Never a Hero

was an old habit. It was something my mother had hated. “I thought you were going to wait until I was ready to talk about it.”
    “I think you are ready. I think that’s why you brought it up in the first place.” When I looked up at him, I found him slightly amused, but there was no mockery in his eyes. “I’ve been there, you know. I’ve shut myself in.” It was hard to believe. He seemed so well adjusted. So normal , if there was any such thing. But there was no denying the quiet compassion I felt from him. “What is it? Social anxiety disorder?”
    It seemed he wasn’t about to let me off the hook a second time, so I answered. “Not really. At least, I don’t think so.”
    “So, you’ve never been diagnosed?”
    “No. It’s not really that acute. It’s not like I panic or anything. It’s just something I’d rather not do. It makes me uncomfortable.”
    “Okay. But why ?”
    “It makes me self-conscious.”
    “About what?”
    “My arm. And my stutter.”
    His eyebrows went up. “You don’t stutter.”
    “Not often. Not anymore. But when I get nervous, it starts to manifest.”
    “I see.” He leaned back in his seat again, indicating the interrogation was already over and we were returning to less embarrassing topics. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
    My heart skipped a beat. “Nothing. Why?”
    “There’s a new Greek restaurant in town. I hear you get to break plates. Will you come with me?”
    “Why?”
    “Why do they break plates? I don’t know. It’s a Greek thing.”
    “No, I mean, why are you inviting me?”
    He shrugged. “Why not? I get tired of cooking. And I get sick of sitting at home alone. I’m guessing you do too.”
    That was true, but I was still hesitant. As much as I liked being with him, the idea of going out in public made me nervous. “I don’t know.”
    He shifted in his seat, not meeting my eyes, suddenly looking uncomfortable and embarrassed. “I don’t mean a date or anything.”
    Was that why he thought I was balking?
    I didn’t know how to reassure him that whether or not it was a date really wasn’t the issue. Instead, I took a deep breath and asked, “What time?”

The first thing Nick did when I opened my front door the next evening was point at my left arm.
    “You actually use your prosthetic? My sister always hated hers, although she’s talking now about having a mountain bike outfitted for her.”
    He’d asked a question, but he didn’t seem to expect an answer. He was already leading me out the door to his SUV. Still, he’d made me conscious of my prosthetic. My mother had bought it for me when I left for college. I’d wanted something more like a basic hook, but my mother had always cared far more about appearance than about my comfort. The fake hand hanging below my cuff looked almost real, but to my mother’s dismay, I’d never learned to use it well. Some newer replacement limbs could do amazing things, but mine tended to hang forgotten at my side. Under my long-sleeved shirt, leather straps around my shoulders helped to hold it in place. They were also designed to assist in movement, but it was a skill that required practice. Mostly, I’d worn it so as not to have an empty sleeve or an unsightly stump for my date with Nick.
    Even if it wasn’t a date.
    I was uncomfortable in the car. The straps around my shoulders felt too tight. It had been so long since I’d worn it, I’d undoubtedly gained weight and hadn’t bothered to loosen them. I shifted in my seat, trying to alleviate the pressure across the top of my back. My stump began to itch. I caught Nick glancing sideways at me as I squirmed and fidgeted, and I forced myself to hold still.
    This was a terrible idea.
    Let’s get takeout. Let’s go back home.
    I wanted to say the words, but I was too much of a coward.
    The restaurant was downtown, just past the Light District. The parking lot was full.
    “I saw a spot a couple of blocks back. How do you feel about walking?” Nick asked.
    “Fine with me.”
    It was a great night for it, really. The breeze was chilly. Dry leaves skittered before us across the pavement, rustling and crackling. We walked side by side in silence, our footfalls somehow in sync.
    The restaurant was a rude awakening. It was packed and absolutely deafening. I used my right hand to hold my prosthetic against my body so I wouldn’t bump people with it. We had to stand for a long time, waiting for a table. It was too loud to talk. I