Page 20 of My (Not So) Perfect Plan

“Harry, his father, doesn’t like to have stuff out in the house. Just leave the door open, and I’m sure it will be fine. I trust you, dear.”

He switches it to a make out session with an imaginary person right in front of him. My face is slowly turning the color of a tomato.

“If you think swimming would help, the pool is right through these sliding glass doors,” Mrs. Carmichael turns, catching Evan with his hands in the air. Evan starts flapping them around wildly.

“There was a fly.”

I button up my lip and press down hard so I don’t laugh. Professionalism. Professionalism, I remind myself.

She draws aside a set of up and down door blinds to reveal a beautiful pool only a few steps away from the room. “It’s heated and I’ve heard that less resistance exercises can be good for therapy.”

Images of a shirtless Evan invade my brain and I have to shake them off.

“It just depends.” My eyes dart over to Evan, he has one hand up his shirt like he’s scratching his chest, his abdomen exposed. My eyes flare open because his real musculature is so much better than what my imagination had provided. I look away, but not before he smirks at me, causing me to blush. I suppose I should be happy he is getting back to his usual self because at least the bitterness and sadness that were in his eyes is gone for a bit.

I set our backpacks down on the bed, more or less resigned to the fact that I’m not getting out of doing PT in his bedroom. Intro the interior fanning because Claire Brown is in Evan Carmichael’s bedroom!! Squee!

His mother leaves us to it and Evan heads over to a desk he has set up in a corner. He lets himself kind of fall into the desk chair only he doesn’t account for it rolling, and the back being the kind that tips backwards. I see him going over in slow motion, but by the time I can react, he’s already on the floor.

“Oh my gosh! Evan!” I shout and run over to him. I check him all over, trying to see his face because I want to make sure he’s not in pain or hadn’t injured his leg further. He props himself up on his elbows groaning, his face is dark with embarrassment and anger, and I get a glimpse of what he might have looked like as a kid with scraped knees.

“What the hell?” His good foot shoves at the chair sending it careening ten feet away into a bookshelf. Ok. Sooo not a kid. I can tell he’s trying to get his emotions under control. He probably hates having a witness and just wants to have a complete melt down, but he’s manfully restraining himself.

“Hey, hey, come on, big boy,” I put a hand on his waist to help him rise because now I’m in my element and know what I’m doing. Hotties with smoldering eyes turn me inside out, but a guy suffering through the loss of a dream and a body in need of help? I’m your gal. I help get him to his feet, and pass him his crutches.

“First of all, no more rolling chairs.” He snorts. I help him to the table where we will do the majority of the exercises. I take his crutches and lean then against the wall while he situates himself on the table.

“Second, stop throwing yourself around. Everything you do has to be done with care.” I make sure to keep my voice and actions brisk and professional, like I would with any other patient. It helps if I don’t look at his face.

Evan might be tutor and peer, but right now, he’s a patient in need of physical therapy. This is good practice for me, even if it is just helping him do exercises that he’d normally be doing with his mom. He’s silent as I help him lift his leg into position. I can feel him watching me, but I distract myself by thinking about what other advice I want to give him.

“Third, give yourself a break. You have a ton of stuff to deal with right now. I know it’s not easy to hear, but stress will make everything worse. One day at a time. One moment at a time. One step at a time. No pressure.”

He laughs bitterly and wipes his eyes with the heels of his palms. “Are you even listening to yourself? Do you realize Ijust had my future ripped away? I have nothing. Everything I’ve worked for since I was a kid, gone. Poof. What are talking about, don’t stress? How the hell could I not stress?”

His words hurt, because they are intended to make me feel small, but it’s not anything I haven’t dealt with before when working at the clinic.

“Keep working your leg, Carmichael,” I say firmly.

“Shoot. What’s the point?” He throws an arm over his face. He drops his leg weight into my hands like he doesn’t care and then bites back a groan. I know it had to be painful and it pisses me off.

“You want to end up an obese dude?” I ask him, laying his leg back down on the table and fisting my hands on my hips.

He lifts his arm off his eyes and drills me with a glare. “What?”

I’ve startled him with my question. Heat makes my glasses fog up, but desperate times call for desperate measures.

“Oh, does that make you mad, Carmichael? The idea of you not having this gorgeous body to tempt all the ladies with?”

“What the heck are you talking about?”

“If you don’t get your body to the point where you can run and exercise, you not only risk injuring yourself again doing stuff not nearly as dangerous as playing football, the caloric intake you’re accustomed to because of football is going to blow you up. Let’s see how all the ladies love you then,” I snicker. “So you can wallow in the cruddy hand you’ve been given, or you can actually start to help yourself.”

“What’s this supposed to be, like ‘tough love’ or something?”

“Or something.”

He doesn’t say anything and I cross my arms over my chest. I’m not going to help him if he won’t help himself. Then again, my job as a physical therapist volunteer is to help get his body back as much as possible. It would hurt me to know that defeatism kept him from doing that. I firm up my will. Even if he doesn’t want this for himself, I want it for him.

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