Page 17 of The Promises We Broke
I stopped moving, my hands stilling on the resistance bands I'd been pretending to organize. The question hung between us, simple and impossible. Because no, it wasn't wrong. He was looking for ways to run, just like I'd feared. But admitting that meant admitting how much I'd been watching him, how much I cared about what happened to him.
"Your range of motion has improved enough that we can start some weight-bearing exercises," I said instead, avoiding his question entirely. "I want you to try standing with the crutches for short periods. Five minutes, three times a day."
"Billie."
"And we need to work on strengthening your core muscles to support your spine as you become more mobile."
"Billie, look at me."
I closed my eyes for a moment, gathering my composure before turning to face him. He was leaning forward as much as his injuries would allow, his expression intense and searching.
"Were you right?" he asked quietly. "Am I looking for ways to run?"
The honesty in his voice nearly undid me. This wasn't the smooth deflection I'd expected. This was genuine confusion,genuine questioning. Like he wasn't even sure of his own motivations.
"I don't know," I said finally. "Are you?"
He was quiet for a long moment, staring down at his hands. "I don't know either," he admitted. "I've been alone for so long, moving from place to place for so long, that sitting still feels... foreign. Dangerous, somehow."
"Dangerous how?"
"Because sitting still means feeling things. Thinking about things. Wanting things I've convinced myself I don't deserve."
The vulnerability in his voice made my chest tight. This was closer to the boy I'd once known than anything I'd seen since he'd been back. Open, uncertain, willing to admit he didn't have all the answers.
"And what do you want?" I asked, the question slipping out before I could stop it.
He looked up at me then, and for a moment his expression was completely unguarded. I saw longing there, and hope, and a fear so deep it made my heart ache.
"I want to stay," he said quietly. "I want to be part of this family, to be the uncle Cade deserves, to make amends for the time I stole from them. But I don't know how to want those things and not be selfish about it."
"How would wanting those things be selfish?" It hurt to talk to him like this and yet I couldn't seem to stop myself. Couldn't seem to stop myself from caring. Gage had always been the kid who looked at the things he didn't think he was entitled to, and those things were always the love that someone, usually me, was so desperate to give him if only he'd say yes.
"Because what if I'm kidding myself? What if I stay and hurt them again? What if I'm not capable of being the person they think I am?" He gestured toward the laptop. "At least if I leave, if I keep moving, I can't disappoint anyone else."
There it was. The core of his confusion. He wanted to stay, wanted to build a life here, but eleven years of running had taught him that leaving was safer than risking failure.
"And you don't think running to Montana would disappoint them? They've been searching for you to bring you home, Gage. Booker opened his home up to you. You don't think throwing that back in their face wouldn't be disappointing for them?" I could tell from the look on his face that this wasn't an argument he was ever going to accept and I sighed in defeat before returning to the professional argument I probably should have led with in the first place.
"Montana has a pretty high injury rate for bridge work," I said, settling back into my chair. "Especially for someone who's still recovering from traumatic injuries."
"I heal fast."
It didn't escape me that he'd avoided saying anything about my earlier comments, but if he wanted to brush past them then fine. I was his physical therapist, I wasn't his best friend. Not anymore at least.
"You heal well when you follow medical advice and don't push beyond your limitations," I corrected. "But Gage, taking a job like that right now could undo months of progress. Is running away worth permanent disability?"
"I'm not running away," he said, but there wasn't much conviction in his voice.
"Then what would you call it?" I asked gently, wanting to kick myself for not being able to just let it go.
Why was I fighting so hard for a man who didn't want me to fight for him?
He was quiet for a long moment, and I could see the internal war playing out across his features. The boy who'd always needed to feel useful warring with the man who'd learned that caring about people meant risking their rejection.
"I call it being realistic," he said finally. "About what I deserve and what I don't."
"And what don't you deserve?"
