Page 45 of The Promises We Broke
Since she'd held my hand while I fell apart and asked if we could try being friends again.
I'd thought the physical pain was worth it for the emotional breakthrough. Now, lying in bed at seven in the morning and barely able to move without wincing, I was starting to question that logic.
The cottage was quiet around me, just the sound of birds outside the window and the distant activity of the ranch starting its day. Booker and Reece would be up, probably dealing with morning chores and breakfast routines. Normal people doing normal things while I lay here like an invalid again, brought down by my own stupidity.
I managed to sit up on the edge of the bed, taking inventory of the damage. My left leg was noticeably more swollen than it had been in weeks. The cast felt tight, uncomfortable in a way that meant fluid retention and inflammation just like Billie had warned me. My shoulder was locked up, range of motion reduced to what felt like half of what I'd achieved over the past month of therapy.
Therapy with Billie. Whose hands had been so gentle when she'd worked through the knots in my back, whose voice had been so encouraging when I'd managed another few degrees of movement. Who was going to take one look at me today and know I'd undone weeks of careful progress in a few hours of emotional demolition.
The thought of disappointing her was worse than the physical pain.
I made it to the kitchen through sheer determination and spite, but by the time I'd managed to get coffee brewing, I was sweating from the effort. Standing at the counter, gripping the edge to keep steady, I had to admit the truth I'd been avoiding.
I'd fucked up. Badly.
The sound of voices outside interrupted my self-recrimination—Booker's low rumble and Reece's lighter tone, the easy back-and-forth of two people who'd learned to navigate life together. I could hear Val barking in the distance, probably chasing something in the pasture, and the familiar sounds of ranch morning routines.
A knock at the door made me turn too quickly, and I nearly lost my balance, catching myself on the counter with a grunt of pain.
"Gage?" Booker's voice carried through the door. "You awake?"
"Yeah, come in."
He stepped inside and took one look at me leaning heavily on the kitchen counter and his expression shifted from casual concern to focused assessment. In moments like this, I remembered that Booker had spent years trying to stop his brothers from hurting themselves too badly when we were kids. He knew what we looked like when we'd fucked up and were hurting from it.
"How bad?" he asked simply.
"Bad enough that I feel like an idiot."
Reece appeared in the doorway behind him, her hair pulled back in a ponytail and her hands dusty from whatever morning chores she'd been handling. She took one look at me and moved immediately to the refrigerator, pulling out ice packs like she'd been expecting this conversation.
"Scale of one to ten?" Booker asked, moving into the kitchen with the easy confidence of someone who'd dealt with crises before.
"Seven. Maybe eight."
His jaw tightened, and I caught the look that passed between him and Reece.
It was the kind of wordless communication that came from really knowing someone, from being partners in more than just the romantic sense.
"That's up from what? A three a few days ago?" Booker said.
"More like a two."
"Jesus, Gage." He ran a hand through his hair, and I could see him fighting the urge to lecture me about overdoing it. "What were you thinking?"
Reece moved to the counter beside me, wrapping one of the ice packs in a kitchen towel. "Here," she said quietly, her voice gentle but practical. "For your shoulder. And don't say you don't need it. I can see the swelling from here."
I accepted the ice pack gratefully, the cold immediately providing some relief from the heated throbbing currently radiating through the joint. "I wasn't thinking. That's the problem. I was feeling instead of thinking, and my body's making me pay for it now."
Booker poured three cups of coffee while Reece prepared another ice pack for my leg, the two of them moving around each other in the kitchen with the kind of unconscious synchronization that spoke of deep intimacy and shared daily routines. I watched them work together. Booker automatically making Reece's coffee the way she liked it, Reece adjusting the height of the chair she brought over for me without being asked. It made something twist in my chest that was part longing, part envy, part desperate hope.
This was what love looked like when it had time to develop, when two people chose each other every day and built a life together from shared decisions and mutual care. This was what I'd thought Billie and I might have someday, back when we were teenagers and believed in forever.
This was what I wanted with her now, if I could ever get past my own fear and self-sabotage long enough to deserve it.
"Want to talk about what happened at the house?" Booker asked, settling into the chair across the table from me while Reece took the seat beside him. "Because Billie seemed pretty shaken up after she dropped you off."
The mention of her name sent something complicated through my chest. What she must think of me now.
