Sammy leaves at the end of the week, and not because he wants to. I have to kick him out—kind of.
It means everything to me that he stayed for so long to take care of me, never once complaining about my shoe-sized studio or how uncomfortably he spent his nights on my pull-out couch. He cooked, shopped, and cleaned, all while keeping a smile on his face and asking if I was okay every five seconds.
But two weeks is enough. He has a wife and a daughter to go back to, not to mention all the missed appointments he needs to catch up on at the tattoo parlor. My uncle Trey—who’s not my real uncle, but Sammy’s best friend—has been handling Inkjection on his own just fine, but my brother is the boss. He has to be there.
As she would put it, “You can’t hold your brother back. It’s unfair, and you’re a grown-up.”
No matter how much time passes, I can’t get her voice out of my head. It’s always there, whispering in the back of my mind everything I’m doing wrong for myself, for my brother, for Grace, for Lila, and even for my mom.
It’s because of her words, the reminder that still stings, that it feels a little easier to say goodbye.
He gives me a big bear hug at the door of my apartment. “We’ll come and visit you as soon as we can.” He means Grace and Lila, who I haven’t seen since graduation more than a month ago. “Call me if you need anything or if something happens.”
“I will.” I won’t. Nothing is going to happen, and I don’t want him to leave everything behind again for me when I can take care of myself now. Kind of. “My ankle feels better already.”
That much is true. I’m by no means cured, but so far, rehabilitation is going well. I don’t know what kind of black magic Dr. Giant is practicing on me, but it works. We did some flexibility exercises yesterday, and even though it’s still weird to let a stranger guide my body like that, I’ve grown used to his touch.
But I’ll never say that out loud. Not in a million years, and not if I want my brother to preserve his sanity.
“Still, you should rest as much as you can.” When Sammy pulls away to look me in the eye, concern and exhaustion mar his face. “I love you, princess. Please, call me or Grace if anything happens.”
“I’ll be fine, and we’ll see each other soon. Don’t worry about me.”
He ruffles my hair before pressing a lingering kiss on my forehead. “That’s impossible.”
A chuckle escapes me, a rare occurrence these days. I barely remember the sound of my own laughter. “You’re such a dad.”
“I am. Is that supposed to be an insult?”
“For you, yes,” I tease him.
It feels weird, like a betrayal to myself that I’m feeling joy when my future has gone down the drain. But it also feels right that my brother would be the one to make that light at the end of the tunnel flicker back to life, even if only for a single second.
“I love you, Sammy. Drive safe.” I hug him again, inhaling his familiar scent that always takes me back home no matter where I am. And these days, I need his comfort more than anything—but I have to let him go. She was right about that.
“I love you more. You take good care of that ankle, yeah? If Lila finds out you’ve been careless, you’ll never hear the end of it.”
I smile, recalling my niece’s bossy nature. “Doesn’t sound like a bad plan to me.”
None of us know where it comes from, since both Grace and Sammy are as easygoing as they come, but I’ve always found it funny that she’s a little firecracker.
Lila is such a small thing, having inherited not a single one of my brother’s tall genes. She still has a lot of growing to do, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she stopped at five-two or five-three like her mother.
She has Grace’s blond hair, but the rest is all my brother—the mannerisms, the smiles, and even their eyes look the same.
She’s the sweetest kid, and she always manages to put the brightest smile on my face. I miss living with her the most—I miss her every day, especially how she always tiptoed into my room at six in the morning, claiming she wasn’t sleepy anymore and wanted to watch something on my tablet while I slept next to her.
Lila coming here to scold me would be a blessing more than a curse.
“I’ll text you when I get home.” Sammy kisses my temple again. “And one last thing—don’t worry about money, please. Order as much takeout as you want and call as many Ubers as you need, yeah? Don’t hurt that ankle now that you’re recovering.”
I nod, resigning myself to the fact that I’m back to being a leech. At least I could cover my own expenses when I worked, but now… Now I’m an inconvenience once more. The eternal sacrifices my brother has to make.
“I love you, princess.”
“I love you more.”
He shuts the door behind him, and I let out a deep breath. Just like that, I’m alone in my apartment again. This is what I wanted, wasn’t it? To live and let live.
I take a moment to bask in the silence. And then the darkness comes back all at once, as if Sammy had been keeping it at bay and now that he’s gone, the spell shatters into a thousand cutting pieces.
I should be back in Warlington right now, celebrating the success of my audition with my family or organizing summer trips with my friends. Instead, I’m stuck with this…this unbearable heartache until time offers me a cure.
My friend Beth, who I met in college two years ago and is now one of my best friends, is coming for dinner tonight. If I don’t cancel on her, it’s merely because she promised to bring food from my favorite Chinese takeout place down the block. It may make me sound like the most terrible person on the planet, sure, but I don’t want to spend any more of my brother’s money if I can prevent it.
So I sit on my bed and stare at nothing, think of nothing, as life passes me by.
All this nothingness feels oddly comforting.
✽✽✽
“Guide your toes up toward your shin as far as possible. Good. Does it hurt?”
I shake my head.
“Hold it for ten seconds.”
My first week of rehab is coming to an end, and Dr. Giant is still an emotionless grump—no surprise there. But the fact is that whatever he’s doing to my ankle works wonders, so I put up with it. It could be voodoo magic for all I care. At this point, I’ll take anything with a smile.
And speaking of smiles, I have yet to see an upward tilt of this man’s mouth. Maybe the muscles on his cheeks are stunted or something—that would explain a lot.
A little bit of fondness won’t make my ankle heal faster, but since this is one of the only human interactions I have these days, it would help me feel less like shit. Not that he knows about that, obviously. And I doubt he would care.
After a few more stretches, we move on to the BAPS board, which has slowly become my own personal hell on earth. It doesn’t make my ankle hurt, but it does make me feel self-conscious about my balance—or lack thereof. It mocks me because I can’t for the life of me manage to stay on top of it for five seconds, when two weeks ago, I could walk on my toes. Barefoot.
“Can we switch exercises?” I dare ask after ten minutes on the stupid board, unable to stand this any longer—no pun intended.
I flex my knees to avoid losing my balance, and when his attention shifts to that movement, I internally curse myself.
“I would advise against it, since you clearly need to work on your balance.”
Clearly? Clearly?
Oh, he’s going there. All right.
I bite my tongue, forcing the verbal lashing to die down my throat, and say nothing. I’ve lost the battle. It was never a fair match in the first place.
Yes, he’s the physical therapist, and yes, he knows best, but… There’s always a but, isn’t there?
But you’re a failure.
But you did this to yourself.
But you will never be as good at ballet as you were before.
But you will never join TNB because you’ve lost your one and only chance.
But. But. But.
The list goes on and on, and it never seems to end.
My left ear starts ringing, and all traffic in my brain stops as if ambushed by a red light.
My chest constricts, all air sucked from my lungs, and my stomach turns.
The nausea hits me out of nowhere.
A fraction of a second before I lose balance and make my life even worse, a strong pair of hands lock on my forearms and keep me steady.
“Miss Stevens?”
I know that voice.
It’s gravelly and distant, and I’ve heard it before.
I cling to it with shaky hands and labored breaths, hoping the sound will lead me above the surface.
My eyes are open but unfocused, and I can’t see.
You’ll never recover. You’ll never dance again. Everything fades. Everyone leaves because you don’t try hard enough—
“Listen to me,” that voice commands again. The fog clears just enough to do as it says. “You’re getting light-headed, but you’re fine.”
Light-headed? Is that what this feeling of emptiness is about?
As if the past few minutes had been nothing but a product of my imagination, the darkness fades away at once. My eyes manage to focus again, taking in the overwhelmingly bright lights of the room, and reality hits me.
I’m at the clinic.
The hands holding me for balance are a man’s hands, big and strong and firm.
“Easy,” that voice says again, and my brain finally makes the connection it’s been searching for.
I blink up at Dr. Simmons. My throat is dry and my tongue feels like it’s made of sandpaper, but I can’t swallow. When I glance at my feet, I notice I’m back on the ground and not on the BAPS board anymore.
“What—”
“You were having a panic attack.”
A panic attack?
No, I don’t have those. Not since—
“Sit down.” Dr. Simmons lowers me to a chair with so much gentleness I could cry. A few moments later, he comes back with a bottle of water. “Here. Drink this.”
With my mind on autopilot, I do as he says. The cold liquid runs down my throat, unclogging the lump that didn’t let me breathe, and before I know it, I’ve finished the whole thing.
“Do you want some more?” he asks.
I shake my head, my gaze still lost somewhere on the white wall in front of me. I hear him shuffling around the room, moving stuff, but I can’t find it in me to move my head or my eyes.
“I’ll be right back.”
He disappears behind me, and I know he’s left the room when the door opens and closes. Maybe I would find it disrespectful that he’s left me alone after a panic attack if I wasn’t so…so burdened already.
I miss my brother so much. The fact that he isn’t here anymore to look after me, that he won’t be picking me up from the clinic and making me dinner tonight, makes me want to burst into tears.
I could go back to Warlington with him and Grace. They would find me another rehabilitation clinic there, and I could be home with Lila.
You’re an adult. Stop running to your brother for everything. He’s done enough for you.
The door opens again, footsteps getting closer until Dr. Simmons reappears in front of me. This time though, his hands aren’t empty.
“I hope you don’t have a nut allergy,” he says before handing me a snack bag full of almonds.
My hands have a slight tremble to them as I grab it. “Where did you get these?”
“They’re mine.”
My eyes snap up to his.
“You can have them. I always bring more snacks than I end up eating, anyway.”
Heat rises to my cheeks. “I’m sorry. I can’t… This is…” Full sentences, Maddie. “I really appreciate this, but I don’t want to eat your snacks. I swear I’m okay now.”
He sits on the chair opposite to me, our knees touching, and just…watches me. Leaning forward, he rests his elbows on his legs and clasps his hands together. “Humor me, Miss Stevens.”
I’m spared of making that decision when my stomach rumbles. “Just a couple,” I warn him.
His chin dips once.
I open the bag, pick up an almond, and bring it to my mouth. The crunching sound fills the room, but somehow, it’s not uncomfortable.
He doesn’t speak again until I’ve eaten six of them. “Tell me how you’re feeling.”
I give him my default answer. “I’m fine.”
A beat of heavy silence passes between us. Then: “All right. Now tell me how you’re really feeling.”
I should’ve known he wouldn’t buy it. I shift on my chair, itching to end our session earlier like he suggested.
“I zoned out for a bit, but I’m okay now” is the next and best thing he’s getting. Then I add for good measure, “Same time on Monday?” I’m desperate to shift the conversation away from me and how I’m feeling. Away from that nothingness.
I start to think he’s frozen into place from his lack of a reaction, but then he says, “Yes.”
I get up from my chair, mortified at the fact that I just had a panic attack in front of him. Or that I had a panic attack at all.
“Thanks for the almonds.” I give him the bag back with a small smile. He takes it wordlessly, his eyes lingering on my face as if he were waiting for me to freak out again. “I’ll see you next week, then.”
It kills me to think I’m making him uncomfortable by simply standing here, forcing him to be in my chaotic presence for a second longer than necessary. So maybe that’s why I hurry to the door when I shouldn’t, and maybe that’s why his voice startles me when he says, “Careful, Miss Stevens.”
Yeah. Careful. Let’s tell that to the Maddie from two weeks ago.
Right when I think I’m finally free of this mortifying situation, his voice startles me again.
“Let me walk you out.”
No way.
“You don’t have to,” I’m quick to say, because I couldn’t possibly feel more self-conscious right now if I tried.
First, he has to help me up onto the exam table, then I have a freaking panic attack in his office, and now he feels obligated to walk me out because he doesn’t trust me not to faint in the middle of the hallway? Because I’m so weak now that my body can’t perform simple tasks without making me look like a fool?
Dr. Simmons sends me a look that leaves no room for arguments. “As my patient, you become my responsibility the second you step into this building. It’s my obligation to make sure you get to your family or your ride safely if you don’t feel good after a session. You’ve just had a panic attack.”
Like I need a reminder.
The no-bullshit tone of his voice tells me this is a fight I’m not going to win, so I let my shoulders fall and say, “All right” as my embarrassment levels skyrocket.
He doesn’t bother with small talk as we exit the clinic together. I’m not in the mood to do anything but go home and binge-watch The Office for eight hours straight so I can get some much-needed serotonin in my body.
“This is my Uber,” I tell him, pointing to the white car waiting for me right outside the clinic.
He tips his chin down once, those cold eyes on mine. “I’ll see you next week.”
And when he’s quick to put a hand on the car so I don’t hit my head as I climb in, I tell myself it’s something he does for all his patients.
✽✽✽
My phone rings as I’m brushing my teeth that night.
After my session with Dr. Simmons, I came straight home and did nothing all day. Some of my friends asked to come over and watch a movie, but after what happened this morning, I wasn’t in the mood.
Sammy texted me today, as he always does, to check on me. I didn’t tell him about the panic attack, and I may have been a little cold through text, so I’m fully expecting that call to be him.
But after rinsing my mouth and grabbing my phone from the couch, I’m staring at Unknown Caller instead.
Huh.
I usually ignore these kinds of calls, but this time I don’t give it a second thought before I pick up. I need a little thrill today. “Who is this?”
Silence.
“Miss Stevens.”
That voice.
“This is Dr. James Simmons, from the injury rehabilitation clinic.”
No. Way.
My heart does a little somersault—who am I kidding? A ginormous one—and blood rushes to my face as I will myself not to sound like an idiot. “Dr. Simmons, yeah. Yes. Of course. Hi. Hey. What’s up?”
What’s up? Really? Are you dumb?
“I was calling to see how you were doing after what happened this morning.”
“Oh.” I blink, taken aback by how…sweet I find that he cares. I’m probably not getting any special treatment, but it still makes me feel things I shouldn’t. “Well, I…I’ve been resting all day.”
Which is another way of telling him that my life is as boring as it gets.
“That’s good.” How can a voice sound gentle and rough at the same time? “Is your ankle giving you any trouble?”
“None at all. The BAPS board and I don’t get along, but I will admit it gets the job done.”
A sound suspiciously similar to a snort reaches my ear. “Glad to hear it.” Then he adds something that gets my breath stuck in my throat. “This is my work phone, so if you have any questions about in-home care, just give me a call. I’m also available after five and on weekends.”
I gulp. “I… Okay. Thank you.”
There’s no use in saying that I wouldn’t want to bother him because I know what he will tell me—that it’s fine, that this is his job, that his patients are his priority.
“Have a nice weekend, Miss Stevens.”
His deep rumble makes my head tingle in a weird, not entirely uncomfortable way.
What the hell is happening to me?
“You too, Dr. Simmons.” I hesitate. “Thanks for calling. I really appreciate it.”
A pause. “It’s nothing. Give me a call if you need me.”
Need him. Why is my brain stuck in those two words?
“I mean it, all right?” he presses.
“All right,” I mutter, struggling to breathe normally.
The last thing I expected today—or ever—was to get a call from my closed-off, grouchy physical therapist checking in on me after I had a panic attack, yet here I am.
When we hang up, I notice it’s only a few minutes after five. Did he call me right after his shift ended?
I sit on the couch and stare at my phone, debating whether what I’m about to do is the stupidest thing ever.
In a sudden burst of courage, I unlock my screen, check my recent calls, and add his phone number to my phone under “Dr. Grump.”
