Page 44 of Revive Me

As I start to untie the shoe that the weight dropped on, that gets him talking.

“Don’t,” he bites out.

My brow furrows as I glare up at him. “I have to check. You may have broken something.”

“Wouldn’t matter. It’s not like I need the foot anyway.”

With a growl of frustration, I straighten to stand before him, planting my hands on my hips. “What iswrongwith you today?”

He holds my eyes in challenge but doesn’t answer.

But something in his defensive expression makes me soften, and I remind myself that he’s struggling with a big hurdle in his recovery.

“Is this because of last week?” I ask, pushing through my hesitance around the subject. “Because you know that doesn’t mean anything to me. I know with your injury?—”

The reminder of our last session makes his face instantly blaze with visible humiliation. He spins away from me and starts to move in the opposite direction.

“Roman, comeon, you can’t let something like that stop your recovery.” When I jump in front of him, and he brakes so he doesn’t hit me.

“If you care about my recoveryat all,” he says with his jaw clenched, “you’ll never mention last week ever again.”

Swallowing thickly, I nod. “Okay. I understand... But only if you don’t let it affect your sessions. You can’t do what you just did, it’s dangerous.”

“You don’t get to set my limits, Liliana,” he spits, trying to get around me.

I hold my ground, determined to have this conversation.

“Isn’t it against your physical therapist oath to hold your patients’ disabilities against them?” He gestures to his wheelchair and lack of mobility.

“No,” I snap without a second thought. “And even if it was, I’d still use whatever cheat method I could to get you to talk to me.”

“I don’t want to fucking talk to you,” he barks.

“Too fucking bad,” I bark back. “Clearly, it’s affecting your therapy. We can’t work on your recovery until we move past whatever this is.”

He looks away, an angry scowl on his face. It’s the first time in weeks that he’s thrown what can only be called a temper tantrum.

“Did you honestly think this recovery process wouldn’t come with hiccups?” I ask, holding firm in my stance and my confrontation. This feels like a make-or-break moment. “Did you think it was just a matter of lifting a bunch of weights, of committing to some walking exercises, and that was it?”

His frown deepening tells me I nailed it.

“It’s hard work, Roman. There aregoingto be hiccups. But you know what? Hiccups mean progress. And you should know better than anyone that progress isn’t linear.”

His Adam’s apple bobs, and it’s the first time his expression softens. A little bit of that anger and embarrassment fade, to be replaced by pain.

But he’s still scowling, still unable to let himself get past this particular hurdle. So I try the tactic that has been the only thing to work with him thus far: tough love.

I glare down at him, even though he’s still not looking at me. “So, if you could kindly get the fuckoveryourself, we could just treat this as one of those totally normal, part-of-the-process speed bumps, and get back to your recovery.”

Roman finally looks at me again, a hundred emotions swirling in his eyes but with astonishment at the forefront. I just wait it out.

Finally, he murmurs, “Damn, Liliana. That was brutal, even for you.”

I let out a huff and drop my hands to my sides, feeling suddenly exhausted. “Sorry,” I grumble. “You had me at my wit’s end.”

“Apparently,” he returns dryly.

Then I watch as my wordsreallysink in, as he takes them to heart and finally accepts them.

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