CHAPTER 10 #2
I follow his gaze across my weedy lawn with its bare patches where the grass has gone on strike, to the overgrowth of vines clinging to the wooden privacy fence. Right. He has Mightener Serenity Garden, while I have the equivalent of Charlie Brown’s Christmas Tree.
“I don’t know what I’m doing.” I laugh helplessly, holding up my hands. “And…well, I’ve got some really interesting cookbooks that don’t require sweating in the hot sun. Priorities. What can I say?” Is that almost a smile? Wow. “We can go to your house next time, if you want.”
“It’s fine.”
That wasn’t a no to there being a next time. I guess we’re doing this.
I have him demonstrate his range of motion to assess the capability of his joints.
It takes me a minute to figure out if his stony expression is an indication of physical pain or his general discomfort at showing me what I assume he sees as weaknesses.
I don’t bother telling him that I don’t view any attempt at adapting to living after injury as a weakness, however.
I plan to do everything in my power to steer far away from repeat accusations of pity.
As I watch him go through the motions of rotating his shoulders, hips, and neck, though, it lets me know that this is a very different Chris than the one I used to know, who’s standing in front of me.
How in the hell did he landscape his entire backyard like a botanical garden with such limited mobility? That must have taken a lot of grit.
Like many patients I’ve seen with back injuries, his arms are his wheelhouse and the epitome of his strength.
His rigidity is indicative of only stretching for pain relief and not improved mobility—a trap most people fall into.
Some days, I sure as heck don’t want to go for my morning jogs.
If I were in pain, I’d easily be able to talk myself out of going.
I get him started with some stretches that I think will help loosen up his spine and hips, since that seems to be where the brunt of his pain comes from.
All the while, I find myself crossing my fingers that he’ll remain patient since they likely seem basic to a man who used to train regularly.
Gripping the railing of my deck, feet planted, I mirror the last stretch I showed him, keeping my chin to my chest to help extend the spinal column.
“You’re lucky, really,” I hedge, attempting to throw out some inspiration. “Most people who have gait interruptions usually end up dislocating their knees or getting hip or other joint fractures from the strain of walking with their weight distribution off-centered.”
“Lucky, huh?” he grunts, keeping his eyes trained on the pitiful grass at his feet.
Nice, Remy. I swear I do this for a living.
“I’m sorry. It wasn’t meant to put you down. I just always try to see the silver lining.”
“I know.”
After an awkward few minutes of silence, I move on to the lower body, showing him some adjusted lunges to help stretch the sciatic.
He watches me like a trained sportsman, memorizing new plays.
He even looks intrigued when I discuss the importance of inhaling and exhaling at key points and how it impacts the muscles.
His attentiveness helps quiet my self-conscious anticipation of him calling it quits and leaving.
Soon enough, we’re just two guys stretching, amicably wordless.
That’s why it catches me off guard when he asks, “Did I ruin your date?”
“It wasn’t a date,” I insist, shaking my head at myself for even entertaining the idea of Miles as dating material a couple of weeks ago. “At least to me, it wasn’t. Anyway, it was doomed before it started, so Jamie will thank you for that,” I joke. “Silver lining. See?”
I swear he snorts. I don’t care if it’s not actually a laugh and is at my expense, I’ll take it.
“And what does Jamie think of me?”
Screwing up my face, I walk back to the deck railing to work on standing planks again. “Why don’t we get back to the stretches?”
This time his snort is different from the last one. Look at me, fluent in Snort. I’m learning things about him already.
“Does he like anyone?”
“Me…sometimes.”
He joins me at the railing and copies my stance.
When he says nothing more, my mind begins to wander.
Am I keeping him from anything? It’s still baffling to me that the man whose attention I felt lucky to hold for brief moments at a time is spending part of his weekend with me without intimacy involved.
Is this what pushing forty and neither hooking up nor dating look like? If so, I can’t say I hate it.
“You know, you’re not going to fix me.”
The subdued warning surprises me. Face half hidden by his arm, I only catch a fraction of his expression. It’s not defeat exactly, more so acceptance.
Straightening up, I nod and motion for him to do the same. It seems like a good place to stop today.
“We can’t fix you,” I agree. “But we can make you feel less pain and allow you to sit at the games more comfortably when you’re reporting. Sleep a little better at night, hopefully.”
Holding my breath, I wait for his reaction. I wonder if I’ll ever stop looking at him like it’s the last time I’ll see him.
“That’s more than I could ever hope for.” The corner of his mouth ticks up for a second. The double meaning in that almost-smile softens my heart. I think I just got an apology that I didn’t even need.
“I’ll see you tomorrow?”
“See you tomorrow.” He nods and picks up his bag of broken coffee mug pieces.
I watch him walk through my weeds around the back of the house until he’s out of sight. And for the first time, I’m not afraid it’s the last I’ll see of him.