Page 44 of The Promises We Broke
"You know, when I was struggling with my addiction," he said finally, "the thing that helped me most wasn't clinical detachment from the people trying to help me. It was knowing they cared about me as a person, not just as a case to be managed."
"That's different."
"Is it? Or are you so afraid of your feelings that you're convinced they automatically make you a worse therapist instead of possibly making you a better one?"
I stared at him, recognizing the echo of both Helen's words and my own fears. "Are you seriously suggesting I should keep treating him when I'm emotionally compromised?"
"No. I'm suggesting that maybe the fact that you're questioning yourself, that you're prioritizing his wellbeing over your comfort, that you're willing to step back when you think it's best for him—maybe that makes you exactly the kind of person he needs in his corner." He paused, meeting my eyes directly. "But if you can't separate your clinical judgment from your personal feelings, then you're right. Someone else should handle his physical therapy."
The relief that washed through me at hearing him say it was almost overwhelming. "I've already thought about that. Laura Straits is looking for additional hours. She's got excellent credentials, specializes in trauma recovery. She could take over his care."
"When?"
"I'd give him two weeks' notice. Transition meetings with Laura, make sure there's continuity of care. She could start July fifteenth."
Xander nodded slowly. "And after that?"
"After that, I'm going to be his friend." The words felt both true and incomplete, but they were safer than admitting what I really wanted. "He needs someone he can trust, someone who's not trying to fix him or heal him or push him toward anything he's not ready for. He needs his friend back."
"Just his friend?"
I hesitated, caught between honesty and self-preservation. "Being more than that is too dangerous right now. For both of us. What we had when we were kids was beautiful, but we were different people then. Right now, Gage needs stability and support more than he needs someone with complicated romantic feelings making his recovery more difficult."
Xander leaned back in his chair, studying my face with the kind of attention that made me feel like he was seeing more than I was showing. "And what do you need?"
"I need to know that I can be around him without compromising my professional judgment. I need to know that transferring his care is about doing what's best for him, not about running away from my feelings."
"Are you running away?"
"I'm being practical. There's a difference."
"Is there? Because from where I'm sitting, it sounds like you're making decisions based on fear instead of what you actually want."
The observation stung because it echoed what Helen had said earlier, what I'd been trying not to acknowledge all morning. "Maybe fear is appropriate here. Maybe some risks aren't worth taking."
"And maybe some risks are the only way to find out what's possible." Xander stood and moved to the window, looking out at the mountains that surrounded our small town. "But you're right about one thing, transferring his care is the professionalthing to do. Laura's excellent, and she'll give him the objective treatment he deserves."
"Thank you for understanding."
"I understand that you're protecting yourself. I just hope you're not protecting yourself right out of something that could be worth fighting for."
He turned back to face me, his expression gentle but serious. "For what it's worth, I've watched my brother these past weeks. The way he talks about you, the way he's working harder on his recovery because he wants to prove he's worth the effort you're putting in. That's not the behavior of someone who just wants professional help."
"What are you saying?"
"I'm saying that maybe friendship is a good place to start. But don't be surprised if it doesn't stay that simple for very long."
Chapter 15
Gage
Pain was the first thing I registered when consciousness dragged me out of sleep. Sharp, insistent pain radiating from my shoulder down through my ribs, settling into a familiar ache in my leg that I hadn't felt since those first brutal days in the hospital.
I tried to roll over and immediately regretted it. The movement sent fire shooting through my collarbone, and my leg responded with the kind of deep, throbbing protest that meant swelling had returned with a vengeance.
"Fuck," I breathed into my pillow, the word muffled but emphatic.
Two days. It had been two days since my breakdown at the house, since I'd attacked that wall like it was every mistake I'd ever made and every piece of guilt I'd carried for eleven years. Two days since Billie had found me crying in the ruins of what used to be a kitchen, since I'd finally said the words I should have said the moment I came home.
