CHAPTER 11 #2
“Alright, since you were okay with those, let’s zone in on the hip flexors more while we’ve still got the weights on.
” He turns to face me, one hand resting on the deck railing like a ballerina hanging on for balance.
I do the same when he looks at me hesitantly, like he’s waiting to see if I follow his silent instruction.
He lifts his left leg out to the side about a foot off the ground and then brings it back down.
“Let me know if you have any hip joint or lower back pain. You want to work up to the pain but not through it. After this, we’ll stretch everything out again so you don’t have any cramping later. ”
I’m already working on an ass cramp, but I keep my mouth shut and follow along, staring at his stationary foot.
With each pitiful swing of my foot, I become more and more aware of the disparity between Remy’s treatment plan and my former exercise regimen.
Sprints, lifts, squats, drills—I used to be wrecked afterward, not stopping until I was physically drained.
And yet I felt like a god, invincible, knowing that the next day I would be that much stronger.
As my lower back tightens and begins to protest from the rise of the cramp into my spine, the sour taste of self-loathing threatens to taint the open-minded attitude I tried to don on my way over here.
He doesn’t say anything to let on that he knows I’ve sadly already met my limit, but it sure feels like he’s aware because he stops and removes the weights. The enthusiastic praise he gives me as he does is the equivalent of congratulating a child on a finger painting.
We do a few more lunges to stretch out. I know it’s meant to be a cool-down, but that only stokes the flames of my humility more. Cool down? It used to take a lot more to make my muscles scream and my heart rate accelerate.
“Can you lie down on the ground? I want to stretch your back well before you go so you’re not sore later.”
“Yeah, sure.”
I’m torn between feeling like I’m being doted on and being useless.
Part of me is impressed that he knows I’m limited in how I can stretch my back on my own, but another part of me isn’t thrilled about him having to watch how rigidly I get to the ground.
I look like the Tin Man before Dorothy came along with the oil can.
Kneeling at my side, he grips my ankle and the bottom of my foot, bending my knee close to my stomach. I feel the stretch immediately, running down my hamstring, across my ass, and into my lower back. Something snags, though, at my lower spine, and I wince.
“Shit. Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” I grunt, lying like any proud man would in front of his former hookup.
“Can you bend your other leg at the knee? That will help keep your hips more aligned so we’re not torquing your back.”
I knew this already from countless times of trying to get up off the floor, but clearly, I don’t think straight when he’s around. Silently cursing myself, I bend my knee so my other foot is flat on the ground near my ass.
Remy’s gaze is fixed on my face, concentrating with concern. I hate that it’s an open book, and his attention is focused on signs of pain and not pleasure.
“Do you take anything for inflammation?”
“No,” I mumble, fixing my gaze on the cascade of poison ivy vines affixed to his fence.
“What do you do to manage your pain?”
“Heat. Ice. Stretching my back however I can.”
“Are you…afraid to take anything for pain or swelling?”
I know what he’s implying, and the answer is yes.
Yes, I’m afraid of getting hooked on pills again.
Mostly, I’m afraid of the way my parents would look at me—like I’m more of a shadow of their former son than they already think I am.
Because guess what? Being doped up felt pretty damn good.
I can’t lie to myself about that. Detoxing, on the other hand, well, I think I’d rather be in another car accident.
“I’ve been clean for thirteen years. I don’t think an aspirin here and there would hook me, but what’s the point?”
He blinks, moving around to my other side. “I don’t understand.”
“They don’t even make a dent, and what little they do is just an illusion. As soon as they wear off, then it’s like the pain is saying hello all over again. Better the devil you know, so to speak. You just…get used to it.”
“Did your doctor say if you could take anything regularly without worrying about relapsing?”
I turn my head to stare at his deck, hoping he can’t see me roll my eyes. He’s got his hands on my body, and he wants to talk about this shit instead? That has to be the only reason I’m humoring the topic; he’s loosened up my tongue with his touch. Apparently, I’ll do anything for physical contact.
“Anti-inflammatories, yeah, but I don’t want to screw up my kidneys on top of everything else. He said I should try that CDB shit, but…”—I shake my head, disgusted by the thought of giving my pain a victory—“it’s fine. I made the bed, so I can sleep in it.”
He sets my foot back down on the ground. I feel the loss of that non-sexual touch like a hand that just slipped out of mine in the darkness. Glancing at him for cues about my next bout of shame, I find him frowning down at me.
“What?”
“Chris…you know you don’t have to make yourself suffer as much as you do. People make mistakes. It doesn’t mean they need to punish themselves for them forever.”
His words reach into my chest and squeeze something, twisting it in a painful grip. Only Remy could call stubbornness self-martyrdom. I’m not afraid of the pills. I’m afraid of still being nothing with them. The pain—at least I earned that.
“That’s not why.” I shake my head again. Leaning to the side, I roll onto my hands and knees to push myself up. “Besides,” I clear my throat, dusting some grass off my shirt, “that’s what I’ve got you for, right?”
He gets to his feet with a wry smile. Good. Maybe I’ve shifted the conversation.
“Yeah. I’ll have you dragging tractor tires down the street in no time.”
I’m sure he meant that as a joke or said it to lighten the mood, but visions of me staggering down the road, covered in sweat, gripping my side, and cringing in pain as he runs along behind me, shouting for me not to give up, assault me.
He said we weren’t going to fix me, but my own father should know good and well that he can’t fix me.
Yet, he still has ambitions I can’t achieve.
What exactly is Remy hoping for? Are his hopes higher than he’s let on?
“I highly doubt that.”
“Hey, you never know.” He grins, gesturing to his deck railing. “You can do more push-ups than I can. You might be training me to haul tires.”
I showed up here the other day, floating precariously on the idea that he wanted to get to know me, really know me, for the first time in our lives.
I get the not crawling in through windows thing and the no sex thing.
I honestly respect the hell out of him for that.
It makes him a thousand percent more attractive than he already was.
Right now, though, his playful forecast injects a shot of fear into my veins.
The fall from having him in my orbit for however long is going to hurt more than any broken back once he discovers just how used up I am, and the light in his eyes dims.
Nodding like I concur with his aspirations, I head for the side of his house to make my exit. “Thanks for today.”
“Chris?”
“Yeah?” I slow my steps, but don’t look back, too afraid he’ll see how disgruntled I feel.
“Is everything okay? Did I…say something?”
Fuck. I stop, sucking in a breath to try to calm my nerves. Except it doesn’t work. All I can hear are my father’s words, You just need more confidence. Confidence can’t hide the truth. It’s just smoke and mirrors.
Angling my head, I call over my shoulder. The least I can do is give him a warning. Let him know his protégé isn’t going to go very far. Rip the bandage off, so I can swallow his disappointment now rather than later.
“That guy…the one you used to know—he isn’t here. I’m not him anymore, and I’m never going to be. So if that’s who you were hoping to get to know, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
The self-pitying sound of the words burns my skin. There’s no way to polish them not to reek of victim mentality, even though they’re the truth.
“I don’t want that guy.”
Well, that was quick. Spinning around, I wobble, acutely aware of how my spine makes me lean to the right.
“Then what the fuck do you want from me? Because in case you haven’t noticed, I don’t have much left to give.”
He surprises me, answering as heatedly as I delivered, not missing a beat. “I want you to realize that you do.”
I don’t know what the hell he’s talking about, but I’m too distracted by the instant regret on his face for raising his voice. I’ve never seen him look so adamant about something.
Grimacing, he smooths his hands over his T-shirt and clears his throat. “You’re more than your physical abilities and appearance, Chris. It might not seem that way when you live in pain all day and were used to…feeling different, but I hope you know that.”
That sounds a lot like the part in teen heartthrob movies where the preppy guy has to be told point-blank that he’s shallow before he sees what everyone else does. I’m kind of getting tired of this mirror he keeps holding up in front of me. It looks worse than the one I have at home.
“And…I enjoy spending time with you.”
“What? With a grumpy asshole?”
His mouth ticks up at the corner, and he shrugs. “How about a funny, intelligent man with big feelings?”
I snort, and his hesitant smirk turns into a smile of relief. That smile feels like I just defused a bomb created by my own hands, making me shake my head.
“You don’t make any sense, Tanner.”
“Can I translate that as charmingly mysterious?” he asks sheepishly.
A puff of laughter hits the back of my teeth. “Sure. Why not?”
We stand facing each other, he probably wondering if I’m going to bite his head off again, and I fully accepting that he is, in fact, charmingly mysterious.
He likes spending time with me? It makes me want to dig way down deep inside until I find whatever it is he thinks I have left to give.
I have a feeling I’ll be searching for a long time, but knowing he might be here while I do, putting up with my shit, makes it seem less daunting.
“Mightener,” he nods back, a flicker of a smile flashing at the corner of his mouth.
“I’ll see you.”
I smirk and head through his weeds, sore but somehow lighter knowing I’m off the hook for my latest outburst. How in the hell does he think he’s a mess?
He made it sound like he was hopeless and indecisive the other day—the qualities of a pushover—but he hasn’t put up with anything I’ve dished out.
Maybe having a history isn’t working against us after all.