrid and gritty, like the memories. “And after she transitioned, many of her former friends’ families didn’t want her around.” It makes me seethe to think about how ten-year-old Ava, finally being her true self, couldn’t understand why it meant sitting alone at lunch.

Jacob’s shoulders slump. “That’s not what I meant. I’m sorry.” He runs his hand over his face, and I see the bags under his eyes. “What I meant was: who takes care of you, Mari?” The world pauses violently. “On your bad days, who is helping you?”

“I-I don’t need help. I’ve got it under control.” I pick at my fries, wishing they were as good as they were before this conversation. His stare begs me to meet it. But how can I look him in the eye and witness that judgment? After every opportunity he’s taken from me, I don’t want his pity. I don’t want his concern. I hail the waitress. “Can I get a to-go box?”

Jacob hands her his credit card as she hands me the boxes, not even giving me a chance to protest or hand over mine. “How much do I owe you?”

“Nothing. I’ve got it.”

“I can afford my food.” I actually can’t, but he doesn’t need to know that. I have a sneaking suspicion he might know it anyway, which makes me even angrier. After a moment, I sigh. “Thank you.” He signs the receipt without acknowledging me.

It’s unsettlingly quiet in the car on the way home. The tension between us feels like a ton of scrap metal on my chest. This hot-and-cold routine is uncomfortable and exhausting. I have better things to focus on than Jacob. Like the fact that I have to be up in a few hours. I hope to god we can finish revamping ZetaMax in time for the next match.

The moment he parks, I mumble my thanks for dinner. I shoot out of the vehicle as quickly as my wobbly body allows—which is admittedly not quick. It’s fast enough to get me past the lobby and through the closing doors of the elevator before he can catch up with me.