Page 51 of The Promises We Broke
The sound of my crutches hitting the rehabilitation center floor echoed through the empty hallway like gunshots. Six AM was too early for most people, but I'd been up since four, staring at the ceiling and counting the ways I'd screwed up my life.
Again.
Laura Straits looked up from her clipboard as I hobbled into the therapy room, her dark eyes assessing my mood with the kind of professional competence I used to take for granted from Billie. The comparison hit me like a punch to the gut, which happened about fifty times a day now.
"You're early," Laura said, not bothering to hide her concern. "How's the pain level today?"
"Fine." The lie came easily. Everything hurt. My leg, my shoulder, my ribs where they were still healing from road rash. But none of it compared to the ache in my chest every time I thought about Billie's face when she'd transferred my care. Likeshe couldn't wait to be rid of me. Even now, two weeks later, those compassionate eyes still haunted me.
But she'd given me the promise of a friendship I so desperately needed right now and she was right, romance, love, whatever we wanted to call it, was too complicated for where we were right now.
"Gage." Laura's voice was firm. "Pain scale. One to ten."
"Five." Another lie, but closer to the truth.
She made a note, then set down her clipboard and really looked at me. I'd worked with enough medical professionals over the years to recognize the look. It was the one that said they were seeing through your bullshit to the broken parts underneath.
"Your recovery is remarkable," she said carefully. "Your range of motion has improved faster than I've ever seen with injuries this severe. But I'm concerned you're pushing too hard."
I shrugged, which sent a spike of pain through my collarbone. Worth it to avoid her knowing stare.
"Let's start with some basic movements," she said, leading me to the parallel bars. "But I want you to talk to me while we work. What's driving this sudden acceleration?"
You mean besides the fact that the woman I love can't risk her heart on me again?
"Just want to get better," I said instead, gripping the bars and forcing my weight onto my injured leg. The pain was immediate and brutal, but I welcomed it. Physical pain was honest. It didn't lie to you or disappear when you needed it most.
"That's not what I'm seeing." Laura positioned herself beside me, ready to catch me if I fell. "I'm seeing someone who's using rehabilitation as self-punishment."
Direct hit. I stumbled, catching myself on the bars, and she was there immediately, steadying hands, concerned voice, everything a good therapist should be. Everything Billie had been.
Everything I'd ruined.
But there was a part of me that could see it was a good thing that she'd stepped back. Because it did open the possibility for us to spend time together outside of this damn clinical environment. The problem was I didn't know how to get that started or what I was supposed to do. It wasn't as straightforward as it had been when we were kids and the perfect answer to a hot day was a dip in the swimming hole. Everything we used to do felt loaded with so much innuendo when you looked at it with adult eyes.
After an hour of Laura pushing me through exercises that should have taken weeks to master, she finally called it. I was drenched in sweat, shaking from exertion, and probably looking like death warmed over.
"Same time tomorrow?" I asked, already knowing her answer.
"Gage, wait." She caught my arm as I reached for my crutches. "Whatever happened with Billie..."
"Nothing happened." The words came out sharper than I intended. "She did her job. Now you're doing yours."
"She transferred your case because she cared too much to maintain professional boundaries," Laura said quietly. "That's not nothing."
I stared at her, my heart doing something painful in my chest. "What?"
"She's been watching your sessions from the observation window every day since the transfer," Laura continued, adjusting the resistance band around my shoulder. "And yesterday, when you overextended during that shoulder rotation, she actually took a step toward the door before catching herself."
Something warm unfurled in my chest—not the dangerous hope of a desperate man, but something steadier. Moregrounded. The kind of hope that came from building something real, one careful piece at a time.
"Maybe she's just making sure the transition went smoothly," I said, but I couldn't keep the smile completely out of my voice. "Professional concern."
"Maybe." Laura's tone was carefully neutral. "Or maybe she's trying to figure out how to care about someone she's not supposed to care about anymore."
"You know," Laura said, making notes on my chart, "in twelve years of practice, I've never had a patient whose previous therapist lingered in the observation area to watch sessions."
"She's thorough."
