Chapter 4: Mae and Liam
The silence at the table after Eleanor’s departure was thick and brittle, like ice over a fast-moving stream. Liam stared at the spot where she’d vanished into the crowd, his jaw set. Mae sat rigid in the sit-ski, the helmet suddenly feeling like it weighed a hundred pounds, trapping the hot flush of shame against her skin. The cheerful clatter of the restaurant felt obscenely loud, the smell of roasting meat and cheese sour in her stomach. She could still feel the cold pressure of her mother’s fingers checking the diaper through the layers, the casual violation witnessed by Liam.
He finally turned back, dragging a hand through his flattened hair. His usual easygoing expression was replaced by a careful neutrality. He picked up a menu, stared at it without seeing, then put it down again. "Right," he said, his voice rough. "Hot chocolate."
He reached for the large mug, pushing it carefully towards Mae. The whipped cream had slumped. "Here. Warm you up."
Mae stared at the mug. Her mittened hands, freed from the sit-ski handles but still encased in bulky leather, rested uselessly on the table. She couldn’t grip it. Couldn’t lift it without spilling. The reality of her constraints, highlighted so brutally moments before, felt suffocating. She shook her head minutely inside the helmet.
Liam followed her gaze, understanding dawning. "Ah. Right. Sorry." He looked around, then picked up the mug himself. He leaned in slightly, holding it near the bottom edge of her helmet’s face opening. "Can you manage a sip? Tilt your head?"
It was awkward. Humiliating. She had to crane her neck forward, the helmet scraping the rim of the mug. The rich, sweet liquid was almost painfully hot on her tongue after the cold and the mouthguard. She managed a small sip, the warmth spreading in her chest, a tiny counterpoint to the icy knot in her stomach. Liam held the mug steady, his gaze fixed on the process, avoiding her eyes. The simple act felt intimate and deeply infantilizing.
"Better?" he asked as she pulled back.
"A bit," she rasped, the word tasting of chocolate and shame.
The arrival of the Rösti was a welcome, noisy distraction. Liam cut a piece of the crispy potato cake laden with melted cheese and bacon, spearing it carefully. He held it near her mouth. Another act of service, another reminder. She ate, the food tasting like ash despite its richness. He ate his own meal methodically, his eyes scanning the room, the slopes outside, anywhere but lingering on her.
The silence stretched, filled only by the clink of cutlery and the restaurant's roar. Mae felt the pressure of unspoken words building. She’d seen the flicker in Liam’s eyes when Eleanor had unzipped her. He’d looked away, but he’d seen. He knew. The carefully constructed narrative of her ‘care requirements’ had just collided messily with a mother’s casual dehumanization.
"It’s… practical," Mae blurted suddenly, her voice small against the noise. Liam paused, fork halfway to his mouth, and looked at her, really looked at her through the helmet gap. "The… the layers. The restraints. Even the helmet." She forced the words out, staring at the condensation on her untouched water glass. "On days like this. Cold. Wind." She swallowed. "The extra padding… insulates. Against the cold. The harness… it holds you steady. Safer. Less… jarring." She couldn’t bring herself to say the word ‘diaper’. "And the helmet… it’s… muffling. But sometimes… sometimes the world is too loud. Too bright. It helps. Like… like wearing ear defenders. Sometimes."
She risked a glance at him. He was listening intently, his food forgotten. There was no pity on his face now. Just a deep, focused attention. He nodded slowly. "Okay," he said quietly. "That makes sense. Practical." He seemed to turn the concept over. "Like adaptive gear. For the cold. For the sensory stuff." He took a breath. "The… diagnosis. Did it help? Figuring that out? The sensory part?"
Mae blinked. No one had ever asked her that. Not like this. Not without an agenda. Patricia documented. Eleanor dictated. Therapists probed with forms. Liam was just… asking.
"It… explained things," Mae said carefully, choosing her words like stepping stones over deep water. "Why textures felt wrong sometimes. Why lights could feel… loud. Why crowds…" She gestured vaguely at the packed restaurant. "It gave names. Made it feel less like… like being broken. Just… wired different. Sometimes the things they call help…" She shifted slightly, the diaper rustling faintly beneath her snowsuit, “…they actually are help. In certain situations. Like… like an anorak in a blizzard." The analogy felt clumsy, but it was the best she had.
Liam absorbed this. He pushed his half-eaten Rösti aside. "And the rest of it?" he asked, his voice low, almost lost in the ambient noise. "The… supervision? The…" His gaze flickered downwards for an instant, then snapped back to her face. "The lack of control?" He wasn't accusatory. He sounded genuinely curious, trying to understand the dissonance between the woman who spoke of particle physics and the woman whose snowsuit had been unzipped for a diaper check.
Mae froze. That was the heart of it, wasn't it? The prison inside the practicality. The cage built from well-meaning (and sometimes not-so-well-meaning) ‘care’. She looked out the window, at the skiers swooping down the gentle slope. Free. Unburdened. "That part," she whispered, the sound barely escaping the helmet, "isn't practical." The bitterness surprised even her. "That part is… just how it is." She met his gaze, her green eyes startlingly clear and sharp despite the helmet’s confines. "For now."
Liam held her look for a long moment. The noise of the restaurant faded to a dull roar. He didn't offer platitudes. Didn't tell her she was brave. He just gave a single, slow nod. "Yeah," he said, his voice rough. "Yeah, I get that." He looked down at his watch. "Nearly two forty-five. Should get you strapped back in."
The process was efficient. Liam re-secured the chest harness, the diagonal straps. Click, click. The D-ring tethers snapped onto her ankle and wrist cuffs, securing her arms and legs to the frame. He clipped the retractable cords onto her mittens, ready to attach to the handles once outside. Each buckle, each snap, felt heavier than before. The brief, fragile moment of understanding was being locked away beneath straps and buckles.
Finally, he picked up the mouthguard. He held it for a moment, looking at the rigid plastic. "Ready?" His voice was gentle.
Mae took a deep breath, the air cool on her tongue. The taste of chocolate and freedom lingered, soon to be replaced by rubber and silence. She nodded. He slid the tray into her mouth, the rigid plastic pressing against her teeth and gums. He fastened the clip to her chin strap.
The world narrowed instantly. Sound became muffled, indistinct. Her own breathing loud inside her head. The helmet felt tighter. Her vision tunneled slightly through the opening. She was contained. Secured. Practical. Liam stood, pulling on his own jacket and gloves. He took hold of the guide bar. "Alright, Maeve," he said, his voice distant and distorted through the guard. "Back to the physics lab."
He maneuvered the sit-ski towards the exit. As they pushed through the heavy wooden door, the bite of the mountain air was a shock after the restaurant’s warmth. Brilliant winter sunlight glared off the snow. Mae blinked, adjusting. Liam clicked her mittened hands onto the sit-ski handles. The final connection. He positioned himself behind her, gripping the guide bar.
The nursery slope stretched out before them, quieter now, the afternoon light lengthening the shadows from the pines. The cold air burned her exposed cheeks, a sharp counterpoint to the trapped warmth inside the helmet and the bulky snowsuit. Beneath it all, the diaper was a constant, inescapable presence, a heavy, rustling reality.
Liam gave the sit-ski a small push. "Lean with it," his muffled voice instructed. "Find the rhythm."
The runners hissed on the packed snow. Mae felt the familiar tilt, the glide. She leaned instinctively into the first gentle turn, the harness holding her firm, the restraints keeping her limbs anchored. The wind rushed past her helmet, a low roar in her ears. The speed was still there. The glide. The quiet power of motion.
But the exhilaration from the morning was gone, replaced by a complex tangle. Shame still burned, deep and cold. Resentment at the straps and the plastic in her mouth. A flicker of defiance sparked by that brief, raw conversation. And beneath it all, that persistent, unsettling hum of possibility she’d felt under the intense gaze of the dark-eyed instructor – a possibility that felt both terrifying and magnetic, a different kind of edge entirely.
She leaned harder into the next turn, pushing the sit-ski to carve a tighter arc. The runners bit deeper. Snow sprayed up. The diaper rustled loudly with the jolt. Liam adjusted his grip on the guide bar behind her, his presence a steady counterweight. Mae stared down the slope, through the helmet's opening, her green eyes narrowed against the wind and the glare. The mountain air tasted of snow and confinement and something else now. Something sharp. Electric. Unnamed. She focused on the hiss of the skis, the vibration through the frame, the feel of the cold, clean wind on her skin. She focused on moving. Forward.