“Great,” I cry, overly cheerful.
Nope, no PhotoShop here. It’s all real.
Jesus.
I catch up with him, stopping in the living room doorway. Nick rests his hand on my back, just between the waistband of my jeans and the seam of my top. I can feel his heat, and suddenly I can’t breathe anymore. His fingers are brushing against my skin; only for a second, maybe two, but it’s already too much. He pulls his hand away suddenly, as if he’s just felt an electric shock: it hovers there for a few seconds, and I’m suspended between a need and a fear that he’ll do it again. Then, as if he could hear my thoughts, he brushes them against me again. First, with his fingertips, then with his whole finger sliding slowly across my skin, and then with his palm, which presses lightly against me. It’s an intimate gesture that my body recognises immediately, reacting in the only way possible: trembling against his touch. I turn suddenly to meet his gaze and find myself catapulted back in time.
I’m not in the O’Connors’ house anymore. I’m not twenty-seven: we’re alone in a swimming pool, with only our breathing for company.
“Good evening, Casey,” Mrs O’Connor greets me. Nick moves away suddenly, and I realise from his confused expression that he probably had the same flashback as me.
“Hi, Mrs O’Connor.” I try to shake myself off and come back to the present. “Are we ready?”
“Ready to go!” James responds. His positivity melts my heart immediately.
“Well then, if you don’t mind, we’ll get started right away. I’d prefer it if we were alone, if that’s okay.”
“Of course, dear.”
“Don’t you need a hand?” Nick asks.
“It’s my job. I know what I’m doing.”
“I just thought you might need help, that’s all,” Nick tries again.
“I’ve been doing this on my own for years. I’m capable of treating anyone, and this is no different,” I say, but my voice betrays my hurt.
Obviously, this is different. I knew Mr O’Connor well, and knowing about his illness has left a huge hole in my heart. And Nick being here isn’t making it much easier, but I’m not going to let myself drown in the past. Eight years is more than enough, right? He and his beautiful butt cheeks can stay locked up in that old, dusty box I shoved into the loft of my mind as soon as he left. The physio won’t last forever – a couple of months at most – and once we’ve finished, he’ll be ready to get back to his travels, his photo shoots. His bullshit.
“I just wanted to be useful.”
“Well, you’re not. This is grown-up stuff. Why don’t you go play in the garden instead?”
Why can’t I stop my tongue? Why am I so angry? Why did he have to touch me? Look at me? Why is he even breathing?
“Come on, Nick,” his mother says, taking him by the arm. “Can’t you see we’re getting in the way? Leave your dad in Casey’s capable hands. She’s here for a reason.”
Nick nods without looking at me, and he and his mother leave the living room.
Once we’re alone, I finally turn my attention back to my patient and start to explain the process to him. “How did it happen?” I ask, referring to his accident.
“I missed a step and fell down the stairs. Luckily, I was near the bottom, but my knee gave in.”
“And we need to get it back up and running.”
He smiles kindly at me.
“Do you reckon you could get anything else up and running?”
“I wish I could,” I tell him, pain coursing through my heart. “I know about what you’re going through.”
“Of course you know. Otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
I smile as I guide him to sit down on the table.
“Could you do something for me?”
I look at him, not knowing how to respond.
