He couldn't control much in his life right now but he could control what he put in his body. Ever since he got sober, he'd admittedly been a bit obsessed with health. Ironic considering he'd spent so many years destroying his.But that was an intrusive thought that didn't serve him.
He could almost hear Tony in his head reminding him how capable bodies were of repairing themselves once you gave them the right fuel. Every time he heard Tony cough, he wondered how much he believed it.
This too would pass one step at a time, one day at a time.He began to rehearse his timeline as he bagged his fruits and vegetables. He would start his physical therapy. In a few weeks, after some hard work, his knee would become more flexible and he'd be able to walk and drive. Then he'd continue to work through that and be able to exercise again. Maybe even do a little stability work.
A few weeks after that, he'd feel mostly back to normal and be back on the jobsite full-time. A few more weeks and he'd be back on the ice. That was all he needed. He didn't even need to play in a game, he just needed to lace up and get out there with the guys at practice.
Then he could work on stabilizing everything else so he couldthinkabout working on his personal relationships. That was the order it had to happen because any other time he tried to mix and match he'd ended up slipping.
Which was fine when it was only himself. He knew how to drag himself back up out of the dirt. But women tended not to forget a thing like that, especially at this age. At twenty, maybe they had energy to forgive and deal with that crap, but at thirty plus, that trust was hard to build. There were too many guys like him who never recovered or never even tried to. He couldn't expect anyone to trust that somehow he'd be different. It wasn’t pessimistic, just reality.
He laid his crutch in the cart and pushed it back through the aisles, picking up stuff for sandwiches and everything he needed to make tacos over the weekend. That had become more than a tradition at this point. Tacos on Sunday, leftovers the rest of the week. Part of the routine that worked for him.
“These tortillas are better.”
Brett looked up to find Penny standing next to him. She held up a package.
“You’re a tortilla expert as well as a physical therapist? I don’t know why you’re intimidated by my family.”
Penny dropped them in her cart.
“I thought we were taking turns making dinner.”
Penny pulled a bag of pita bread from the shelf. “We are.”
Brett followed her down the aisle. “I'm already making tacos so you don't need those.”
“What if I want to get my own tortillas?”
“Then that would be offensive because I already planned the meal.”
“What other meals are you planning?”
“Haven't gotten that far yet.” If it were just him, he would’ve settled on eggs and toast or a burger. Now that didn’t seem quite good enough.
“I was going to do falafel—”
“Gesundheit.”
Penny shot him a look. “If you tell me you've never had falafel—”
“I've had falafel. I've just never made it before.”
Penny scooted down the next aisle and Brett followed. “It's easy. Just garbanzo beans and garlic.”
“You lost me at garbanzo beans. Sounds like that guy from Sesame Street.”
Penny laughed out loud. “Guy? You mean puppet?”
Brett feigned offense. “How dare you! They were real to me.”
Penny pulled two cans of garbanzo beans off the shelf with a grin. “Falafel one night. Roasted chicken and vegetables, then maybe risotto on night three?”
“Damn, Penny, you keep stealing all my ideas.”
She frowned. “You were going to make risotto?”
Brett laughed at the consternation on her face. “No, I wasn’t going to make risotto. Who makes risotto?”
