Page 23 of Opening Strain

I almost don’t hear her, given how quiet her voice has fallen. “We didn’t know he was addicted, Jenna. He hid it from us. From all of us.” I pick at my sweats.

We remain silent for a full minute. Jenna clears her throat. “One more condition to go over. No sex until you’re healed.”

My hands fly above my shoulders as if I were surrendering. “What? I wasn’t told that before.”

Her pen taps against the clipboard. “It’s right here. With a groin pull being so close to, well, you know, you can’t risk reinjuring it. Sex would be a primary culprit.”

I’ve never heard the words “sex” and “culprit” in the same sentence. I don’t think I ever want to again. “There are ways?—”

She cuts me off. “No sex until you’re healed. It’s for your own good.”

“Months? You’re really telling me I can’t have sex until I’m one hundred percent again? Are you crazy?” I’m now mentally stomping all over the idiot Bennett who did the crazy jump. What the hell was he thinking?

“I’m sure you can, ehm, get busy before the full six months are up, Bennett. The doctor wants you to be generally pain-free before jumping into bed with your girlfriend, that’s all.”

“I don’t do girlfriends.” A vision of Lissa flits through my brain, and I repeat. “Never again.” I’m not down with this “no sex” news, though, so I repeat, “I don’t remember this instruction from the doctor.”

She turns her back to me, gets up, and walks to the counter. Leaning her hip against it, she points to a paper. “Want to read it?”

I rise—albeit awkwardly—and reach out my hand for the clipboard. “No offense.” She passes it to me and damn, that’s exactly what it says. I rub two fingers over my nose. “To be revisited.”

She retakes the clipboard and scribbles something. “Duly noted.”

We stare at each other. Her high cheekbones are made more prominent by having her hair pulled back. She’s definitely lost weight since she was with Darren, but also has gained an air of...confidence. The biggest difference I’ve noticed, though, is her demeanor. She always was quiet, but had a ready laugh and quick wit. The wit’s still there, but the laugh? Not so much.

I know what it did to UC, but what has Darren’s death done toher?

Chapter Eight

“You did great this morning,” Jenna notes. “Normally, I’d have the patient come back in a couple of days, with instructions to take it easy until then. But I’ll see you in a few hours so we can work against your tour deadline. I’d like to end this session with a quiet rest, though, so your muscles can calm down after all this work.”

Jenna directs me to a massage table, where I relax. My body’s shot. My eyes close.

“Bennett,” Jenna touches my shoulder. My eyes fling open and the wall clock shows I was out for twenty minutes. “Sorry to startle you. I wanted to let you know you can go home for a while. I’ll see you again at six.”

I blink several times. My body feels as if a dozen rollerbladers skated over it and left me on the sidewalk. I get to do this all over again in only a few hours? Seems like I have no choice.

Using my core muscles, I sit up and shove all my weariness behind me. Rather, I don the mask I’ve worn whenever I was at a crossroads. Before UC was discovered. When UC startedthe first tour as the headliner. Upon UC’s return to the stage following Darren’s death.

My cheek quirks. “Thanks, Jenna.”

Her gaze drops to the floor. “Do you want me to loan you some crutches? It’ll help relieve the strain you’ve put your leg through during the past two hours.”

“No. I can’t afford to be out in public with them. It’ll hurt UC’s reputation.”

“Youarehurt,” she insists.

The need to keep my dumb jump on the downlow rears its ugly head.Never show weakness. “Not if people don’t know.”

It seems as if she wants to say something else, but she doesn’t. I hop off the table, careful to land on my good leg. With a cheery wave, I maintain a normal gait as I walk out of the clinic.

Two seconds later, my body demands I duck into a side alley and gulp air. My head leans against the brick as I struggle to contain my breathing. PT is fucking hard. Not letting others see my pain is harder.Enough with the pity-party. Not getting a rental car due to my injury was the smart thing, so suck it up. I force my feet to continue homeward bound.

Shortly, I punch in the security code to open the door and enter my rental. It’s still and quiet, the way I like things. I swipe a bottle of water out of the fridge and collapse onto the sofa. The bed is too far away.

I close my eyes, telling myself I’ll order lunch in a minute. An hour later, my ringing phone wakes me. The ringtone—“Cleanin’ Out My Closet” by Eminem—taunts me to accept the call. In the end, guilt forces me to do so.

“Hi, Mom.”

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