Page 26 of Opening Strain

“Oh, a lot. Quinn really captured you guys. Gave people an insight into how you came back.”

“Quinn’s amazing. We owe her a lot for how she put the film together.” She captured us on tape while UC put in the work. “It was tough. After Darren’s funeral, UC sort of fell apart. Until we realized we needed to keep performing. It’s in our blood, and Darren wouldn’t have wanted us to quit because he’s not around.”

She walks around me, adjusting my leg. I anticipate pain, but none comes. At least not from my thigh. “I agree. He spoke of you and the band all the time. He was so proud to be part of UC. He loved being with you guys.”

Until he got hooked on painkillers. “That he did. This one time, Darren was onstage performing one of our hits, ‘Make Me Feel It,’ I think, when someone in the crowd screamed his name. He zeroed in on the boy, maybe fifteen years old, and motioned for our security to invite him to the meet and greet. Turns out the kid was learning keyboards and Darren was his idol.”

Jenna completes the story. “Darren paid for his lessons and now he’s a member of one of your opening acts.”

Our gazes lock. Her grey ones hold pride with an overlay of sadness. I’m sure my green ones look the same.

“He’s good on the keys,” I note. “Hey, I’m not feeling any pain. Can I try something new?”

Jenna seems to have an entire inner dialogue with herself before taking the medicine ball from me and asking me to stand on a mat. She folds a towel and places it on the floor. “I don’t usually move on to this exercise until I’ve been working with someone for at least five days. You can try it, but only one repetition.”

I nod and she shows me the exercise. “Bet I can do five.” As she demonstrated, I stand on my left leg with my right foot on the towel. Then slide it out and bring it back into the mat.

My pulled muscle screams.

My hand flies to my inner thigh. “Oww!”

“I knew it was too soon,” Jenna mutters. She grasps me by the arm and brings me to the table. “Lie down.”

I manage to man up and follow her direction. She immediately begins to massage my thigh, getting way too close to my junk for my—or Darren’s—comfort. “Whoa there. I can do that.”

“Stop it, Bennett. You’re always so reckless and over the top. Exactly what landed you here in the first place. Let me do my job.”

Holy. Shit. I’m not going to take her criticism lying down, despite the fact I am prone. “I’m neither reckless nor over the top.”

Jenna continues to massage my angry tendon, unclenching it bit by bit. She pulls away from me for enough time to rub her thumb and pinky together, then she’s back giving me the massage. In a clipped tone, she says, “Fine. Then explain why you’re here.”

“Because I did a stupid jump. I was amped up after the movie and our performance. Sue me.” I count the ceiling tiles above my body.

The massage continues in silence. Little by little, the pain in my inner thigh decreases. Frowning, she asks, “How’s your pain level?”

“Two.”

My petulant response is received without any fanfare. “Good. We’re not going to add more exercises until I know you’re ready. We don’t want a repeat of this fiasco that could jeopardize your recovery.”

Her assessment shuts me down. She’s right. I need this to go smoothly from now on. “Fine,” I grumble.

She walks to the other side of the room and pulls something out of what I believe to be a freezer. “Here’s an ice pack. I want you to ice this for twenty minutes.” She puts it on my leg.

The icy cold numbs my pull within moments. I take a deep breath and relax.

“Seems like I found something to calm you down.”

Just like that, my need to move returns. My hand lands on the ice pack and I’m about to throw it across the room when Jenna reappearsat my side. Her fingers press the ice pack down. “It needs time to do its job.”

Knowing she’s right, I remove my hand. This is the second time this session she’s offended me. “Do you always insult your patients or am I special?”

Jenna fiddles with some papers. “I haven’t worked with patients in over eighteen months. I’m rusty.”

Since Darren died. “I’d say.” My mind churns. “I don’t need to calm down.”

The inside of her cheek clenches. “Bennett, you’re in perpetual motion. You never sit still for longer than a meal, and even then, you’re twisting in your seat.”

Because I’m always on the lookout for the next thing. A new place to visit, a new song to write, a new experience. Sitting still isn’t my forte. I refuse to dig any deeper into this. Not going to get lost in the morass that is my psyche.

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