My first thought as we enter the injury rehabilitation clinic is about my mother.
Years ago, she’d hop in and out of other kinds of rehabilitation clinics.
I was sixteen when I finally confronted my brother about our mother’s troubled history with alcohol. Not that I hadn’t overheard him and Grace talk about her issues before, but I didn’t find out the real extent of her past until we had the “Mom’s intense headaches” conversation.
Needless to say, she didn’t exactly have migraines.
I don’t blame Sammy or Grace for disguising the truth when I was younger. What was the alternative? Telling me that my mother used to forget to pick me up from school and ballet lessons because she got too drunk to remember she had a daughter to take care of?
Yeah, right.
Now, as I take in the pristine white walls, clean floors, and smell of antiseptic in the air, I wonder if she ever felt as trapped in one of those clinics as I do now. And I’ve only been here two minutes.
We reach the reception desk, where I tell a smiley lady my name and what I’m here for.
It still feels surreal to say it out loud. Posterior ankle impingement. Sounds painful, doesn’t it? I can confirm it hurts like a bitch.
“Please, take a seat.” She gestures to the waiting room with a manicured red nail. “Dr. Simmons will see you shortly.”
My head goes back to my mom as I follow my brother to the waiting room.
Learning the truth so many years later wasn’t easy, but I understand why they didn’t talk to me about it sooner. I was nowhere ready to hear about my less-than-ideal family life.
Sammy told me that, when our mother’s brother passed away unexpectedly many years ago, she became a ghost of the woman she used to be. She drowned the voices in her head with alcohol, and little by little she drowned herself. Then she met Pete, and I was born not even a year later.
Pete, a father who never played with me, never took me anywhere, never even hugged me. Stupid Pete.
I try not to think about him too often because the mere mental image of my father turns me into a person I refuse to be. Bitter, angry, hateful. That’s not me. That’s not who I was raised to be.
Despite growing up neglected by my mother, I’ve never hated her. Sammy was afraid I would, but I couldn’t find the energy. Three years after I started living with my brother and Grace, my mother got out of rehab for good and, apparently, has been clean ever since.
I cried when I heard the news, afraid I would be taken away from my brother and his girlfriend.
I know, right? What kind of child has a meltdown when learning her mother is coming back for her?
Luckily, both Sammy and my mother decided I was better off living with him. I was happier and had a better chance at a bright future if my family life didn’t change.
I still saw my mother a few times a month when she would take me out for pancakes or to play in the park, but those visits didn’t help to bring us closer. I’m sure she was devastated about it, but I… I barely knew the woman. I wasn’t attached to her. Even when I lived with her and Pete, my brother came by every day and always took me to the park and for ice cream, so I’ve always gravitated toward him the most.
I can’t long for a mother I’ve never had. A mother I haven’t seen in a year.
“Are you nervous?” Sammy’s knee bumps against mine when we sit.
“Jittery,” I deadpan.
He sends me a look, a silent way of telling me to behave. I think he should give me a free pass today.
I was supposed to be working my ass off to nail an exclusive audition for my dream ballet company today or, at the very least, crying about not having been accepted. I was still supposed to be able to dance, to move my leg. Not… Not this.
Now my body is an empty shell of grief and unfulfilled dreams I’m not sure I’ll ever bring back to life.
“Don’t sulk,” Sammy mutters under his breath. “Dr. Simmons will have you back on the stage in no time. At least you don’t need surgery.”
Fine. That would’ve been way, way worse—I’ll admit as much. I try to tell myself that, as far as careless accidents go, I didn’t get the short end of the stick, even if it feels like it.
But all attempts at convincing myself that I’m fine, that this is nothing I can’t climb my way out of, aren’t enough. I’m not in the mood to count my scarce blessings right now. Not when—
It’s the “Maddison Stevens” that snaps me out of my thoughts, but it’s the deep voice saying it that has my stomach plummeting.
I turn my head in the direction of the man standing only a few feet away, and I crane my neck up, up, up, because he’s so tall he surely must experience a different kind of weather up there.
When I don’t respond, too busy staring at this mountain of a man who has just walked into the waiting room, my brother elbows me softly in the ribs.
“Here! I’m here,” I call out awkwardly, my voice only slightly higher than usual.
I feel my brother’s eyes burning a hole into the side of my face as I stand, probably wondering why I look so worked up all of a sudden. But I’m too stunned to speak, my throat going dry for reasons I don’t even want to entertain.
I’m used to being around tall men. Sammy is six-foot-three, and Kyle towers over me too. But this guy is on a whole other level.
At what I would guess is around six-foot-five, he narrows his impossibly blue eyes at me and frowns. He frowns.
I ignore the uneasy feeling settling in the pit of my stomach and grab the crutches Sammy is holding out for me.
“Are you Maddison Stevens?” There goes that low voice again, asking me the simplest of questions I can’t seem to answer like a normal person.
My mouth feels too dry. “Yes.”
It’s not that I find him attractive or anything. It’s not that. And sure, I might have taken in his short dark hair, his big—way too big—hands holding a folder between his thick fingers, and how the navy blue scrubs he wears contrast with the dark brown of his short beard, for a little longer than it would be appropriate. But it’s not every day that I get to see a real giant out in the wild.
He’s imposing. It’s just that. He’s intimidating. Handsome, too, all right, but…objectively.
And okay, let’s say I found him attractive. Hypothetically. If I had to guess, I would say he’s around thirty. I’m not saying that makes him decrepit, but he’s definitely old for me. Not like that matters anyway.
“I’m James Simmons,” he introduces himself, stoic and—yep—still intimidating. “I’ll be overseeing your recovery.”
So this is one of the best physical therapists in the East Coast. He doesn’t smile, and for some reason I find it odd. Aren’t doctors supposed to be friendly and all that? Maybe this guy didn’t get the memo.
His icy blue eyes don’t linger on me as he turns to Sammy, now standing by my side. “Are you her father?”
“Brother.” Sammy shakes his hand, and indeed, this James person is a couple of inches taller than him. Which is impressive because my brother is the tallest man I know by far. “Nice to meet you.”
“Likewise,” he answers, still in that same deep but almost bored voice. “I’ve got it from here. We can go now if you’re ready, Miss Stevens.”
Miss Stevens. Why have those two words just sent a thrill down my spine?
Actually, I don’t think I want to answer that.
I manage to get out of this giant-man-induced lapse in judgment and turn to my brother. “Will you be here when I finish?”
His smile is soft. “I’m not moving an inch, princess.”
A tiny sense of guilt takes over again before I can stop it.
He wants to be here. You’re not making him stay.
But is that really the case? Didn’t he just upend his family life in Warlington because I was careless and injured myself?
“Miss Stevens?” That authoritative voice manages to add a nonverbal layer of stop wasting my time at the end of his question somehow.
Or maybe I’m reading too much into this man’s every little action.
“Ready. Yes,” I blurt out, because apparently, I am unable to form a single coherent sentence in front of him.
With one last look at my brother, I turn to face Dr. Giant and give him as much of a sincere smile as I can manage. “We can go now.” There it is, one full sentence. I got this.
Without another word, he gives my brother a nod and turns around. To his credit, he doesn’t speed down the empty hallway, but he doesn’t walk beside me either.
We reach a miniature hospital type of room, which I assume is his office. Two huge windows with blinds occupy one of the walls, and different graphics, anatomy posters, and diplomas hang all around the remaining three.
“Take a seat, please.” He gestures to a treatment table placed against the opposite wall from a small desk and a couple of chairs. He doesn’t spare me another glance, focusing instead on typing something into his computer.
Okay, then. It would do me well to remember I’m not here to make friends. I’m here to get back on track as soon as this stupid injury will let me.
Holding on to my crutches a little tighter, I make my way to the table as slow as a turtle. I’m not particularly clumsy, but I’m paranoid the slightest contact with any surface will set back my recovery process. What if I make it worse? What if I end up having to need surgery because I keep on being careless? No, thank you.
Because, if I can’t dance, what can I do? What do I even have to offer?
Nothing makes me breathe as easily or feel as complete.
I could never live a fulfilling life if my days didn’t consist of stretching on the barre and learning routines.
How would I live?
The dark spiral of my thoughts only becomes more violent when I reach the treatment table.
He wants me to take a seat. It should be simple enough, but… I… I can’t.
I set my crutches aside and feel the soft fabric of the cushioned table under my fingers. Breathe in, breathe out.
Tears prick the back of my eyes, and I remind myself I’m not alone in this room. Ever since Sammy came to look after me, I’ve restricted my crying sessions to my showers. I don’t like bawling my eyes out in front of anyone, let alone a complete stranger who doesn’t seem to like me all that much in the first place.
You’re fine.
I’m here, on the right path to healing my ankle, and I’ll be fine. My brother is right outside if I need him.
That’s the problem.
“Miss Stevens?” His voice comes from somewhere behind me, but I don’t want to turn around. “Can you get on the table by yourself?”
I could. A few days ago, I could. When I had a working ankle and a purpose. What do I have now, besides self-pity and regret?
I don’t want to tell him that no, I can’t get on the damn table. This isn’t about him. This is about how my own body feels like a prison. How my limbs feel foreign and heavy when, just a few weeks ago, they helped me fly on the dance floor. How I was on my way to make my dream happen, and now…
Now I can’t even push my body weight up.
“Let me help you.” Looking over my shoulder, I spot him walking toward me, only stopping when there’s a small gap between us. He smells good—like wood and spice and some fresh-scented shampoo. Stop it. His smell is none of your concern. “Here.”
Huh?
My eyes drop to his hand, that massive hand that is now holding some kind of step stool.
For me.
Oh.
As he leans in to place it on the floor, embarrassment clouds my thoughts. Why does the fact that I need a step stool to get on the table make me feel so weak?
“Grab my arm for support.”
Dr. Giant offers me his forearm, and for a second, I don’t know what to do with myself. I mean, it’s not like he’s asking if I want to hold on to him or if I’d rather climb the two steps alone. He’s commanding me to do it. It’s as if he knows I’m useless, which wouldn’t be too far from the truth.
There’s a slight tremble to my fingers as I wrap them around the firmness of his naked forearm. The hairs on his arms tickle my skin as I slowly make my way up, praying he doesn’t feel how clammy my hands are getting.
As soon as my butt touches the table safely, he extracts himself from my koala-like grip with ease, sets aside the step stool, and slides into the rolling chair in front of the computer.
I lace my fingers together and stick them between my thighs, begging this tingling sensation to go away. And then Dr. Giant, this man who is already way too attractive for his own good, reaches into the pocket of his scrubs and takes out a pair of glasses.
And he puts them on.
Goddamn it.
My gaze darts toward the ceiling, suddenly finding it fascinating. It’s lost its original white color, and I suspect that lightbulb will need to be replaced soon because it doesn’t blind me in the same way the lightbulbs in the waiting room did. His office—
“All right. I would like to ask you a few questions before we begin,” he says, breaking the tension in my shoulders.
I drop my gaze toward him and those evil glasses. He’s turned sideways toward me, but his attention remains on the screen.
My throat is dry. “Sure.”
He goes straight to the point. “How did you get your injury?”
“I hurt my ankle while dancing ballet.” It’s funny how the reminder feels more painful than the actual injury. “I think I pushed myself too hard, and it just…gave in.”
He doesn’t react, doesn’t comment on my careless behavior. He doesn’t chastise me for not taking good care of myself either.
I get nothing, and I can’t tell if I feel more relief or unease.
He types something in and asks me another question. “Does the pain travel or stay in the same area?”
“It never travels above the knee, and my toes don’t hurt.”
“Does the pain get better or worse if you move your ankle? And in what positions?”
“It stays the same.”
“What was your functional mobility status prior to your injury?”
At his question, my stomach turns with nausea. All the optimism my brother tried to make me feel this past week at the fact that I don’t need surgery melts away as the reality of my situation settles in.
I can’t dance.
I lost my chance to join The Norcastle Ballet.
An uncertain and cold future unfolds before me, a future I want nothing to do with.
“Miss Stevens?” Those blue eyes watch me carefully, and I’m quick to snap out of it.
“Yeah, yes. Sorry. I, um, recently got my BA in Ballet Performance and was supposed to audition for The Norcastle Ballet.” Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.
“You were a professional ballet dancer, then?”
It’s the were that almost makes me sick. I swallow back the lump in my throat and say, “Yes.” It only comes out half-raspy and with no tears. That’s a win in my book.
His eyes linger on mine for a beat too long, and his jaw clenches in a weird way. I don’t know why I think it’s weird. Maybe because it’s paired with that look in his eyes. Kind of soft, kind of not.
The moment breaks as he types something in on his computer again. “What is your goal?” he asks then, catching me off guard.
I blink. “Goal?”
“With physical therapy,” he clarifies. To be honest, I haven’t thought much about what I want to get out of PT besides going back to who I used to be. So, I tell him just that. “We’ll see what we can do.”
We’ll see what we can do.
I get that doctors aren’t supposed to give you false hope and all that, but he could watch his words a little more carefully. Make them sting a little less.
After making me feel like shit—not like he’s even noticed—he takes off those glasses that make him look too good and stands, moving closer to where I’m sitting. “In this first session, we’ll focus on measuring what impairments could be affecting your injury, and I’ll trace a treatment plan from there.”
I only nod and take off my shoe and sock.
I’m not expecting his touch to be so gentle as he palpates my ankle, looking for who-knows-what, but I try to pay it no mind. So what if this is the most physical contact I’ve had in months besides hugs from my brother and dance partners? Pfft. Big deal.
Hating myself a little more, I glance at his profile for the tenth time since I walked in and try not to think too hard about why I can’t seem to take my eyes off this man. This older man.
His short but thick beard doesn’t stop me from noticing the sharp edge of his jaw, or its tightness for that matter. Why is he so on edge? I’m the one suffering from a life-altering injury and his grumpiness.
I let out a deep sigh, feeling more frustrated with myself than anything else, and he notices. “Does it hurt?”
“A little, but I’m fine.”
A grunt is the only answer I get.
We move on to some range of movement measurements and some tests of strength. I like that he takes his time explaining every exercise, even though I barely understand a thing. He says nothing that isn’t strictly necessary and doesn’t try to make small talk, which is fine by me.
Closing my eyes, I lose myself in the familiar darkness. I find comfort in knowing all I have to do is exist right now, in this room, as I’m lying on this table while he massages my ankle with such unexpected gentleness.
In the distance, the clock ticks, and voices drift from under the door as other physical therapists and patients walk by. The smell of antiseptic isn’t so strong now, unlike whatever shampoo Dr. Giant used this morning. That minty scent could wake up the dead if he got close enough.
“That’ll be all for today.” His gruff voice pulls me out of my almost sleepy state. I can’t believe I was about to call it a night right here, at ten in the morning. “I can confirm your ankle won’t need surgery, and we’re looking at around a six-week recovery plan. You’ll come to the clinic four times a week, then perhaps two. We’ll see how you progress.”
Still somewhat groggy, I sit up as he moves back behind the desk. “Okay.”
I put my sock and shoe back on and grab my crutches, only to set them aside when I realize I can’t use them to get back on the ground. I count to five in my head to avoid thinking how pathetic this is. How pathetic I am.
“Could you…?” I start, dying a little inside. He slides me a confused look, and I point to the stupid stool with my chin. “So I can climb down.”
He gets the stool and lends me his arm again. Don’t focus on his muscles. Don’t you dare.
I do. I do dare, and I only regret it a little bit.
Once I can stand on my own and hold my crutches again, he moves back to his desk. “You should rest as much as possible, so avoid going out for now unless it’s strictly necessary, or it might take your ankle longer to recover.”
My breath hitches at the mere possibility of messing up rehabilitation too. What would happen if I did? Would I… God, would I not be able to dance ever again?
“I will send you an email later this morning with a list of proper care instructions and our treatment plan for the upcoming weeks so you know what to expect.”
I swallow. “All right. Thank you.”
For the first time since we entered this room, he looks at me. And I mean, really looks at me. It may be all in my head, but his jaw seems to lose all that tension from before and his voice sounds a little softer when he says, “Take care, Miss Stevens. I’ll see you tomorrow at nine.”
