Page 2 of The History Between Us

“I’m fine,” I lie, out of breath from my failed attempt at getting out the door without assistance.

Her eyes catalog everything, finding the discarded boot on the floor. “Do you need help, honey?” Without waiting for a response, already knowing I need help I’m not going to want to admit to, she enters the room, a red-and-white checkered apron wrapped around her waist and her hair tied up into a messy bun on top of her head. She helps me slip my foot into one boot, and then the other, before sliding my jeans over thetop of them. Smiling up at me, she asks, “Do you need a ride?”

Blowing out a breath, I shake my head. “No, I got one already, but thank you.”

It’s been just over a week since I had shoulder reconstructive surgery for a torn labrum and torn rotator cuff. On top of that, I have a fractured wrist and a few cracked ribs, so moving around isn’t as easy as it usually is, and driving myself is completely out of the question.

As if on cue, my phone lights up with a message from my buddy, Whit, letting me know he’s about two minutes out. I don’t bother responding. It’s too much effort. Instead, I stand up and grab an all-black hat off my dresser, putting it firmly on my head before shoving my wallet and keys into my pocket using my non-injured hand. Thankfully, both my shoulder and wrist injuries are all on the same side, but unfortunately, it’s my dominant side.

Learning how to do everything I need to do left-handed has been a challenge I haven’t quite mastered yet. I keep trying to remind myself that it’s only been a week, and it’ll probably get easier as time goes on, but I tend to be an instant gratification type of man, so patience isn’t necessarily my strong suit. To say the past week has been something straight out of hell would be an understatement.

“Whit’s here,” I mutter to my mom as I brush past her. “Thank you for your help.”

“Of course, honey. Are you coming back here after your appointment?”

Nodding, I say, “I’m grabbing lunch with Whit, but after that, yeah, I’ll be back.”

My mom grins, and I know she’s trying her best to cheer me up. It’s what she’s been doing all week, and it makes mefeel like shit that I can’t pretend a little better for her sake. “I’m making your favorite for dinner tonight.”

Forcing a smile, I lean in and give her a hug, pressing a kiss to her cheek. “Thanks, Mom. I’ll be back.”

“Tell Whit I said hello,” she calls out from behind me.

Stepping out onto the porch, it’s a warm, sunny day. Sweat pricks the back of my neck, and I’m reminded that we’re smack dab in the middle of summer in Copper Lake, Wyoming. Had it not been for the accident and subsequent surgery, I’d be somewhere in Colorado with my friends, getting ready to kick some ass on the rodeo circuit. As a professional bull rider, I spend about four months out of the year traveling and competing with the best of the best in my division. All of this shit cut my season short by almost half, and who knows if I’ll even be healed enough by the start of next season to compete.

Climbing into Whit’s truck, I give him a chin nod. “Hey, man.”

“Hey, how’re you feeling?”

“Just peachy,” I drawl, as that fake smile comes out to play again.

Whit puts the truck into drive. “Seatbelt,” he mutters, glancing over at me, not moving even an inch until I’m safely secured in his vehicle.

Thankfully, I’m able to click the belt into place without too much trouble. “Thanks for driving me. I hope you weren’t too busy at work.”

As Copper Lake’s resident veterinarian, Whit is typically up to his ears in furry patients of all shapes and sizes. Our town is your typical cliché small town. We’ve got one main doctor’s office, one dentist, one vet, and only a handful of places to eat on Main Street that include one to-die-for diner, a dive bar,and our version of fine dining, which is really only about one step up from an Applebee’s.

“It’s no problem,” he says, turning onto the main road. “It’s a rather slow day, and I was able to schedule around this.”

Today’s the first day I’m seeing my primary care doctor since my surgery. He has to refer me to a physical therapist, and I’m hoping I can get started on it as soon as possible, so I have the best chance I can at returning to the circuit next spring. Dr. Roger Andino has been my family’s doctor since I was little. His clinic is right in town, about three blocks down from the diner Whit and I are going to for lunch afterward. Parking the truck in one of the spots out front, Whit and I both climb out and head inside.

“You don’t have to wait here for me if you don’t want,” I tell him.

He shrugs. “It’s this or wait in my truck.”

After I check in with the front desk, it’s only about ten minutes before I’m brought back into a room. The nurse checks all my vitals and lets me know the doctor will be in soon. In all the downtime I’ve had over the last week, I’ve taken to Google to find out how soon I realistically could get back to training. My wrist shouldn’t take long to heal; maybe six weeks at most. It’s my shoulder that’s going to take the longest. There’s varying answers; some websites stating I can get back to most activities within six months, but some indicating it could be longer. Six months puts me at around the beginning of the year. We leave for the circuit in mid-May, so if that’s the case, I think I could make that work. But honestly, the sooner I can get back to training and working out, the better. The thought of missing out on next season, after already missing half of this one, makes me want to scream.

The door opens, and when I glance up to take in the man walking into the room, my heart sputters in my chest as a familiar pair of sapphire eyes meet mine. Confusion clouds my mind because while Dr. Andino is standing before me…it’s a version of him that’s about twenty years younger than I was expecting.

“William?” I ask, head cocked to the side.

Jaw clenching, he takes a seat on the round swivel chair in front of the computer in the corner of the room. “Hello, Colt.”

Hazy memories of his hot mouth all over my neck flash through my mind before I can stop them. “What are you doing here?”

A crease forms between his thick brows. “My father retired several weeks back,” he announces. “The office sent out notice to all the patients letting them know of the switch well over a month ago. Didn’t you receive it?”

My eyes widen, and I breathe out a laugh. “I’ve been on the road since May,” I explain. “Wait, so you’re telling meyou’remy doctor now?”

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