How do you know if you truly love someone?

There was a time a time in my life when I never believed in love. I grew up in a world of privilege. My two brothers, Gatsby and Atticus, and my sister, Ophelia, were raised by our nannies and had everything we ever wanted. Our parents had houses in Los Angeles, New York, Montana, an apartment in Paris, and another one is being built in Dubai.

When we were little, the family had more cars than I could even count – our father, Dr. Wild – is an avid collector. We each got a new car of our choosing as soon as we turned 16, and each one of us promptly crashed it soon after. I think it was O – we’ve always called Ophelia O – who kept her first car, a brand new Mercedes, the most expensive class of that year, the longest. Six months, I believe.

My mother never cooked, but every night that we had dinner at home, we always had a delicious gourmet meal prepared by our personal chef. Our birthdays were lavish and expensive. Each one probably cost as much as a regular couple’s wedding. They were extravagant, with different themes and costumes and close to 400 guests each time. That doesn’t sound like a fun birthday party for a five-year-old, but the entire school was invited so most of them were.

Our exclusive private school didn’t have a school bus to get us to school, and the responsibility fell to our nannies to deliver us there and pick us up after each of our after school activities. O did theater. Gatsby and I played lacrosse. Atticus was in the band.

Our parents were always there to cheer for us – always physically present – and yet emotionally and metaphysically away. It’s hard to explain now, difficult to put into words, but it was as if they were never really there.

Ever since I can remember, our parents had their own lives. My father, the renowned doctor and later the founder of a prosperous pharmaceutical company, worked late into the night and all weekends. He was always traveling and running meetings.

My mother had her philanthropic activities. She was the head of a number of boards that raised money for a variety of noble causes. She didn’t get paid, but she worked nearly as hard as he did and organized all of our days and the house staff on top of all that.

It’s maybe cruel to say this, but my parents gave me the impression that love only meant one thing. My parents said that they loved us, but their love was complicated. It came with expectations and, inevitably, disappointments. It was never the kind of love often featured in movies. They were never mushy and hopeful and exuberant. They were both too busy with either work or their social obligations to really show love. Or at least, the way I expected it to be.

And so, coming back to my original thought. How do you know if you truly love someone? How am I expected to know if I love someone if their love was the kind of love I had only ever known?

Before I broke both of my legs riding a wild stallion, I never had time to think about these things. But now that I’m bed bound for more than six weeks, it seems all I do is think. I had to remain active somehow, and my mind was the only place I had left.

Brielle enters the room carrying two cups of tea on a tray. She has been here for six weeks. Six of the happiest weeks of my life. I have never been immobile for this long before, and yet her presence has made it, somehow, bearable. If it weren’t for her, I’d be tearing my hair out. I’d be drunk all day just to pass the time. And yet, with her here, we find things to do that do not involve going outside much or using our legs.

* * *

I think I’m falling in love with Brielle. Her long hair, her tender eyes, her soft skin. I don’t know anything about love, I’m the first to admit it. Yet, I also know that I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. Sometimes, when I see her, my heart jumps into my throat, and I forget to breathe.

Other times, when she’s away from me for a couple of hours, I feel anxious and uncertain. I don’t know what to do with myself and spend the hours just looking out of the window or staring aimlessly at the television screen. I can’t read a word that makes sense. All I can do is wait for her to return.

Brielle has been bringing me breakfast, lunch, and dinner and has made Mr. Whitewater all but useless. The responsibility of those things would’ve fallen to him, but she asked him if she could do it. I think she likes being useful. In fact, I’ve never met someone who enjoys being useful so much. It’s almost as if she really loves taking care of me.

I feel myself falling in love with Brielle, even though I’m not sure if I know what that means. But does anyone? Isn’t love just some sort of feeling that bubbles up from within us, from some place deep within our core that we didn’t even know existed?

There is one problem, however. And it’s a big one. We – Brielle and I – have decided to keep things professional. I believe that the only reason she’s even here is that our relationship is now strictly professional. Or so she has called it. But in reality, it’s not professional at all. Only a fool would think that our interaction is professional. We are more like friends. Close, close friends. And it’s clear, at least I think it is, that I want more.

“What a beautiful morning, right?” she says plopping down on the couch next to me. “What do you want to do today?”

I want to kiss you, undress and lay in bed looking at and exploring your naked body until dinner. I want to say this to her, but instead I lie.

“Not sure, whatever,” I shrug and remember her hurtful words.

“No more kissing, no more romance, or whatever it was that was happening between us,” she said in my hospital room. I felt woozy from all the pain killers, but I remember each one of her words as if she said it a minute ago. “I just want to work here for the year, like I’d agreed, and be friends.”

“Okay,” I had agreed.

“You promise?” she asked. “This is one of my conditions of staying. The only one.”

I remember looking into her deep brown eyes and nodding. Then agreeing verbally to the only thing that would keep her in my life.

* * *

“You feeling alright?” she asks. Neither of us has said a word in a few moments. She touches my hand with hers sending shivers up and down my legs, as always. My cock grows hard, and I press down on it, trying to calm it. Ever since we’d decided to be friends, she started touching me more and more. More than she ever had before. But the touching is not sexual, at least not on her part. Just a pat of the hand, a small hug, a nudge, but each touch still makes me get hard.

I want her. I want her up against the wall. On the bed. Outside in the desert. In the shower.

“Hey, Wyatt?” she asks leaning close to me with a look of concern on her face. “How are you, today? Is everything okay?”

“I’m good,” I fake a smile. “Why?”

“Something seems off,” she shrugs. “Oh, I almost forgot, I got your pills, here.”

I stare at her. Brielle mentions the pills in the same nonchalant way she has for the last six weeks, but this is the first day that I turn them down.

“Nah, I’m feeling okay. I don’t think I need them today.”

Her face lights up. “That’s great!” she wraps her arms around me. “I’m so happy. You’re making so much progress. Maybe you’ll be able to take the casts off soon, too.”

Now, there’s a thought. To stand up and hold my body weight with my own two feet. I’ve taken that for granted for so many years. Then when I suddenly couldn’t stand up on my feet and had to use crutches…the helplessness that came with that was unimaginable.

I smile with my whole body at the thought of taking the casts off.

“Yeah, I can’t wait,” I say. “I hate being a blimp. I feel like I’m totally useless. And like I’m getting fat.”

Brielle laughs. It’s a small, quiet laugh that only gives me a small peek at her perfect white teeth. Then she looks me up and down.

“No, not at all.”

“You have no idea how hard this has been for me. I mean, I know it hasn’t been easy for you at all, waiting on me all the time. Which again, you don’t really have to do. We have staff here for that,” I say.

She starts to say something, but I cut her off. I know what she’s going to say. She is the staff, she’s happy to do it, or something in that vein.

“That’s not what I want to say. What I mean is that it’s been really hard for me to be so inactive for so long. I love being outdoors. I love riding horses. Playing basketball. Football. Baseball. Whatever. Using my body is a huge part of my life, and these past six weeks, it’s like I’ve become someone else. I couldn’t do that. And if it weren’t for you…I would’ve been completely lost. It would’ve been much more hard. So what I’m really trying to say, very artfully, is thank you. Thank you so much for being here. And being you.”

Brielle takes a moment to internalize what I’ve said. Then she leans close to me. It takes all of my strength not to place my lips on hers, but I’ve long made myself a promise that it would be her, this time, who has to make the first move.

“It has been my pleasure,” she whispers in my ear and pulls away.

* * *

Brielle jumps off the couch and the mood in the room changes. I watch her walk over to the large floor to ceiling window looking out onto the desert in front of us. A large raven perches on top of a crooked Joshua tree in the distance and then flies away.

“I finally found some tape, and I’m going to take care of that bird problem,” she says. By bird problem, she means that too many birds are flying into our spotless window and killing themselves. Mr. Whitewater, who washes that window almost every other day, isn’t going to be happy, and we both know it.

“You know, he has been hiding this thing from me for all of these weeks,” she says with a smile and picks up the roll of duct tape from the tray. “I’ve been asking him for it forever.”

“What can I say, he loves keeping that window clean.”

“I know he does, and the view from it is beautiful. But we can’t just sit by and do nothing as birds continue to kill themselves on it practically every day.”

“I guess not,” I chuckle.

“Where do you think I should put it?” Brielle asks.

Over my hands and then to the headboard, so that I can’t touch you as you go down on me. And then I will wrap it around your hands and do the same to you.

Of course, I don’t say any of that out loud. Instead, I point to a few spots on the window, which have resulted in the largest amount of casualties.

“You know, I talked to my mother again this morning,” Brielle says as she tapes the window.

“Oh yeah, how is she?” I ask. I only mildly care. Don’t get me wrong, I’m glad she’s doing bette,r but mainly because that means that Brielle doesn’t have to go back home and take care of her.

“She’s doing even better than before,” she smiles.

The $250,000 check that I sent her for her mother’s treatment was worth that smile alone. Brielle starts telling me all the details about how her mother’s feeling. Her breathing is improving, not much pain in her hips, blah, blah, blah. All the information comes into one ear and goes out the other. I’m not paying attention. Not even a little bit.

Instead, my mind drifts elsewhere. I look at Brielle’s round butt and the way it fills out her jeans. Her jeans have little decorative hearts on the back pockets, and they draw my eye on the roundest part of her body. I don’t know why clothing designers put them there. Do they know that they make women’s butts look irresistible? Is that the whole point? Do the women know just how hard it is to look away from those two little hearts? Does Brielle?

When she turns to face me and tell me something else about her mom’s condition, my gaze runs up her body. Brielle’s small waist accentuates her hips, making them appear wider than they really are. Then I land on her breasts. She doesn’t wear a bra often, but her breasts are firm and erect. When the temperature in the room falls below 75 degrees Fahrenheit, her nipples get erect and resemble the tips of a ripe strawberry. I’ve gotten into the habit of turning down the furnace and praying each morning that today would be the day that she again chooses to go without a bra.

“Hey, are you listening?” Brielle asks.

“Yeah, so your mom is happy with the new doctor?” I parrot the last thing that she said to me. I developed this talent of reiterating the last line that someone said back in sixth grade, and it has served me well way after I was done with formal education.

My words put her at ease, and she continues on with her story while I curse myself for ever agreeing to be this hot girl’s friend.

Fuck being friends!

We shouldn’t be just friends.

Friends with benefits maybe.

Fuck buddies.

Lovers.

Girlfriend?

Fiancé even.

Maybe more.

I shudder at the places that mind is going. Girlfriend, maybe. I’ve had a few girls who I liked enough to call my girlfriend. But fiancé? Really, Wyatt? What are you thinking? That’s exactly it, though. I’m not thinking. I’m just feeling.