Page 10 of The Promises We Broke
For a moment, neither of us moved. The request was perfectly professional, completely necessary for a proper evaluation. But the weight of our history hung in the air between us, making even this clinical interaction feel charged with significance.
"Right," he said finally, his voice rough. "Yeah, that makes sense."
With his right arm in the sling, getting his shirt off was awkward and clearly painful. I watched him struggle for a moment before stepping forward.
"Let me help," I said, keeping my voice steady. "You could try a button-down for the next couple of weeks. It will be easier on your shoulder and less painful when you need to get changed."
He grunted in acknowledgment, but I didn't take it personally. I could see from the tension in his jaw that he was hurting a lot more than he was trying to let on right now.
I carefully worked the shirt over his head, trying to ignore the way my fingers brushed against his skin, trying not to notice how the years of physical labor had changed him. Broad shoulders, defined muscles, a roadmap of scars that told the story of a decade's worth of dangerous work.
And there, across his chest, the familiar jagged line I remembered from when we were teenagers. The scar from the car accident when he was fifteen, when he'd wrapped his father's car around the old oak by the creek after a night of drinking and fighting. Fifty-two stitches, three cracked ribs, a broken arm in two places. Xander had found him pinned in the wreckage and stayed by his hospital bed for three days straight. This wasn't Gage's first time suffering through a lengthy recovery.
I'd visited him in the hospital back then whenever I could, watching him struggle with the same restless energy that was radiating from him now, the same hatred of being confined and dependent on others.
The memory hit me harder than I expected. He'd been so young and reckless. How scared we all were that he might not make it. How angry he'd been at being stuck in that hospital bed, desperate to prove he was fine when he clearly wasn't.
Some things, apparently, never changed.
Focus, Billie. Professional.
"Okay," I said, stepping back and reaching for my tablet. "I can see the road rash is healing well. Any areas that are still tender or showing signs of infection?"
He shook his head, and I began my examination, starting with gentle palpation around his collarbone. His skin was warm under my hands, and I could feel the tension in his muscles despite his attempts to appear relaxed.
"Range of motion is more limited than I'd like," I noted, carefully moving his arm through its available range. "We're going to need to work on some gentle exercises to prevent stiffness."
"When can I get rid of the sling?" he asked.
"Another few weeks, minimum. The collarbone needs time to knit properly."
"And the cast?"
I moved to examine his elevated leg, checking for swelling around the edges of the cast. "You're about two weeks into a six to eight week timeline for the cast to come off. So we're looking at another four to six weeks minimum before you're weight-bearing, then several more months of intensive therapy after that."
I saw his face fall, watched him process the reality of his timeline.
"Months?" he said quietly.
"Months," I confirmed. "Gage, you suffered significant trauma. Your femur was fractured, your collarbone broken, and you have extensive soft tissue damage. This isn't something you can push through or rush. Your body needs time to heal properly."
"I can't be stuck here for months," he said, and I heard the edge of panic in his voice. "I can't be a burden on everyone for months."
That was his real issue. Not the pain, not the limitations, but the feeling of being trapped and helpless.
"You've been taking care of yourself for eleven years," I said, settling back in my chair. "I get it. You're used to beingcompletely independent, used to being able to just pick up and leave when things get uncomfortable. But right now, accepting help isn't weakness, it's smart."
"You don't understand," he said, frustration bleeding into his voice. "I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be putting this burden on them."
"Burden?" I kept my voice carefully neutral. "Your family has been looking for you for months. They want you here."
"They think they want me here," he corrected. "They think they know what I did, but they don't understand…"
"Stop." The word came out sharper than I intended. "I'm not here to discuss your family dynamics or your guilt about the past. I'm here to help you heal physically. But I will tell you this. If you keep pushing yourself beyond your limitations because you're trying to prove you don't need anyone, you're going to set back your recovery significantly. Is proving your independence worth permanent damage?"
He stared at me, clearly surprised by my directness.
"I know you hate feeling dependent," I continued, "especially here, with people you feel guilty about facing. But your recovery isn't negotiable. You can either work with me and follow the treatment plan, or you can spend even more months dealing with complications from not allowing yourself to heal properly."
