Page 2 of Physical Therapy

TWO

Edith

“Thank you, Sarah. I’ll see you next week.”

Thank God for that. I close the door behind my last client and draw a deep breath. I love what I do. I love what I do. Dammit. I can tell myself that all day long but it doesn’t change the raw truth that sometimes—just sometimes—I wish I had somebody to call in sick to.

The downside of being your own boss, I guess.

“Suck it up, Edith.” I cross back to my desk and pull up the notes on my MacBook for the next client. “Two more appointments and then it’s home time.”

He’s new. Court-appointed. Aggression. Ugh. I slump back into my ergonomic chair and draw yet another deep breath. I teach people how to use these tools for a living, and yet I can’t seem to get a grasp on them myself.

I want to work with kids. At risk youth. Not an over-cocky testosterone fuelled asshole that thinks a great idea of a night out is leaving some guy at the bar with a permanent scar on his face.

I blindly reach out and slap my hand on the desk until I locate the phone. Lifting the receiver, I feel my way down to the button on the far right that links me to my receptionist.

“Molly. Can you send in my next client, please?”

“Sure thing, Edith.”

I use the fifteen seconds it takes for people to enter from the waiting room to straighten my blouse and skim over his notes once more.

Boe Johansson.

Aggravated assault.

Third conviction.

Mandated therapy as a diversion from sentencing.

My fingers drift to the top button on my blouse, securing it tightly. Suddenly it doesn’t seem so ridiculous to wear a skirt that wraps mid-calf today, after all. The guy is probably rough as hell, tattooed in places that make employment awkward, and with eyes that wander to places I’d rather they didn’t.

My fingers drum the oak top of my desk, the gentle tick of the clock on the corner echoing in my quiet office.

A full minute passes and still no client.

“Molly?”

“I’m sorry. He’s on a call.”

“So interrupt him. If he wants this booking, he needs to come in now.”

She sighs. “I’ve tried. He waves me off.” I open my mouth to reply, yet she continues. “Oh, no. Wait. He’s done now.”

“Thank you.” I disconnect and wait him out with my hands clasped before me.

My desk sits opposite the door, giving me perfect positioning to stare him down as he enters. I’m not above asserting authority when I need to.

The handle turns, the snick of the lock as it disengages my cue to straighten my back and draw a final deep breath. I sit a little taller as the door opens, my lips in a firm line and one eyebrow cocked.

This little jailbird is about to find out what happens when you inconvenience your therapist—especially when she’s already had a rough day.

The door swings wide and my next client walks in, head down and focused on his phone.

Oh my. Both eyebrows lift as I take in the fine specimen before me. Oh, wow.

This session just became way more interesting.

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