NINE
WES
The PT clinicsmelled like disinfectant and rubber mats. Bright overhead lights bounced off every metal surface, making the place feel more exposed than it already was.
Clara checked us in at the front desk like this was any other appointment and then drifted toward the seating area while I made my slow way to the back.
Gone were the tiny pajama shorts and soft T-shirt. Clara had pulled on dark jeans that hugged her legs, a fitted sweater that did nothing to hide the curve of her waist, and a pair of ankle boots that added just enough height to make her look like she belonged in one of those lifestyle shoots I used to flip past in magazines. Her hair was down now, falling in loose waves around her shoulders, and there was the faintest sheen on her lips that hadn’t been there earlier this morning.
“Wes.” My therapist, Jess, spotted me the second I came around the corner. Her dark ponytail swung as she crossed the room, tablet in hand. “Good to see you back.”
I grunted something that might have been hello.
Her eyes did a quick sweep from my face to my gait, a mental checklist I’d grown to recognize.
Weight-bearing: good.
Range of motion: needs improvement.
Attitude: surly.
“You brought company,” she said, nodding past my shoulder.
I didn’t have to turn to know she meant Clara.
“She’s just my ride,” I said. “It’s nothing.”
Jess’s mouth tipped into the slightest smirk. “Support systems aren’t nothing. They’re important.”
My skin crawled. “Can we just ... do the thing?”
“Always so charming,” she muttered, but she stepped aside and waved me toward the parallel bars.
I glanced back as I moved into position. Clara had picked a chair against the far wall, near a rack of outdated magazines. She’d already sat, one leg crossed over the other, her phone in her hand.
She wasn’t staring at me.
For some reason, that annoyed me.
“Okay,” Jess said, bringing my focus back. “Let’s start with walking the bars. Nice and easy. I want to see where we’re at today.”
We were at “tired and cranky,” but I knew that wasn’t what she meant.
I wrapped my hands around the cool metal and took a breath. Step, shift, step. The prosthetic did what it was supposed to do, mostly, but every movement still felt like doing algebra with muscles that only knew basic math.
“Lengthen your stride a little on the left,” Jess said. “You’re babying it.”
“It’s trying to kill me,” I grunted.
“That’s why you’re here.”
We went through the motions. Walking drills. Balance work. A sadistic exercise with a foam pad that made my residual limb work twice as hard just to keep me upright. Sweat slid down my spine, my T-shirt sticking to my back.
Every few reps, my eyes flicked to Clara.
She was scrolling with her thumb, her expression neutral. At one point she set her phone aside and picked up a magazine, flipping through pages without really looking at them. She shifted in her chair, uncrossed and recrossed her legs.
Not once did I catch her openly watching me.
