Page 8 of Hearts on the Mend

It’s my turn to be an adult now, and I just need to practice my lying.

This will be fine.

Everything will work out.

I have everything under control.

“You promise?” she asks.

“Absolutely.”

Chapter 3

Nolan

“Stretch, right there. Good. Again.”

“I am,” I grit out.

“Harder, Nolan.”

Searing pain races up my spine. “Fuck.”

“You’ve got it. Blow out a deep breath for me.”

The fluorescent lights buzz overhead, and I do what I can to focus, to push through this new hell of mine.

I want to tear the head off my physical therapist, and he knows it. Pep talks and all.

“You’re going to get this. You’re close. Hold it. Hold that stretch…”

“You suck, Aaron.”

“I’ve heard worse, honestly. I promise, with some consistency, the skin will loosen. That’s all we need to work on right now. Today. This minute.”

I suck in another breath, then exhale for a beat. It’s like I’m back in the fire; my entire back burns.

“Could have been a motivational speaker.”

“Could have been a lot of things, but for some reason, I decided to work with grumpy assholes.”

“Can’t call me that.” My hands shake, and the edges of the room blur, but I keep pushing.

“Not very professional, sorry.” He taps my foot. “Almost done. Hold a little longer.”

I shake my head, tears stinging my eyes, before a rough laugh scrapes out of my throat. “No, I am an asshole. You’re right.”

Aaron nods, then steps back. “Good, now release.” He plucks the elastic bands from the table and tosses them over his shoulder. “That’s enough for today. Sit up slowly, and I’ll grab you a cool compress before you head out.”

“Don’t need it.” I sit up, not slowly, just to piss him off.

I don’t want to be here. Not at physical therapy. Not in Merritt Point. Not stuck on leave because I suffered burns to one-third of my body back in June on a fire in Washington. Once my burns were stabilized, Jack pulled strings to get me transferred to Spaulding in Boston, where I could recover closer to home. Now I’m doing physical therapy at a satellite office before I head back to my crew in Montana in spring.

He nudges my shoulder, leveling me with an unsettling glare. “You want to get back out there, it helps if you listen.” He motions for me to lie on my stomach, a cool rag in his hand. “Ten minutes, then you can leave. I’ll be watching.”

When I’m done, I toss on my flannel and grab my keys and wallet, my chest squeezing when my dad, Richie, slowly pushes up to his feet from his seat in the waiting room. The knees of his jeans are worn, and he’s wearing the Crocs my mother bought him with a lobster and a shamrock charm on each shoe.

“All set?” He sets aside an old issue of Yankee Magazine on the small table.