“Yeah,” I say. “Let’s go make some lemonade.”
41
FIRST CLINIC (EDEN)
The thing about healing? No one warns you about the setbacks.
It’s been three weeks since I filed the police report, and I wake with my heart racing before my eyes even open. Panic still blindsides me—passing a finance logo on a glass door, hearing that particular laugh, catching a whiff of expensive cologne. My therapist calls them “body memories.” I call them a pain in the ass.
Today, I make the adrenaline count. The first community clinic opens in an hour.
It landed in my lap two weeks ago when Jess called, sounding harried. “Look, I need a favor. Nate’s got community service to fulfill, and frankly, we need good press. Can you handle a small clinic? Eight kids max, basic injury prevention. The Foundation will cover your rates.”
My first instinct was hell no. The last thing I needed was more attention. But then she mentioned the payment, and my half-empty appointment book stared back at me from the desk.
“What’s the catch?” I’d asked.
“Nate will be there. It’s part of his service requirement. But Eden, you’re in charge. Completely. He’s just for decoration.”
I’m wiping the same table for the third time and second-guessing everything. Eight kids on a Saturday is easy…until the cameras roll and the internet sharpens its knives.
The door chimes, and Joy breezes in with three girls in leggings.
“Reinforcements,” she announces. “This is my Sunday morning crew. Their studio got them signed up for injury prevention work.” She lowers her voice. “Parent money, I suppose. They want to make sure their daughters don’t blow out ankles before summer intensives.”
I blink. “You didn’t mention?—”
“Details,” Joy waves off. “They need the screening, you need the client base. Win-win.” She’s already herding the girls toward the back, chattering about summer camp and cross-training benefits.
Before I can process any of that, the front door opens again. A woman with a tablet and a boy about twelve who’s dragging his feet walk in.
“Mrs. Peterson?” I check my list. “You’re early.”
“Traffic was better than expected.” She glances around, taking in the clean lines, the professional setup. “This is nice. Very...legitimate.”
The word stings more than it should. I force a smile. “Thank you. I will be right with you.”
Three more families trickle in over the next fifteen minutes. The parents eye me cautiously, not quite sure what they’ve signed up for. The kids complain about giving up their Saturday morning. The energy feels scattered, tentative.
Then Nate walks in.
He’s in jeans and a Defenders hoodie, water bottles tucked under one arm. Our eyes meet for half a second before I look away, my pulse doing complicated summersaults.
“Where do you want me?” he asks, voice carefully neutral.
“Water station.” I point toward the corner. “Keep the kids hydrated. Joy will take some footage later. That’s it, I suppose.”
He nods and heads over without argument. Professional distance. Good.
The first hour is rocky. The Peterson boy whines through every stretch. One of Joy’s dancers keeps checking her phone. A hockey kid tries to show off during balance drills and nearly takes out a lamp.
“Easy,” I tell him, steadying his arm. “It’s not a competition.”
“Feels like you’re trying to kill me,” he mutters, echoing every teenager I’ve ever worked with.
Nate appears beside us with a water bottle. “Trust me, if she wanted you dead, you’d know it.” The kid laughs despite himself, some of the tension melting. “Besides, this is nothing. Wait until she makes you do single-leg deadlifts.”
“Nate,” I warn, but I’m fighting a smile.
