Page 6 of Healing Love

"Nobody I can't handle," I tell him, dismissing his concern. Elliot doesn't buy it, but I'm counting on him not wanting to prolong an awkward conversation or any conversation for that matter.

He opens and closes his mouth before frowning. His dark eyebrows furrow together as he picks me apart, piece by piece. Finally, he gives me a single nod, which apparently means we don’t have to talk about it anymore.

We get through the rest of the session without another incident, though I notice Elliot making an effort to verbalize his agreement in words instead of grunts or sarcastic remarks. That’s progress, right?

“See you next week,” I tell Elliot when our time is up. “If you’re still in the same amount of pain next week, I’ll know you didn’t follow my orders,” I warn him.

Elliot turns around and gives me a salute before disappearing down the hallway. I stare after him, blinking a few times, still not believing he made a joke. A silent joke, of course, but it’s more life than I saw in him last week. That has to be a good sign.

3

ELLIOT

Islug back the rest of my coffee, though I don't think the caffeine is working anymore. After six cups, I'm still dragging this afternoon. I woke up before the sun and ended up tossing and turning for an hour until finally rolling my tired ass out of bed.

I reluctantly did the set of stretches Brielle assigned to me, and as much as I hate to admit it, her minor adjustments to my form helped make things more bearable. My leg still spasms and I have moments of sharp, piercing pain like a mother fucker, but I can honestly say I feel better this week than I did last week.

Thanks to Brielle.

Rubbing my eyes, I try to clear thoughts of the curvy, blue-eyed beauty from my mind, but it’s no use. I’m reminded of her every time I do my stretches - three times a day, as per her orders. I think of Brielle in the mornings when the sun is rising and the dark reds bleed into oranges and yellows, like her strawberry blonde hair. Hell, just looking up at the sky on a clear day reminds me of her crystal blue eyes, filled with understanding and kindness.

I check my phone, taking a fortifying breath when I see it’s time for me to get ready for this week’s physical therapy session. So far, Brielle hasn’t pushed any further on having me show her my leg, which I appreciate.

As I step out of my cabin, I see Wilder and Huxley walking across the meadow in the middle of our circle of homes. For a second, I almost yank the door open and hide inside, but he already saw me, so that would just make things even weirder between us.

I shove my hands in my pockets and nod in their direction as I slowly make my way over there.

“Elliot, what’s up?” Huxley asks, giving me a friendly smile. He’s always been the more outgoing one of the group.

“Just, ah, headed into town,” I say, glancing at Wilder before making eye contact with Huxley. The flash of guilt in Wilder’s eyes feels like a knife twisting in my gut.

I wish I could tell him I don't blame him, but the words won't come out. It's never been about placing blame. The wedge between Wilder and me is mostly on my end. How do I tell someone that I can't stand the way they look at me? Like I'm pathetic and to be pitied?

Wilder is a reminder of that day, more so than the others, because he was with me the whole time. He saw the worst of my injuries and carried me to safety. Wilder saved my life… but I don’t know how to express any of that without getting tongue-tied and sounding like a sappy fool.

“Yeah, how’s the physical therapy going?” Huxley asks.

I wipe a hand over my mouth and tug and my beard, apparently hoping I’ll find some answers in there. “Fine,” I settle on. Say more words, my mind screams at me. Nothing will get better if nothing changes. “Uh, the new girl that was assigned to me is better than the last few people I had.”

“That’s good,” Wilder says, trying to join the conversation. “How’s it healing up?”

“Fine,” I say again. “Some days are better than others.” Wilder nods, and it’s on the tip of my tongue to say it. To tell him it’s not his fault, that he didn’t kill my dreams. Instead, I clear my throat and fish the keys to the truck out of my pocket. “Better get going,” I tell Huxley and Wilder.

Both men nod and say their goodbyes while I climb into the truck and head down the mountain. My thoughts are all scrambled, and now my leg is throbbing, making it difficult to concentrate on anything. By the time I pull into the Veterans Affairs building, I’m in a shit mood. All resolutions to be more cooperative today have flown out the window. I’m in survival mode now.

Brielle is waiting by the receptionist’s desk when I walk in the door, giving me her signature bright smile. How can she be so happy all the damn time? Doesn’t life ever kick her in the face? Has she never faced adversity? I suppose she’s young - a solid decade or more younger than I am. Give it a few years and she’ll have a chip on her shoulder, too.

“Hi, Elliot!” Brielle greets me, those blue eyes sparkling with an innocence I lost years ago.

My first instinct is to growl at her, but I manage to stay silent. That might not be polite, but at least it’s not as rude as I would have been a few weeks ago.

“Rough day?” she asks as we walk toward her office.

“Something like that,” I rasp. What I don’t say is that every day is a rough day. From morning till night, I sulk around, carrying anger, guilt, and shame like lead weights around my neck. If I gave her a peek into the dark, twisted, depressing thoughts that run through my brain on a daily basis, she’d be scarred for life.

“Want to talk about it?” she asks once we get into her office.

“Don’t see how that would help anything,” I answer honestly. Brielle gives me a soft smile that I don’t deserve. Why won’t she take the hint and either ditch me like my other medical professionals or stop talking to me like most of my friends and whatever is left of my family?

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