Page 16 of Room 1017

10

Casey

Theclinic’spatientswerereferred to us through their primary-care physicians, or quite often, from their specialists or surgeons at the hospital. We were usually part of the final steps in recovery or treatment, so ideally, we would only need to see our patients once a week for a short period of time as they transitioned through the healing process. We would give them some guided assistance with the exercises, and once they were able to do it on their own, our job was done.

Peter, though… that first day in his home, I’d known that wouldn’t be enough. The chances of Peter doing the homework I assigned were slim to none, not when his depression was in the driver’s seat. I’d immediately talked to Cliff about taking a different approach with him, and he’d agreed, though reluctantly. What I was suggesting wasn’t standard policy, but I refused to fail Peter. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” Cliff had said warily. Honestly, I didn’t have a clue, but my heart told me this was the only way forward.

For now, Cliff was taking over a lot of my cases, rescheduling what we could. With the potential of substance abuse being involved, I wanted to make Peter’s recovery a priority. He almost died in the line of duty, protecting someone; he deserved a chance at a full life from here on out. My hope was that I could reduce his pain level quickly, making it easier for him to pass on the painkillers. I was sure he just needed to find his confidence again.

Plus, a little distraction wouldn’t hurt.

So instead of weekly appointments, we met every couple of days, sometimes at the clinic for time in the pool or on the exercise bike, others at his home where I helped him get some of his chores done. Or on a nice sunny day, we took a field trip—like today, to the grocery store.

Peter had been quiet since we got here, his shoulders tense. “Relax,” I told him. “Just hang onto the cart for balance. You’ll be fine.”

“I was fine at home,” he grumbled, but I’d seen the way he turned his face up to the sun when he got out of the car, soaking up its warmth. He wasn’t nearly as grouchy to be here as he pretended to be. The real problem was that he’d been holed up at home for so long that he’d forgotten what he was missing in the real world.

“Well, thanks for indulging me then,” I teased. “I’m sure you’re alwaysfineat home, but it’s good for you to get some sun, a little fresh air. Besides, you’re out of milk.” Why did I know that? Probably because I’d shown up to help make pancakes this morning. I told myself that it was all a part of his recovery, teaching him how to take care of himself again while making allowances for his injuries, without giving into the temptation to give up entirely.

As we headed down the cereal aisle toward the dairy at the back of the store, I peeked at Peter from the corner of my eye. It’d only been a couple weeks, and I could already see a definite improvement. Even under the store’s harsh fluorescent lights, I could tell his skin had lost its pasty pallor, and the deep circles under his eyes were not quite so pronounced. He was showered, wearing clean clothes, and he’d started to gain a bit of much-needed weight. He had even passed on the sweats today, opting instead for a pair of jeans that sat low on his narrow hips.

He looked… really damn good.Toogood. Shit.

I looked down at his worn runners and the way he was moving gingerly, wary of every step. Yeah, this was definitely a perfect time to keep things professional. “So, let’s have you walk one foot in front of the other down this aisle, heel to toe,” I instructed, showing him what I meant, following a seam in the floor’s tiles like walking on an imaginary balance beam.

“A-Are you serious?” He glanced over his shoulder to look at a woman with curly gray hair and a brown knit housecoat pretending to read the back of a coffee tin while stealing nosy glances at us.

“Sure, why not? It’s just walking.” I crossed my arms over my chest, daring him to do something weird. “If you want, I can sing or dance, take all the attention off you.”

“Don’t you dare,” he hissed, trying not to laugh.

“Dare what?” I taunted with a mischievous smirk. “Do… this?” I kicked out a foot and started doing a little jig—badly, I might add—and Peter barked out a laugh before his hand darted out, snatching me by the wrist and dragging me in.

Thrown off balance, I stumbled into him and knocked him back into the shelf behind him, and I brought my hands up to his chest to brace myself. His clean scent, of soap and minty toothpaste and something distinctly him, invaded my senses, and my breath snagged on a gasp. It brought us close, close enough for me to see flecks of teal in his eyes as his pupils dilated wide.

As surprised as I was, he seemed even more so. His expression stuttered, before he quickly let go, straightening as I took an uneven step back. “Sorry, that was…”

“A stall tactic,” I finished for him quickly, because it would do neither of us any good to say what it honestly felt like—foreplay. “Now that you know I’m not joking about embarrassing the hell out of you, come on, let’s see you strut your stuff.” I wiggled my fingers toward his feet.

He blew out a long-suffering sigh but obliged, rolling his eyes as he concentrated on the movement, step by narrow step. “Why am I doing this again?”

“We need to work on your balance and stability, strengthening those core muscles. I promise it’ll be worth it.”

Frowning the whole while, Peter walked heel to toe down the aisle, using the shopping cart for balance, knuckles white on the handle.

“Perfect, now how about a couple high knees.”

“Please, no,” he groaned, but did as I asked, lifting each knee slowly and carefully, while I kept one hand on the cart to keep it from getting away from him.

“People are staring,” he muttered from the corner of his mouth. Sure enough, the woman in the housecoat was gaping at his marching gait, but he glared right back at her until she turned away, chastised.

“You don’t like an audience? Good to know.”Why did I just say that?! It sounded like I was commenting on his kinks! Shut up!I cleared my throat and turned sharply to give my immediate full attention to the first thing I could grab—a box of cereal with a cartoon parrot on the front. My cheeks felt scorching hot, and I didn’t need a mirror to know they were bright red. I could feel his eyes on me, but I refused to turn around.

“Huh. Didn’t take you for a kids’ cereal kind of guy.” Peter’s voice held a note of teasing.

“Honestly, I’m not,” I said, setting it back on the shelf. “But since we’re on the topic, sugar is a major factor in inflammation. Cutting back would help manage your pain.”

He narrowed his eyes and pointed a finger at me. “If you tell me I have to eat bran flakes instead, I’m leaving you here.”

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