Mary sat at her kitchen counter, chopping vegetables for dinner, her hands moving with practiced efficiency while her mind wandered to the man currently working in her backyard. Through the window above the sink, she could see Bert hauling bags of mulch from his truck, his T-shirt already damp with sweat despite the cool afternoon.
He’d moved into the house across the street, and in that time, their friendship had deepened in ways that both thrilled and frustrated Mary in equal measure. Because that was what they were… friends. Good friends. Kindred spirits.
And Mary was starting to accept that was all they’d ever be.
She watched Bert dump a bag of mulch around the base of the tree he’d helped her plant last month. She’d directed the project, planned the layout, and handled the details. Bert provided the muscle. It was a partnership that worked, even if it left her wanting more.
She’d accepted her limitations, knowing it wasn’t politically correct to even talk about limitations. But she’d learned to work within the parameters of what she could do and built a life that was full and meaningful despite what she’d lost. But watching Bert work in her yard, doing the things she used to do without a second thought, brought a familiar ache that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with loss.
She was thirty-two years old. A few years ago, she would have been out there with him, hauling mulch and digging holes and getting dirt under her fingernails. She would have planted that tree herself and felt the satisfaction of physical labor and the ache in her muscles that came from a job well done. Now she directed from the sidelines, her competence reduced to planning and organizing while someone else did the actual work.
Mary hated that she sometimes felt this way. Hated the moments when acceptance slipped out and resentment crept in, bitter and unwelcome. She’d worked so hard to build a new life where her wheelchair didn’t define her, where she focused on what she could do rather than what she’d lost. And most days, she succeeded. Most days, she felt capable and strong and whole.
But then there were moments like this, watching a man she cared about doing something she used to love, and she felt the weight of everything that was out of reach. Not just the physical things, though those hurt enough. But the emotional ones too.
How did Bert see her? When he looked at her, did he see Mary Smithwick, competent professional and worthy partner? Or did he see someone who needed help, someone whose environments would always require accommodation, and someone who could plan projects but never fully participate in them?
She was competent. She knew that. She ran LSIMT’s administrative operations with precision and skill, managed budgets that would make most people’s heads spin, and coordinated complex logistics across multiple time zones. She was valued, respected, and essential to the team’s success.
But competence in an office didn’t translate to the rest of life. There were still things out of reach, both literally and figuratively. Shelves too high to access. Restaurants with stairs and no ramp. And yes, the possibility of romance with someone who might see her wheelchair before he saw her.
Mary set down her knife and pressed her palms flat against the counter, feeling the cool surface ground her. This wasn’t productive thinking. Self-pity helped nothing and changed less. She’d fought too hard to let herself spiral into bitterness now.
But sometimes, in the quiet moments when she watched Bert move with easy strength through tasks she could no longer do, Mary wondered if he could ever see past what she couldn’t do to what she could offer. She wondered if friendship was all he could imagine with someone whose life came with so many complications. Wondered if she was fooling herself to hope for anything more.
Being friends had been a study in small moments and careful boundaries. Shared lunches at the compound where they’d sit together in comfortable silence, both absorbed in their work but conscious of each other’s presence. Smiles across the operations center that made Mary’s pulse skip and her day brighter. References to conversations they’d had late at night on one of their front porches.
They’d fallen into easy routines. Tuesday evenings, Bert would come over for dinner. Mary loved to cook, and her accessible kitchen with its lowered counters and specialized equipment made it a joy rather than a struggle. She’d experiment with new recipes, and Bert would eat everything she put in front of him with genuine appreciation, often asking for seconds.
Thursday nights, they’d watch TV at Mary’s house, sprawled in her comfortable living room with beer and takeout, arguing good-naturedly about movies.
Weekends often found them working on house projects together. Bert’s place needed significant updates, and Mary had appointed herself project manager, creating detailed plans and timelines that made Bert laugh and shake his head in mock exasperation. But he followed her guidance, and slowly, his house was transforming from a fixer-upper into a real home.
And in return, Bert had taken over Mary’s yard work without being asked. He mowed, raked leaves, trimmed hedges, and was now mulching before the cold set in. He worked steadily and competently, never making her feel like she owed him anything, never treating it like a burden.
It was comfortable and absolutely maddening because Mary wanted more.
She wanted the casual touches she saw between Logan and Vivian, the way his hand would rest on the small of her back when they walked together. She wanted the private smiles Sisco and Lenore shared, the kind that spoke of inside jokes and intimate moments. She wanted Landon and Noel’s easy affection that came from knowing someone and loving them deeply.
Devlin had returned from his mission in Africa, back together with Mia, the woman from his past who was now working on one of the neighboring reservations. Their newest Keeper, Tyler, was with Justice, a woman from town who also worked on the LSIMT aircraft. Todd and Sadie had given in to their attraction and were now a couple. And Casper, the Keeper she thought would always be alone, was now with Willow, an author he’d met on assignment.
She wanted Bert to cross the line from friendship into something more. But he never did. And she had come to believe it never would.
He never looked at her with pity or treated her as less capable. But there were moments when she’d catch him watching her navigate a difficult space or transfer from her chair, and something would flicker across his face. Concern, maybe. Or awareness of the complications her disability would bring to a romantic relationship.
Mary understood. She wasn’t naive about the challenges. Dating someone in a wheelchair meant thinking about accessibility for every outing, dealing with stares from strangers, and accepting that some activities would be difficult. It meant potential medical issues down the line and the reality that her condition could worsen with age. Not everyone was cut out for that, and she couldn’t blame Bert if he’d decided friendship was safer than risking a romantic relationship that came with so many complications.
It hurt, but she understood.
The back door opened, and Bert came in, brushing dirt from his hands as he moved to her sink to wash up. He stood close enough that Mary could smell the clean scent of the outdoors clinging to him.
“You know you don’t have to do my yardwork,” she insisted.
“I promised you’d have flower beds ready for spring planting. Can’t have you thinking I don’t follow through on my commitments.”
Mary smiled despite the ache in her chest. “I would never think that. You’re the most reliable person I know.”
Something flickered in his eyes as he dried his hands on the towel she kept hanging by the sink. “That’s what friends do, right? Show up for each other.”