Page 52 of The Promises We Broke
"She's invested." Laura clipped her pen to her chart and gave me a look that was probably meant to be professional but came across as slightly amused. "Which, given what you've told me about your history, makes perfect sense."
I'd been honest with Laura from our first session. About my relationship with Billie, about the professional ethics situation that had led to the transfer, about the fact that we were attempting to rebuild some kind of friendship. It seemed easier than trying to pretend my recovery existed in a vacuum.
"The friend thing is new territory for us," I admitted. "We were never just friends as kids."
"And now?"
"Now I'm trying to prove I can be the kind of person she'd want as a friend." I tested my shoulder range again, pleased with the progress. "Someone reliable. Someone who shows up when he says he will. Someone who doesn't run when things get complicated."
"And if friendship leads to something more?"
The question hung in the air between us, loaded with possibilities I was trying not to examine too closely. Not because I didn't want them, but because I'd learned the hard way thatwanting something and being worthy of it were two different things.
"Then I'll be grateful," I said simply. "But friendship is what she offered, and friendship is what I'm going to focus on earning."
Laura nodded approvingly. "That's the kind of thinking that leads to healthy relationships. Romantic or otherwise."
Twenty minutes later, I was walking toward the south pasture, moving more easily than I had since the accident. Still, I couldn't wait to get rid of this damn cast and the crutch. The July heat was already brutal, but the morning air still held a hint of coolness that made the work bearable.
Bullet was waiting in his usual spot under the oak tree, ears pricked forward like he'd been expecting me. Over the past two weeks, our sessions had become the best part of my day. There was something liberating about talking to someone who couldn't judge my past, couldn't offer advice I wasn't ready to hear, couldn't look at me with disappointment or pity or frustrated love.
"Morning, buddy," I said, settling myself in the grass about six feet from the fence. Close enough to talk, far enough to respect his space. "Laura says I'm making good progress. Ahead of schedule, actually."
Bullet's tail flicked once, his version of acknowledgment.
"Think it's because I have something to work toward now," I continued, pulling up a handful of grass and tossing it aside. "Two weeks until this transition period ends and Billie and I start figuring out how to be friends again."
The horse took a step closer to the fence, his dark eyes fixed on my face with what looked like curiosity.
"I know what you're thinking. Friends might not be enough. But it's more than I had three weeks ago, and it's more than I thought I'd ever get when I first came home." I leaned backagainst the fence post, tilting my face toward the sun. "Besides, I bought the house."
Bullet's ears swiveled forward, like he understood the significance of that statement.
"The one by the swimming hole. Where we used to go as kids. Where she'd sit and stare at the windows like she was planning our whole future." The memory made me smile instead of hurt for the first time in years. "Figured if I'm staying in Willowbrook, really staying this time, I should have a place that feels like home."
I'd been working on the house every day since buying it, within the limitations of my physical capabilities. I wasn't making that mistake again. Trace and Booker had been helping with the heavy lifting, but the planning and detail work was all mine. Stripping wallpaper, sanding trim, carefully removing decades of bad renovation decisions to reveal the bones of what the house had always been meant to be.
"She knows about the house," I told Bullet. "Found me there, doing demolition work I definitely shouldn't have been doing with a healing collarbone and a broken leg."
The horse moved closer, now standing directly at the fence line. His nose was almost close enough to touch, though I knew better than to reach for him. Like trust, physical contact would come when he was ready.
"But she came to find me when I didn't show up for therapy," I continued, still amazed by that fact. "Sat on the floor with me while I had a complete breakdown about my father and Regina and everything I'd been carrying around for years. Held my hand while I cried like a kid and apologized for leaving her."
A soft whinny from across the pasture caught both our attention. One of the mares was calling to Bullet, but he didn't move from his spot by the fence. He was choosing to stay here, with me, instead of going to easier companionship.
"She said we could try to be friends," I said quietly, still processing the memory of her hand in mine, the way she'd looked at me when I'd finally told her the truth about leaving. "Not promising anything more than that, but friends. After everything I did to us, she's willing to try friendship."
The sound of footsteps made me turn, and I saw Booker approaching with two bottles of water and the satisfied expression he wore when one of his ideas was working out exactly as he'd planned.
"How's the therapy going?" he asked, handing me a water and settling beside me in the grass.
"Good. Better than good, actually." I gestured toward Bullet, who was now close enough that his breath was fogging the fence wire. "Your equine therapy idea might actually work."
"Considering I've built an entire business on it, that's probably a good thing." Booker took a long drink of water, studying the horse with professional interest. "He's come a long way since he got hurt. Used to bolt if anyone got within twenty feet of his pasture."
"What changed?"
"Time. Consistency. People showing up every day even when he didn't want them there." Booker glanced at me sideways. "Sound familiar?"
