Page 49 of The Promises We Broke
The question was asked quietly, and when I looked up at his face, I could see the fear underneath the resignation. Fear that he'd permanently damaged his progress, that he'd proven himself unreliable, that he'd disappointed me in ways that couldn't be repaired.
"With proper rest, ice, elevation, and anti-inflammatories? Probably a week to ten days to get the swelling down to whereit was. Maybe another week to regain the range of motion you'd achieved."
Relief flickered across his face, followed immediately by something that looked like guilt. "I'm sorry. I know you've put a lot of work into helping me get this far, and I..."
"Gage." I set down my assessment tools and looked at him directly, abandoning any pretense of clinical distance. "I need to tell you something about your treatment plan."
He went still in a way that suggested he was bracing for bad news, his entire body tensing despite the pain it probably caused. "How much is this going to set me back?"
"That's not what I need to tell you." I took a breath, steadying myself for the conversation that would change everything between us. "I'm going to be transitioning your care to another therapist."
The words hit him like a physical blow. I watched the color drain from his face, watched his jaw tighten as he processed what I'd said. For a moment, he looked exactly like the seventeen-year-old boy who'd been convinced he was toxic to everyone he cared about.
"Because of this?" He gestured toward his leg, his shoulder, the obvious evidence of his regression. "Because I fucked up my recovery?"
"No. Because I can't be objective about your treatment anymore."
He stared at me for a long moment, and I could see him working through the implications of what I'd said. His eyes moved back and forth as he searched my face, hoping to find a meaning that even I was still trying to figure out myself. "What does that mean?"
I took a breath, choosing my words carefully. "It means that when I evaluate your progress, I'm not thinking like a clinician should. It means when you have setbacks like yesterday, my firstresponse isn't professional assessment, it's personal concern that goes beyond appropriate therapeutic boundaries."
"Billie..."
"It means I care about your recovery as more than just your physical therapist." I kept my voice steady, professional, even as my heart hammered against my ribs. "And that compromises my ability to provide you with objective care."
The silence stretched between us, loaded with things I couldn't let myself say. He was looking at me with confusion and something that might have been disappointment, like maybe he'd been hoping I meant something different entirely.
"This isn't about what happened at the house," I said quickly, needing him to understand this wasn't rejection. "This isn't about your apology or the emotional conversation we had. This is about me maintaining professional ethics and admitting that I crossed lines the moment I agreed to treat someone I have personal history with."
"So you're passing me off to someone else."
The hurt in his voice made my chest ache, and I had to clench my hands to keep from reaching for him. Professional distance. That's what this was about. Creating the space we both needed.
"I'm transitioning your care to Laura Straits. She's got excellent credentials, specializes in trauma recovery, and she's available to start July fifteenth. That gives us two weeks for continuity meetings, treatment plan transfer, making sure there's no interruption in your progress."
He was quiet for so long I started to worry I'd miscalculated everything. That maybe he'd been counting on our therapy sessions for more than just physical recovery, and losing that connection felt like another abandonment.
"And after that?" he asked finally.
I took another careful breath. "After that, if you still want to try, we figure out how to be friends without the complication of a professional relationship."
His eyebrows drew together. "Friends."
"Yes." The word felt both too much and not enough, but it was honest. "Yesterday, when you apologized and asked for your friend back, I realized how much I wanted that too. But I can't be your friend and your therapist at the same time. The ethical boundaries make it impossible."
"So you're choosing friendship over being my therapist."
"I'm choosing what I hope is right for both of us." I met his eyes directly, letting him see the sincerity behind my professional mask. "You deserve a therapist who can be completely objective about your recovery. Someone who won't hesitate to push you harder when you need it because they're worried about hurting your feelings. Someone who won't let personal concern interfere with treatment decisions."
He absorbed this slowly, and I could see him working through the logic of it. Gage had always been practical, even as a teenager. He understood systems and boundaries and the importance of doing things the right way.
"And you think you can't do that?"
"I know I can't." The admission cost me, but it was true. "These past weeks, watching you struggle and make progress and work so hard to heal, I've been proud of you in ways that have nothing to do with professional satisfaction and everything to do with caring about you as a person."
Something shifted in his expression, a careful hope that he was trying not to let show too much.
"You care about me."
