Page 12 of My (Not So) Perfect Plan

“Yeah.”

He scans the side of the box and shoves the box in my hands. “Have a good day.”

I look down at the box. An envelope is taped to the top. What the heck?

I maneuvere my way inside and by the time I get back to the couch, I am sweating. I don’t care who comes to the door next, there is no chance I am going to answer the door again. Ipull the envelope off and pull out a single card of plain stock. It is a short letter.

Dear Evan,

Heard you had a horrible week last week. Hope this one’s better. I just wanted to say, get well soon. Since you have to lay around doing a lot of nothing, I thought maybe you could do it like Romans. At least until this box is gone.

-Claire

Claire, the girl I was tutoring? Weird. Nice, but weird. And how did she get my address? I set aside the envelope and open the box. Chocolate dipped strawberries. I read the note again envisioning some sort of debauched Roman party where people lounged around in togas and ate chocolate dipped strawberries along with their grapes and wine. I laugh.

They look surprisingly good. I momentarily consider sharing them with mom, but then realize I don’t want the questions. I eat two and they are really good. Not bring a smile to my face good, but the fact that anyone thought to send me anything makes me feel a smidge less sucky.

We drive to my first physical therapy appointment on Thursday afternoon and I am crabby as a poked bear. My mother trys to help me with the crutches, but I shove her hands away, annoyed with her constantly trying to mother hen me. And then I feel like a tool for treating her like crap.

Of course, karma’s a witch so as soon as I get out of the car, my crutch slips and I fall to the ground. I have to do everything I can to avoid landing on my bad leg. Two people come rushing out of the clinic with a wheel chair and manage to get me into it. I don’t look at any of them because it is too humiliating, getting treated like a baby. They push me insidewhile the back of my neck and my ears flame red and I silently scream epithets against my leg.

They park us in the waiting room and ten minutes later usher us into the physical therapy room. There is all the usual equipment you’d expect to see in a physical therapy room: a thing with railings for walking, big exercise balls, a few padded tables, some weights. But what draws my eye is the back of a tall young therapist in scrubs that does wonderful things for her rear end and waist. I am just about to thank my lucky stars for the universe finally sending me a break in having a hot, young therapist when she turns around.

My jaw just about hits the floor.

“Claire?” I croak out.

THREE

CLAIRE

Evan looks like he swallowed a frog, both dismayed and terrified. Gee, is it really so bad to see me?

“Hi, Evan.” I awkwardly wave the chart at him, feeling really uncomfortable and wondering again why it is that Joanna has me be the one to log him in. I mean, I know why. The second she heard that I knew him, she thought it would be a great idea for me to do it so “he’ll be more comfortable.” Why do I get the feeling her plan is completely backfiring?

He looks terrible. Black rings under his eyes tell me he hasn’t been sleeping, and while he has the beginnings of a sigh-worthy beard going, I can only assume it’s because he just didn’t care enough to shave. He frowns at me.

“What are you doing here?” he growls out.

I ignore him and look at his mother. I’ve never met her, but her blonde hair is carefully coifed and her tailored button up, ankle length slacks, and ballet flats all scream money. These people are out of my league. Uber professional it is then.

“Hi, Mrs Carmichael,” I say, going up to her and offering my hand. “I’m Claire Brown. I go to school with your son, but I volunteer at the clinic in the afternoons a few days out of the week.”

She shakes my hand, curiosity burning in her gaze. How do I tell her that her son and I have basically zero history?

“I’m just going to get him checked in and do the basic questions and then Joanna, the therapist, will come in and we’ll start. You’re welcome to stay, but if you’d rather wait in the waiting room, there’s free wifi.”

She nods at me and takes a seat on a bench. I sit down on a rolling stool and move over to Evan, clicking my pen open and flipping open the chart. His gaze drills into mine, slightly tormented if I have to guess.

“Okay,” I say to him with the same easy smile I give all my patients, “let’s get started.”

“Easy, go easy, slow,” Joanna says, holding Evan’s leg in place. “You don’t need to go fast. Going faster is not going to help your leg heal faster. And don’t push it. It’ll be painful, but if it’s excruciating, stop. The point of these exercises is to keep your muscle tone up so you have great pot surgery recovery.”

Evan sighed and slammed his head back on the table.

“All right. I’m going to show you some exercises you can do at home. If you need help, maybe your mom can help you. Or maybe Claire can come over?” Joanna winks at me and I do everything I can to keep from blushing because yeah, that is not going to happen. I can just see me in Evan’s McMansion. Pfft.

“Let’s start with some leg extensions. We don’t want you getting locked up in here. Here, Claire, I want you to help him sit up.”

---