“You know what?” She turns back to her supplies, knocking over a bottle of ultrasound gel in the process. “Shit,” she mutters, catching it before it rolls off the counter. A flush creeps up her neck. “Let me show you a completely different approach. These exercises are more about retraining your nervous system than building strength right now.”
She demonstrates something called pendulum swings—literally just letting my arm hang and swing gently. “This is it?” I ask, and for the first time today, there’s humor in my voice. “I went from hundred-pound presses to... this?”
“Welcome to square one,” she says, and there’s an unexpected lightness in her tone. “Population: you and everyone else who’s ever had to rebuild from scratch.”
“That’s oddly comforting.”
“Right?” For a moment, we’re just Oliver and Devin again, not patient and PT, not exes with complicated history. Then she seems to remember herself, straightening. “Now, let’s work on some assisted range of motion.”
This requires her to take my arm and move my wrist aroundin gentle circles. Which requires her to stand right next to me, close enough that her hip occasionally brushes mine. She manipulates my wrist with careful precision, but when she has to adjust her grip, her fingers slip slightly—she’s nervous too.
“Radial deviation,” she murmurs, moving my wrist sideways. “Tell me when?—”
“There,” I say when the first twinge hits.
“Good. Now...” Her breath catches as she has to step even closer to get the right angle. The scent of coffee and mint on her breath brings back the memory of our kiss in the alley.
It’s not until her gaze meets mine that I realize I’m staring at her face instead of watching what she’s doing. She searches my eyes, her breathing hitching, pink entering her cheeks. The air between us thickens, charged with possibility.
She leans forward the slightest bit, maybe an inch, her eyes dropping to my lips. My pulse roars in my ears, but I stay frozen. I won’t be the one to cross this line, not when she ran before.
For a heartbeat, we hover there, suspended between past and future.
Abruptly, like someone dumped cold water on her, she draws back. “I’ll go print these out for you.” She nearly trips over her own feet in her haste to get to the computer.
She spins around and walks to her computer so fast that my “Thanks” is directed at her back. The printer hums to life. She hands me the warm pages, then slips her hands into her back pockets. “Shoot me a message later this week and let me know how they’re working for you.”
“I will. Should I, uh, call the front desk?”
“You can text me.” She looks away. “Since you have my number.”
“Will do.” The longing that I’ve been keeping tamped down rises in my chest. This is it. My opportunity.
She checks her phone. “Oh. I have another client waiting.”Her smile seems apologetic, but I get the sense that she can’t wait to get me out of here.
Which is confusing. If she didn’t want to see me, she could have recommended me to one of the other physical therapists here. Maybe she’s just as confused as I am, caught between what was and what could be.
Except I know exactly how I feel about her. And she doesn’t trust me. Doesn’t see me as someone she can count on.
I know I’ve let her down before. The only way I can create trust between us is by showing her I’m different. Day by day, choice by choice.
Which will take time.
“Thanks again.” I head for the door, printouts in hand.
Her gaze lingers on me, heavy with unspoken words. But in the end “You’re welcome” is all I get.
And that’s fine. It has to be. The best things in life take time, and if there’s one thing I have plenty of, it’s that.
Chapter Nineteen
Devin
“Back again.” Maya’s voice carries that particular brand of warmth she reserves for medical waiting rooms—part solidarity, part gentle humor that makes these sterile spaces bearable.
I shift in the uncomfortable chair, the familiar ache in my lower back reminding me why these visits matter. “Yep. Another day, another doctor’s waiting room.”
The truth is, most of my recent visits to doctor’s offices haven’t been for myself. Last week I sat in a nearly identical chair while Maya got her prescriptions adjusted, holding her hand when the doctor suggested yet another medication change. The week before that, Hannah needed someone to drive her home after her nerve block injections. The fluorescent lights had given her a migraine before we even made it to the parking lot.
