Page 9 of The Promises We Broke
Chapter 3
Billie
Istood outside Booker's guest room with my bag of equipment, taking one last steadying breath before knocking. Professional. Clinical. That was the mantra I'd been repeating since I'd woken up this morning, the armor I'd carefully constructed around the part of me that had spent the night replaying every moment of seeing Gage again.
The door opened to reveal Xander, who stepped aside with a knowing look that I chose to ignore.
"How's our patient this morning?" I asked, slipping into my therapist voice like a well-worn coat, giving myself a moment before looking at the man I was really here to see.
"Stubborn," Xander said with a wry smile. "Already tried to get up and make his own breakfast. Booker had to physically block him from attempting the stairs."
Of course he had. Some things never changed.
The room was larger than I'd expected, with afternoon sunlight streaming through tall windows. Gage sat in a recliningchair that someone had positioned to elevate his casted leg, his left arm secured in a sling against his chest. He looked up as I entered, and for a split second, I saw something raw and vulnerable flash across his face before his expression shuttered.
"Good morning, Gage," I said, setting my bag down and pulling out my tablet. "How are you feeling today?"
"Fine," he said automatically.
I raised an eyebrow, making a note. "On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain right now?"
"Three."
I looked at him more closely. The tight lines around his eyes, the careful way he held his torso, the slight pallor beneath his tan. "Try again."
"Four," he said after a pause.
"Gage." I kept my voice level but firm. "I can't help you if you're not honest with me. And trust me, I've seen enough patients to know when someone's lying about their pain levels."
He was quiet for a long moment, and I could see the internal war playing out across his features. The stubborn independence that had always been part of him warring with the reality of his limitations.
"Six," he admitted finally. "Maybe seven when I try to move."
I made another note, ignoring the way my chest tightened at his admission. Professional. "Have you been taking your medication as prescribed?"
"Most of it."
"Most of it?" I could already feel the frustration building.
"I take the morning dose. Skip the afternoon one."
"Why?"
He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "I don't like how it makes me feel. Fuzzy. Out of control."
There it was. The heart of the issue. Gage had always needed to feel in control, even as a teenager. Eleven years of completeindependence would have only reinforced that need. Even when he was wild and raising trouble, it was always on his terms. Only within the limits he let himself have.
"Pain medication serves a purpose beyond just making you comfortable," I said, pulling a goniometer from my bag. "When you're in significant pain, your muscles tense up, your range of motion decreases, and your healing actually slows down. The medication isn't about making you feel good. It's about giving your body the best possible environment to heal."
"I've been managing pain for years without…"
"Without access to proper medical care," I interrupted. "This isn't about being tough, Gage. This is about being smart."
I could see him bristling at my tone, but I didn't back down. I'd learned long ago that some patients needed firm boundaries from the start, and Gage had always been one to push limits.
"Let's start with some basic assessments," I said, pulling up a chair beside him. "I need to check your range of motion in your right shoulder and see how your ribs are healing."
I reached for the edge of his T-shirt, then paused. "I'm going to need you to take your shirt off so I can properly assess your shoulder and check for any signs of complications from the road rash. Are you okay with that?"
