Page 48 of Physical Therapy

TWENTY-TWO

Edith

My client twists in her seat to glace out the windows at the darkening sky. As the weatherman promised, it’s due to rain. But that’s not the only promise that’s been kept of late.

While she’s distracted, I shift my weight from one ass cheek to the other. I’d love to sit square in the seat and tuck my legs against the chair, but Boe has upheld his end of the deal and kept me so damn sore that I feel it for a solid day afterward.

Constantly. For the past month.

I assumed our fire would fizzle out naturally once we’d both realized our forbidden fruit was forbidden no more. When that didn’t happen after two weeks of furious sex at any and every chance we could get, I suggested he move into my apartment on a trial basis. I honestly thought that like most couples, once we shared living space there would be a litany of bad habits that neither of us could stand.

It seems not.

He spends his days looking for new work—something outdoors—and his nights working me.

And sometimes his lunch.

Plus usually our breakfast.

“Some days I wonder if there’s really any improvement,” my client says, snapping me from my reverie. “But then I look at my new reading space and I know I’m doing better.”

Twenty-three years as a serial hoarder. Cath was referred to me after the authorities were called to her place by the neighbors. From what I’ve been told, they had to clamber over piles of junk simply to reach her. She hadn’t left the house in eighteen months.

“Exactly,” I say with a smile. “We agreed that you’d take this slow so that you don’t shock yourself with the changes, and I think you’re doing that well. But if you feel you could work on more than one room cleared every quarter, then, by all means, we can aim toward that.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” She bunches a handkerchief between her fingers, the dainty purple fabric spilling between the gaps. It’s a sign she’s agitated.

“One room a quarter it’ll stay, then.”

We all have our tells. Those little mannerisms that give us away. Most of the time we’re totally unaware we do them. It’s only when pointed out by others that we pick up on the habits.

But with some people like Cath? I let them slide. My little secret. She doesn’t need to know, and quite frankly it would only give her one more thing to unnecessarily worry over.

“We have another appointment in two weeks,” I tell her as I rise from the seat, thankful for the reprieve for my derriere. “Between now and then I’d love for you to think of four things that you’ve rediscovered in your cleaning that you can share with me. Something that sparked joy when you came across it.”

Cath smiles, taking her cue to leave. “I can do that.”

I escort her to the door and ask Molly to double check her next appointment time before Cath leaves. My phone sounds behind me on the desk. I close the door and cross the room to check the message.

You have visitors, Doc.

My heart rate immediately rackets up a notch or two.

Who?

I don’t get visitors often. And when I do, they at least have the decency to forewarn me. I’m not expecting anyone.

You should pick up a bottle of wine on the way home.

Oh, no. No, no, no, no.

I wave a hasty goodbye to Molly, leaving her to lock up, and snag the next lift heading down. The prisoner and his escorting guards all eye me curiously as I cram myself into the back corner. They’re used to riding alone; most people prefer to wait for the next car when they see the men shackled in their jumpsuits.

I couldn’t care less. I’ve got more chance of being struck by a bus crossing the street than I do being assaulted by a restrained man with two chaperones.

My heels hit the sidewalk as my phone hits my ear. “Tell me who’s at my apartment.”

Boe chuckles down the line. “This is way too much fun.”

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