Arching a brow at him, I cling to the rush of testosterone his off-handed compliment gives me. He groans when I quicken the succession of my push-ups, never taking my eyes off him.
“That wasn’t a challenge. I have no doubt you’ll kick my ass because I’ve probably only done about ten push-ups in the last ten years. I was just doing them to have something to do.”
I laugh, but the humorous sound doesn’t reach my heart as I stop, resorting to only the leg lifts.Just something to do.He’s not injured. Right.
He said he goes jogging every morning. This isn’t jogging. This is ‘helping the broken guy try to learn how to touch his toes again.’ I’m slowing him down by being here. Slowing his life down. A hindrance.
“Alright, since you were okay with those, let’s zone in on the hip flexors more while we’ve still got the weights on.” He turns to face me, one hand resting on the deck railing like a ballerina hanging on for balance. I do the same when he looks at me hesitantly, like he’s waiting to see if I follow his silent instruction. He lifts his left leg out to the side about a foot off the ground and then brings it back down. “Let me know if you have any hip joint or lower back pain. You want to work up to the pain but not through it. After this, we’ll stretch everything out again so you don’t have any cramping later.”
I’m already working on an ass cramp, but I keep my mouth shut and follow along, staring at his stationary foot. With each pitiful swing of my foot, I become more and more aware of the disparity between Remy’s treatment plan and my former exercise regimen. Sprints, lifts, squats, drills—I used to bewrecked afterward, not stopping until I was physically drained. And yet I felt like a god, invincible, knowing that the next day I would be that much stronger. As my lower back tightens and begins to protest from the rise of the cramp into my spine, the sour taste of self-loathing threatens to taint the open-minded attitude I tried to don on my way over here.
He doesn’t say anything to let on that he knows I’ve sadly already met my limit, but it sure feels like he’s aware because he stops and removes the weights. The enthusiastic praise he gives me as he does is the equivalent of congratulating a child on a finger painting.
We do a few more lunges to stretch out. I know it’s meant to be a cool-down, but that only stokes the flames of my humility more. Cool down? It used to take a lot more to make my muscles scream and my heart rate accelerate.
“Can you lie down on the ground? I want to stretch your back well before you go so you’re not sore later.”
“Yeah, sure.”
I’m torn between feeling like I’m being doted on and being useless. Part of me is impressed that he knows I’m limited in how I can stretch my back on my own, but another part of me isn’t thrilled about him having to watch how rigidly I get to the ground. I look like the Tin Man before Dorothy came along with the oil can.
Kneeling at my side, he grips my ankle and the bottom of my foot, bending my knee close to my stomach. I feel the stretch immediately, running down my hamstring, across my ass, and into my lower back. Something snags, though, at my lower spine, and I wince.
“Shit. Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I grunt, lying like any proud man would in front of his former hookup.
“Can you bend your other leg at the knee? That will help keep your hips more aligned so we’re not torquing your back.”
I knew this already from countless times of trying to get up off the floor, but clearly, I don’t think straight when he’s around. Silently cursing myself, I bend my knee so my other foot is flat on the ground near my ass.
Remy’s gaze is fixed on my face, concentrating with concern. I hate that it’s an open book, and his attention is focused on signs of pain and not pleasure.
“Do you take anything for inflammation?”
“No,” I mumble, fixing my gaze on the cascade of poison ivy vines affixed to his fence.
“What do you do to manage your pain?”
“Heat. Ice. Stretching my back however I can.”
“Are you…afraid to take anything for pain or swelling?”
I know what he’s implying, and the answer is yes. Yes, I’m afraid of getting hooked on pills again. Mostly, I’m afraid of the way my parents would look at me—like I’m more of a shadow of their former son than they already think I am. Because guess what? Being doped up felt pretty damn good. I can’t lie to myself about that. Detoxing, on the other hand, well, I think I’d rather be in another car accident.
“I’ve been clean for thirteen years. I don’t think an aspirin here and there would hook me, but what’s the point?”
He blinks, moving around to my other side. “I don’t understand.”
“They don’t even make a dent, and what little they do is just an illusion. As soon as they wear off, then it’s like the pain is saying hello all over again. Better the devil you know, so to speak. You just…get used to it.”
“Did your doctor say if you could take anything regularly without worrying about relapsing?”
I turn my head to stare at his deck, hoping he can’t see me roll my eyes. He’s got his hands on my body, and he wants to talk about this shit instead? That has to be the only reason I’m humoring the topic; he’s loosened up my tongue with his touch. Apparently, I’ll do anything for physical contact.
“Anti-inflammatories, yeah, but I don’t want to screw up my kidneys on top of everything else. He said I should try that CDB shit, but…”—I shake my head, disgusted by the thought of giving my pain a victory—“it’s fine. I made the bed, so I can sleep in it.”
He sets my foot back down on the ground. I feel the loss of that non-sexual touch like a hand that just slipped out of mine in the darkness. Glancing at him for cues about my next bout of shame, I find him frowning down at me.
