Lucy turns a vibrant red. “We just started calf raises with support. The ankle feels real strong, but I don’t know when I’ll be ready to go back to LA.”
Russ narrows his eyes, then turns to me. “How long until she can dance again? I mean really dance. That’s what this was all about, right? The therapy, the spare room…”
Lucy swallows. Her posture stiffens slightly, like his question is a test she’s already preparing to fail.
I squeeze her hand and answer the question her father asked out loud rather than the one he implied. “Her progress has been impressive. She’s healing faster than I expected, and we’re incorporating more advanced movements every few days. Strength, stability, range of motion—it’s all coming back.”
“But dancing at a professional level takes more than calf raises, doesn’t it?” he presses.
“It does,” I say, careful to keep my tone even. “But we’re not skipping steps. Lucy’s been disciplined. She listens to her body. We’re pacing it smart.”
Russ looks between us. “Still seems like something a licensed physical therapist should be overseeing.”
Lucy jumps in before I can respond. “Dad, Nash consulted with a licensed physical therapist. He’s not justwinging it. He’s smart and capable and takes exceptional care of me.”
“I’m sure he’s very capable,” her father intones, eyes locked on mine like a challenge. “But if your dancing career is on the line, why wouldn’t you want the best support you can get? Why not skip the middleman and go straight to the expert.”
Her breath hitches. “Because I lost my insurance, Dad.”
He nods slowly, almost like he forgot. Or was trying to force her to say it. “And you’re still planning to go back to LA? To what, exactly?”
The subtle change in direction feels like a man yanking his dog’s leash out of spite. Two minutes ago, Russ was pressing her to go back to Los Angeles and restart her dance career. Now, he’s injecting doubt. He says he’s trying to help, but his tactics feel less than helpful to me.
Lucy’s mouth opens. Closes. Her free hand fists on the table.
“There’s not really anything to go back to right now,” she admits. “My roommate sublet the apartment when she left on tour, so I’d be starting over again out there. Finding a place. A job, maybe two, while my agent lines up auditions.”
Russ’s brow lifts. “So, you’re stuck. No options for work as a dancer here, no education to fall back on, and nothing waiting for you in Los Angeles.”
Lucy flinches. I want to reach across the table and shake the man.
“I’m not stuck,” Lucy says softly. “Just… figuring it out.”
He leans back with a satisfied sort of smirk, like her floundering just proved a point he’s been trying to make since she left home. “You’re twenty-six. If you haven’t figured it out by now, when will you?”
“With all due respect,” I say with surprising restraint, considering I want to punch the man in his mouth, “I’ll remind you to keep things civil. Lucy didn’t ask to get injured. She didn’t quit her job. She’s one of the hardest working, most resourceful people I know.”
“And she has me to thank for that,” Russ mutters.
Lucy tenses beside me. My pulse spikes.
And that is officially all I can take. “If you mean your lack of true support meant she learned how to support herself, then sure. I guess I can see that.”
“That’s enough.” Lucy’s voice is sharp now. “This does not feel civil at all.”
Russ holds up his hands, mock surrender. “I’m not judging. Just making observations.”
Lucy stands. “Well, I’m done being observed. Thanks for the ice cream.”
Her mom rises quickly. “Lucy, wait?—”
But Lucy’s already halfway to the exit. I don’t hesitate, standing to follow, but Russ catches my eye just before I go.
“You seem like a decent guy, Dr. Kincaid. And it seems like you’re going out of your way to help my daughter.”
“Lucy is a remarkable young woman.”
“I know.”
