Side note number three—I am a liar. A dirty, dirty, pajama-pants-wearing, Dawson’s-Creek-watching, crying-over-cake-balls liar.
“I don’t work on Saturdays, so I got moving a little slower and decided to have some coffee first,” I explain, but that sounds like a horrible way to hydrate for a workout. And I wonder why he never took an interest in something more when we were younger.
His shoulders relax despite my verbal diarrhea, and I get another flicker of a smile. “Okay, great.”
“Um…why don’t you come on in? Just make yourself at home, and I’ll go get changed.”
I leave him in the open space between my kitchen and living room with an awkward wave before I try to walk at a leisurely pace to my bedroom. Closing the door softly behind me, I think I breathe for the first time in minutes as I scramble over to my dresser, kicking my pajamas off on my way.
“Chris isinmy house.Chris…isin…my house.”
I should probably shut up until I find out how soundproof my walls are. Where is Jamie when I need a slap? Maybe he could air one to me via video chat.
No, he’s an hour behind me, and there is no way I’m telling him about this. I’ll just have to slap myself.
After triple-checking that I don’t have my running shorts on inside out or backward, I make my way back down the hall. My steps falter at the work of art standing next to my island counter. Head cast down, the little smile at the corner of his mouth is the kind someone wears when they spot a baby babbling cute noises or an elderly couple holding hands. His face looks so much softer than recently. Fingering an earmarked page of my cookbook with one of his thick fingers, he handles it more gently than one would expect from hands his size. Does he find my love ofmaking sweets amusing? Moving forward, I clear my throat, and he snaps his hand back.
“Okay! I’m ready. Thanks for waiting.”
Working his jaw, he takes in my attire from head to toe—gym shorts and an old T-shirt. His grimace makes me wonder if I actually did put my shorts on inside out.
“I can’t go far,” he mumbles, bracing his hands on his hips and staring at his shoes. “I haven’t jogged in years.”
I’m over here all up in my head while he’s wondering if I’m going to put him through physical torture. I guess I should have clarified.
“Of course not. Impact exercises are the last thing your body needs.” There are exercises he could do, but we’ll have to work our way up to them. I’ve seen this plenty of times before in people with permanent injuries. They go through their initial therapy, but there’s no accounting for aging, and when they get back to their everyday life. “I thought we could work on some stretches in the backyard.”
When I gesture to my patio door, he glances outside and then back to me. It must be degrading for someone who was once at the pinnacle of fitness to be taking instruction from a former wallflower like me. I’d take him to the gym down the street, but I have a feeling he’s not up for an audience. When he nods, it feels like a small victory.
I lead him out onto the little deck and down the steps to my yard. It’s a third of the size of his, but we don’t need that much room.
“How long ago did you say you moved in?”
I follow his gaze across my weedy lawn with its bare patches where the grass has gone on strike, to the overgrowth of vines clinging to the wooden privacy fence. Right. He has Mightener Serenity Garden, while I have the equivalent of Charlie Brown’s Christmas Tree.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.” I laugh helplessly, holding up my hands. “And…well, I’ve got some really interesting cookbooks that don’t require sweating in the hot sun. Priorities. What can I say?” Is that almost a smile? Wow. “We can go to your house next time, if you want.”
“It’s fine.”
That wasn’t anoto there being a next time. I guess we’re doing this.
I have him demonstrate his range of motion to assess the capability of his joints. It takes me a minute to figure out if his stony expression is an indication of physical pain or his general discomfort at showing me what I assume he sees as weaknesses. I don’t bother telling him that I don’t view any attempt at adapting to living after injury as a weakness, however. I plan to do everything in my power to steer far away from repeat accusations of pity. As I watch him go through the motions of rotating his shoulders, hips, and neck, though, it lets me know that this is averydifferent Chris than the one I used to know, who’s standing in front of me. How in the hell did he landscape his entire backyard like a botanical garden with such limited mobility? That must have taken a lot of grit.
Like many patients I’ve seen with back injuries, his arms are his wheelhouse and the epitome of his strength. His rigidity is indicative of only stretching for pain relief and not improved mobility—a trap most people fall into. Some days, I sure as heck don’t want to go for my morning jogs. If I were in pain, I’d easily be able to talk myself out of going.
I get him started with some stretches that I think will help loosen up his spine and hips, since that seems to be where the brunt of his pain comes from. All the while, I find myself crossing my fingers that he’ll remain patient since they likely seem basic to a man who used to train regularly. Gripping the railing of my deck, feet planted, I mirror the last stretch Ishowed him, keeping my chin to my chest to help extend the spinal column.
“You’re lucky, really,” I hedge, attempting to throw out some inspiration. “Most people who have gait interruptions usually end up dislocating their knees or getting hip or other joint fractures from the strain of walking with their weight distribution off-centered.”
“Lucky, huh?” he grunts, keeping his eyes trained on the pitiful grass at his feet.
Nice, Remy. I swear I do this for a living.
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t meant to put you down. I just always try to see the silver lining.”
“I know.”
After an awkward few minutes of silence, I move on to the lower body, showing him some adjusted lunges to help stretch the sciatic. He watches me like a trained sportsman, memorizing new plays. He even looks intrigued when I discuss the importance of inhaling and exhaling at key points and how it impacts the muscles. His attentiveness helps quiet my self-conscious anticipation of him calling it quits and leaving. Soon enough, we’re just two guys stretching, amicably wordless.
