“Because you’re making progress?”
“Because what if I’m not? What if I can’t do it?” Not to mention that my failure would be witnessed by Sergeant Grumpy and, well…I wasn’t sure my ego could handle it. I talkeda good game. I played a good game. But inside, I was petrified of falling apart in front of an audience.
I preferred my good, long cries in the shower where no one was watching.
Pushing up, I climbed to my knees to balance myself. It hurt, and I felt a burning sensation down to my toes that were no longer there. I took a breath. All my old muscle memory still existed, so I mimicked curling them, and after a beat, the feeling faded.
I hated phantom pain more than anything in the world. The itches I reached down to scratch, only to remember I didn’t have an ankle on that side. The burning. The pins and needles. The tightness that had me stepping down seconds before remembering I had nothing to step down on.
The falls were fantastic. I had a sunset of bruises.
I was pretty sure if someone examined me, they’d think I was in some kind of abusive relationship.
“Failure is part of progress, remember?” Alicia said softly. “The only way to truly go forward is to know…”
“All the ways that are right and all the ways that are wrong,” I parroted. It was something she repeated every session because, unfortunately for her—and me—I was a bit of a perfectionist. I just hid it better than most people.
But I hated not being good at something immediately.
It was probably why I would have either made an amazing doctor or a shit one, but I’d never have the chance to find out. Not that I wanted to.
My greatest triumph in life was not showing up to my admissions interview at UCSF. I’d stood there on the campus, staring around me, and realized I’d rather head to the pier, get a bread bowl of clam chowder, and watch street performers. So that was what I’d done.
The angry phone call from my father two hours later had been worth it. And so was accepting his ultimatum. “I used every favor I have to get you a second interview. I want your word that you’re going to be there, or don’t bother coming home.”
So…I hadn’t bothered.
I’d slept in my car for six days, then gone to the bank to secure my meager inheritance from when my grandma died. That’d had been enough to rent me the city’s shittiest studio apartment. I’d applied to the community college and gotten in. Gotten a job at a bar, fucked a guy for a week who told me how much he loved being a high school teacher, and my fate had been sealed.
And now, I was here, but I wasn’t quite sure how all that fit into the great life plan.
“Heath,” she said patiently.
I twisted around to sit, crossing my legs and propping my head up on my hands, elbows digging into my knees. “Alicia.” I was being a smartass. I had been drifting all session.
“Give me one of your worries today, then we’ll call it a night. Or…day, for you.”
I could have given her anything at all. Instead, I gave her the worst thing. “I have PT with the ridiculously hot sergeant today who still hates my guts. I’m terrified of failing in front of him, and I promised Kent I’d be nice and give him a chance.”
She nodded, her face kind, her eyes soft. “Thank you.”
“Not going to offer me any sage words of wisdom?” I goaded.
She sighed, but I knew the answer. Giving her one of my worries wasn’t for her to solve the problem. It was to make me say it aloud so I’d think about it all day, fret, worry, stress, and then come up with something on my own.
“I think you’re going to do just fine today,” she told me. “I’m no physical therapist, and you’re my first amputee patient, butyour yoga form and posture look so much better than they did last week.”
I preened and rolled my shoulders back. “You think?”
“Yes, and I’m saying that from an objective standpoint. Not from the standpoint of your future best friend—once I stop being your therapist.”
Fuck. Ihadsaid that aloud.
“I need to buy duct tape.”
She laughed and winked at me. “Then you’d take away all my fun. Have a good session, Heath. I’ll talk to you next week.”
“I will. Bring me back something nice,” I told her.
