I wanted people to judge my cooking, not my wheelchair.
My pancakes were a hit.
Then one day, a girl named Hannah sent me a photo.
It was a nearly black cake.
“Show your face.”
“Your recipe tried to kill me.”
“That’s impressive. It’s a three-ingredient cake.”
“Four, if you count the smoke.”
I laughed out loud, alone in my kitchen.
After that, she kept sending me burnt cakes.
Burnt cookies. A burnt pizza. One time, burnt water. I still don’t know how.
I filmed only my hands and food.
She was twenty-nine and worked as a nurse.
She loved old comedies and hated raisins in baked goods.
“Raisins are just sad grapes,” she wrote.
“That’s the most accurate thing anyone’s ever said.”
She laughed at my jokes.
She listened when I talked about my day.
“Your recipe tried to kill me.”
I told her about Grandma Marta. I told her my parents left when I was eight.
She went quiet for a minute after that.
“I’m sorry. That’s a lot for a kid.”
Soon we moved from texts to phone calls.
There was just one problem. Hannah didn’t know I used a wheelchair.
She was twenty-nine and worked as a nurse.
At first it never came up. Then I got scared.
After four months, she texted me one night.
“Are you ever going to ask me out?”
“I thought we were taking it slow.”
“Matt, we’ve been talking for four months.”
“That’s practically a marriage.”
Hannah didn’t know I used a wheelchair.
“Then you owe me dinner.”
“I’ll pick the restaurant.”
I told myself I’d explain everything in person. Before she saw me, or right when she did.
Obviously, a flawless plan.
On the day of our date, I got to the café early.
I stopped outside and checked my reflection in the window.
“Then you owe me dinner.”
“Looking good, Romeo.”
“Thanks.”
I turned. An older waiter stood by the entrance.
“First date?”
“Is it that obvious?”
“Flowers, nervous face, third time checking your hair. Pretty obvious.”
Obviously, a flawless plan.
I laughed.
“Actually, I might cancel.”
“Why?”
“She doesn’t know I’m in a wheelchair.”
“Ah.”
“We’ve been talking for four months. What if she sees me and leaves?”
“Looking good, Romeo.”
“Then she’s not worth your time.”
“Easy for you to say.”
“Son, I’ve been married forty years. Know what my wife said on our first date?”
“What?”
“That I was too short, too skinny, and had terrible hair.”
“She doesn’t know I’m in a wheelchair.”
I glanced at his bald head.
“She wasn’t wrong.”
He burst out laughing.
“Exactly! But she gave me a chance.”
“And?”
“Four kids, seven grandkids, and she still complains about my hair.”
“Easy for you to say.”
I smiled, then looked at the door.
“Maybe I should’ve told Hannah.”
“Maybe. But you can’t change that standing out here.”
“What if she runs?”
“Then at least you’ll know. But if you run first, you’ll spend years wondering.”
I took a breath.
“She wasn’t wrong.”
“You’re pretty wise for a waiter.”
“Don’t tell my wife. She thinks I’m an idiot.”
He held the door open.
I rolled inside.
But she was already there, at a table by the window.
“Then at least you’ll know.”
She looked up and smiled.
Then she saw me.
The smile vanished from her face.
“No! Oh God. It can’t be you!”
“Hannah, please. I should’ve told you…”
She covered her mouth with her hand.
I rolled inside.
Then she grabbed her bag and ran.
I sat in the doorway with flowers, feeling like I’d come to my own funeral.
I thought I knew why she’d run. I didn’t know a damn thing.
That night, I texted her.
“I’m sorry I wasn’t honest. You deserved to know.”
She didn’t answer.
“I should’ve told you…”
I thought that was it.
The next morning I tried again.
“Hannah, please. Just tell me you’re okay.”
Nothing.
Her reaction and those words, “It can’t be you,” gave me an idea.
So I decided to check something.
She didn’t answer.
I texted Rachel.
“Rachel, I need to ask you something.”
She answered within minutes.
