“Can I translate that ascharmingly mysterious?” he asks sheepishly.
A puff of laughter hits the back of my teeth. “Sure. Why not?”
We stand facing each other, he probably wondering if I’m going to bite his head off again, and I fully accepting that he is, in fact, charmingly mysterious. Helikesspending time with me? It makes me want to dig way down deep inside until I find whatever it is he thinks I have left to give. I have a feeling I’ll be searching for a long time, but knowing he might be here while I do, putting up with my shit, makes it seem less daunting.
“Mightener,” he nods back, a flicker of a smile flashing at the corner of his mouth.
“I’ll see you.”
I smirk and head through his weeds, sore but somehow lighter knowing I’m off the hook for my latest outburst. How in the hell does he thinkhe’sa mess? He made it sound like he was hopeless and indecisive the other day—the qualities of a pushover—but he hasn’t put up with anything I’ve dished out. Maybe having a history isn’t working against us after all.
CHAPTER 12
Remy
“Go-go dancers, huh?” Chris scrunches up his face into the morning sun, gripping onto my hands as I stand between his feet to provide tension for his lower back stretches.
“Yeah,” I laugh. “I swear he went almost every weekend for months.”
He shakes his head with an amused sound. I’m not sure how we got to talking about Jamie or his many quirky habits, but that’s been our norm for the last two weeks. If we’re not quizzing each other on random lists of favorites, we’re jabbering about anything and everything from the news to childhood to awkward shopping encounters. Conversation has become as simplistic as breathing. It no longer matters that it’s been fifteen years. Our time capsule has been opened, and we’ve picked up right where we should have started.
I release his hands reluctantly. I’ve got to get ready for work, and I’m sure he’s likely had enough for one day.
“You good?”
“Yeah,” he says as always, but I’m not sure I believe him.
He’s been looking haggard for the last few days, with obvious bags under his eyes. I want to believe I’m helping him, but I don’t know if that’s just wishful thinking on my part. His flexibility is showing signs of improvement, but I can tell he’s still in pain most of the time. I’ve spent years reading mypatients, looking for cues that they’re at their pain threshold. Maybe I’m hyperaware of Chris’ facial expressions because of how many times I saw him basking in pleasure. A face can tell no lies to a former lover. The tick of his cheek, the clench of his jaw, a twitch near his eye—each micro-expression convinces me he powers through when there’s no need to. I’m wary of grilling him too much, though, and sparking that pride he keeps strapped across his shoulders. I will never know how he feels or what he’s had to endure, but I know a little of what it’s like to lose faith in yourself. I experienced just a fraction of that in recent months, and it’s certainly not a mood I’d want to live in for an extended period.
“Sounds like you guys made better use of your college experience than I did,” he teases, getting to his feet, but there’s a wistfulness there. “Hell, I’ve still never been to a go-go club.”
“If you’d… been out back then do you think you would have gone?”
I can’t decipher the emotion that crosses his face this time before he looks away. He shrugs, appearing to take a sudden interest in my lawn, his profile wearing a sad smile.
“Probably not. I’d have had no one to go with and would have just been some creepy guy, sitting by himself, ogling the dancers.”
“Well, that worked for Jamie.”
That’s less loaded than sayingI’dhave gone with him. Plus, therapy has seemed to become my secondary goal to making him laugh. It is the best medicine, after all. Seeing him smile is a medicine of its own to my heart.
I watch him lumber to his feet, trying not to get caught staring. His weight sways momentarily before he almost rights himself, the curve in his spine preventing him from doing so. I hope he’ll keep showing up every morning long enough for me to work through my knowledge to help him reduce the curve. It’salso quite possible that I hope he’ll keep showing up because it feels like I have a new friend. A new old friend.
“Do you regret anything? About the path you chose?” he asks curiously, just as I thought he was about to turn to leave. “I mean, would you have picked a different career? Lived somewhere else?”
The questions churn in my mind. Were they self-reflective, I wonder, but give up on dissecting them as I catch him waiting.
“I have plenty of regrets. I’ve beaten myself up over every single one of them, but I think we’re supposed to a little. It’s how we learn.” I guess that wasn’t an answer and partially TMI—typical me—so, I smile helplessly. “But no, I don’t think so. I like helping people, and thought physical therapy was something I could be proud of. And San Antonio? Well, that just sort of happened. I figured there was as much for me here as anywhere else.”
After saying all that, I realize the real answer is that all my choices were safe ones. Steady job. A city I was already familiar with. So, yeah. I guess I’m right where I should be—right in the middle of my comfort zone.
Spewing life reflections to Chris, however, doesn’t feel safe when he looks at me like he is right now: haunted eyes sometimes clouded with troubled thoughts, searching for answers. I wish I could give him all the ones he’s looking for. Pensive, he nods and gives me a smile.
“I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“See you, Chris.”
Like each morning, I watch him disappear around the side of my house. At least, there are fewer weeds now that I’ve committed to doing some yard work. Hustling up the stairs to my deck, I snag my phone off the railing where I left it and find two messages from Jamie.
