Page 16 of The Promises We Broke
"Yes, ma'am. Every dose, on schedule."
"And the exercises?"
"Three times a day, just like you ordered."
The slight smile that touched his lips reminded me so much of the boy I'd once known that it made my chest tight. He'd always had that particular smile when he was being good for my benefit, when he was following rules he didn't particularly like because he wanted to please me.
Stop it, I told myself firmly. That boy is gone. This is just professional compliance.
But even as I tried to maintain emotional distance, I couldn't help noticing the changes in him over the past week. His color was better, the tight lines of pain around his eyes had eased, and there was something different in his posture. Still careful, still guarded, but not quite as brittle as he'd been.
"Let's start with range of motion," I said, standing and moving to his injured side. "I want to see how your shoulder is responding to the exercises."
I helped him remove his shirt, pleased to see that he'd swapped to a soft flannel like I'd suggested. This clinical routine was becoming easier with each session, though no less charged with unspoken tension. The road rash on his chest and arms was healing well, the angry red marks fading to pink, and the open wounds fully scabbed over now. His shoulder moved more freely as I guided it through its range of motion, and I couldn't help but feel a surge of professional pride at his improvement.
"Fifteen degrees better than Monday," I noted, making careful measurements. "This is really good progress, Gage."
"Good enough to get back to work?" he asked, and something in his tone made me look at him more closely.
"What kind of work?" I asked carefully.
He gestured vaguely toward the laptop. "There's a bridge project in Montana. Dangerous work, good pay. They're not picky about hiring people with... complicated histories."
The casual way he said it made my blood run cold. He was already planning his next escape. Already researching where he could go when his family stopped being interested in maintaining the fiction that they wanted him here.
"Montana," I repeated, keeping my voice level despite the storm building in my chest.
"Or there's offshore rig work in the Gulf. Storm season's coming, but the pay is incredible if you're willing to take the risk."
If you're willing to take the risk. Of course he was. Gage Farrington had been taking risks for eleven years, choosing jobs that offered the highest chance of not coming home. Choosing everything except the people who loved him.
"How's your pain tolerance these days?" I asked, moving to check the circulation in his fingers where they emerged from his cast.
"Pretty high. You learn to work through discomfort when it's your job."
Work through discomfort. The phrase felt like a description of his entire approach to life. Work through the discomfort of guilt, of loneliness, of loving people he thought he didn't deserve to love.
"Physical therapy isn't about working through discomfort," I said, applying gentle pressure to test his reflexes. "It's about respecting your body's limitations while gradually expanding them. There's a difference between pushing yourself and punishing yourself."
He was quiet for a moment, and when I looked up, he was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read.
"Is that your professional opinion, or personal advice?"
The question hung in the air between us, loaded with implications I wasn't ready to examine. Because the truth was, I couldn't tell anymore where my professional concern ended and my personal investment began.
"My professional opinion," I said carefully, "is that you're ahead of schedule in your recovery, but you're nowhere near ready for the kind of physical demands you're researching. My personal advice would be to stop looking for ways to run away from the best thing that's happened to you in eleven years."
The words were out before I could stop them, cutting through the professional facade I'd been maintaining for two weeks. Gage's eyes widened slightly, and I could see that I'd surprised him as much as I'd surprised myself.
"Billie..."
"Forget I said that," I said quickly, standing and moving away from him. "That was unprofessional."
"Was it wrong?"
I busied myself with cleaning up my equipment, not trusting myself to meet his eyes. "Let's focus on your therapy plan for next week."
"Was it wrong?" he asked again, his voice gentler now.
