I pause next to him and meet his gaze. “I’m sorry for snapping at you earlier.”
He shrugs. “It’s all right. As I said, I know you’re frustrated. This is all new for both of us. Just try to be patient and don’t hurry the process. Ending back up in surgery isn’t the goal here, all right?”
“Yeah.”
Once I walk in, he follows me. Finley Clarke is waiting inside a room that resembles a gym. Her hair is tied into a knot atop her head, and she’s dressed in loose pants and sneakers. She’s beautiful in a way that catches you off guard, and a big smile that makes you feel warm and welcome. She’s a pretty girl—there’s no denying it—yet I only have eyes for the girl with curly hair and a gap between her two front teeth that gets me every times she smiles. My Gracie.
She has the kind of beauty that makes it so hard for me to look away.
“I’ll pick you up in an hour and a half,” Luke says, interrupting my thoughts and making me realize I zoned out.
“See you later.” After he leaves, I switch my focus to the woman in front of me.
She greets me with her usual smile and a warm squeeze to my shoulder. “Hey, Sol. How is it going? Ready to get started?”
For some odd reason, she makes me feel too aware of myself. Like the first time she touched my leg at the hospital to do those exercises, it felt . . . I don’t know. Surprising, unexpected, intimate even, maybe? Other than Grace, no one else has ever touched me like that. I know most guys my age would relish being touched intimately by a pretty girl, but most guys my age also would never take a vow of celibacy either.
Unfortunately, my body reacted to Finley’s touch. It was embarrassing to say the least. I chalk it up to a basic physiological response. I just hope she didn’t notice.
Just as I’m about to respond to Finley, her phone starts ringing. She pulls it out of her pants pocket, glances at the screen, then looks up at me and groans under her breath, holding up one finger. “One minute, it’s my daughter. I need to take this.”
“Of course.”
Once she leaves, I dig my phone from my sweatpants and open up the last text message conversation between Grace and me. After being discharged yesterday morning, I texted her to let her know.
Me: Come see me before you leave?
I press send and stare at the screen until three dots pop up on the screen.
Grace: Luke?
Me: Nope. He dropped me at the rehab center downtown. Will be done in about an hour.
Grace: Okay. Leaving in about an hour. I want to beat the traffic.
Me: C u soon.
Finley returns about five minutes later, just as I shove the phone back into my pocket.
“Sorry about that. How’s your leg? How much pain are you in now?” she asks, walking closer and putting her hand on my shoulder. It lingers there for a bit before I feel it move to my arm.
“I tripped and fell earlier so the pain is killing me.”
“Did you take any pain meds?”
“Just my usual dose in the morning. I don’t want to overdo it.”
She signals with her chin to the padded bench on my right. “Let me take a look.”
I hop over and carefully sit down and lean the crutches on the wall nearby.
She crouches down, and before she pulls the pant leg up, she glances up as if asking for my permission. I nod once. Then she rolls the material up to my knee. As soon as her fingers brush the skin there, my body jolts. Her head jerks up to look at me.
“You okay?”
Exhaling, I nod. “Yeah. Sorry.”
As if sensing my discomfort, she moves down to grasp my ankle. Again, my body twitches. The thing is, I’m not attracted to her. That’s what makes this really weird for me.
Needing a distraction while she examines my leg, I ask, “How old is she? Your daughter.”
She glances up at me smiling, then continues her inspection by squeezing my ankle. I wince. “She’s five going on thirty. A total know-it-all. Sometimes, I wonder who’s the parent.” Finley chuckles, then moves the ankle in small circular movements. “How does that feel?”
“Not great,” I say through gritted teeth, my voice strained.
“Sorry.” She gently sets my foot back down, then grabs a clipboard and writes something on there. Finley can’t be more than twenty-five, twenty-six years old tops. If her daughter is five, that means she was about my age when she had her. While not a teenage mom, she was still on the young side. I wonder how hard that was for her. I don’t want to be nosy, so I don’t pry any further.
Looking up, she asks, “What about you? Do you have kids?”
“No, not yet.” My mind immediately goes to Grace and the kids that we’ll have. Will they have her curly hair, or my eyes? Her smart mouth, or my love of running. When a Callan and a Miller reproduce, what do you get? I hitch my mouth in a smile just thinking about the family we’d make.
“Sounds like you want to be a dad.”
“I hope so, yeah. I love kids. I’m hoping to start classes this summer at the community college. I want to study child psychology.”
“Oh, really? That’s great. Lift your right arm up for me, above your head. I want to see how your shoulder is healing.”
I do as she says, lifting my arm toward the ceiling. Finley walks to my side and gives my shoulder a firm squeeze, then she asks me to move my arm straight out to the side. Then again straight in front of me.
“Now I want you to make a complete circle in front of you by rotating your shoulder, first going forward, then backward.” When I complete the exercise, she asks what my pain level is on a scale from one to ten.
“About a six. Not horrible. But I can still feel it.”
“Good.” Finley jots something on her clipboard again then looks up flashing her hundred-megawatt smile at me.
“One of my good friends, her father is the dean of the psych department at Pinecrest College, I’d be happy to have her set up a meeting with him for you, if you’d like.”
“Oh, wow. You’d do that for me?”
“Sure. Why not? It’d be my pleasure.” She gives me a little wink, and I can’t help but feel a circle of warmth radiate through my chest.
“That’d be so awesome! Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” She motions to the parallel bars a few feet away. “Let’s try some weight-bearing exercises on your right leg.”
I trail after her, then position myself at the end of the bars and wait for further instructions. For the next forty-five minutes, we focus on hip exercises and practicing how much weight I can bear on my right leg.
After texting Sol back, I shower, then join my mom and Christopher at the kitchen for breakfast. We talk mostly about their upcoming nuptials.
The wedding is set for April 22nd. The weather will be lovely: not too cold, not too hot. I also love that it’s spring. It symbolizes rebirth and gives people hope and love and growth after the long, cold winter months. Very apt, if you ask me. We put a list together of the things that need to be accomplished and divided the major tasks between myself and Mom’s best friend, Beverly, because Mom started freaking out about things going wrong. My plan is to drive home on weekends and work on my to-do list, then drive back on Sundays. I’m up for the challenge—although I wouldn’t call it a challenge. It’s my mom. My best friend is getting married, the woman who single-handedly raised me into the person I am today.