“Mybitch? Since when does sweet Dani Marsh curse?” I grunted as my foot met with her palm a second time.
“Since she became the badass therapist who’s going to get you back on your feet. Keep going.” Her voice was stern despite the wide smile spreading her cheeks—the wide, fucking-gorgeous smile. I shook my head, and with my eyes closed, gave Danielle three sets of ten plus one more.
I was far from back, but I’d get there. For the first time since I’d arrived, it seemed like a real possibility. My body slumped against the table with a tired satisfaction after we were done.
“Not bad, Jack.” Danielle wrapped a hot cloth around my leg at the end of our session. Sweat poured off me as if I’d run five miles. It sucked how such a small exercise was that taxing, but it was great to feel like I’d done something. Exhaustion from overexertion beat the hell out of depression.
“I don’t want to be the pathetic jerk who feels sorry for myself all the time. My family already gave me a talking to about being an asshole.”
She clicked her teeth with her tongue, and my battered but sadly deprived body found that sexy as hell. “That’s everyone when they walk through these doors. That frustration can be a good tool if you use it the right way.”
“Then, it’s not just me you complain about to your friends at night?” I rolled up to sitting and gave Danielle a sly grin.
The smile faded from her face before she shrugged. “I work late most nights, so I don’t get a chance to complain about my grumpy patients too much. Plus, HIPAA laws prevent us from going into any good detail.” She placed the crutches next to the table but kept her eyes on the floor.
“Most nights? Why?”
For the first time since we’d met again, she seemed on edge, scribbling on my chart as if she was stabbing it with the pen.
“Lots of patients, lots of notes.”
I wanted to ask if she was seeing someone, but I was sure that broke a patient/therapist boundary. Plus, judging by her jerky movements ever since I brought up what she did after work, I would guess the answer was no.
“It’s a perfect June day; you should head outside for a while.” She came over to the door and held it open.
“Alone?” Therapy and the common area next to it were the only places I’d been other than my room. Anywhere farther than that, I’d need the wheelchair, and that was a hard pass.
“You can move fine on the crutches. Go slow, and soak up the sunshine. You look a little pale.” Her lips pursed as she leaned against the door.
“It will take me fucking forever to get there.”
She crossed her arms and shrugged. “You have somewhere to be right now?”
“Good point.” I slid off the table and grabbed my crutches. Maybe I was moving slow as shit, but I was sturdy, or as sturdy as I could be.
“Jack,” she whispered and dropped her hand on my forearm. I stilled and slowly turned my head to meet her gaze.
“This will get betterandeasier. I have zero doubt about it, and neither should you.” She squeezed my arm before removing her hand, and an odd contentment washed over me. Her confidence in me sparked a strange inkling of hope.
Her no-nonsense attitude gave me comfort. She understood and empathized but wouldn’t let me use it as an excuse. My family meant well with their constant reassurance, but they had no real way of knowing if I’d ever get back to the way I was. Pretty to look at or not—and Danielle most certainly was—she gave me the fuel I needed.
If she believed I could do it, maybe I could.
8
Dylan
“Hello?”
I smiled at PJ’s sleepy groan coming over my car speakers as I drove to the mall.
“Rise and shine, beautiful.”
“Well, someone had me out way too late,” she sighed on a yawn. “And I think I have…beard burn,” she whispered, making me crack up.
PJneverwhispered. Her body was small, but her mouth was big and loud—and I fucking loved that about her. Even when she was a kid, she was little but fierce. I’d be visiting her brother and she’d muscle her way into whatever we were doing—and we’d have no choice but to let her. Jack would grumble and never admit that he enjoyed when she was around. I did, too, until she stopped being a kid.
Then, I enjoyed having her around a littletoomuch. From her sixteenth birthday on, the mere sight of Patricia Jane Garcia tortured the shit out of me.
