14. Penn
Chapter 14
Penn
My second physical therapy appointment is today, and I'm fighting the anticipation that has me hastening my morning routine. It's a dangerous feeling, this anticipation, but it's there, growing and stretching and filling my chest.
Daisy. Again. Daisy everyday since I drove back to this place. I could laugh at the previous version of me, from just last week. The me who thought I wouldn't see her when I was here. The me who was positive I'd hide out, be careful, slipping from proverbial shadow to shadow.
I'm a fool, of course. A fool for putting myself through this, for basking in her glow while knowing she's engaged.
I don't have to go to physical therapy, even though I promised Plato. It can wait until I return to San Diego. Except if I take away these appointments, I take away the times I'm scheduled to see Daisy. And, since I pre-scheduled my next five appointments, wouldn't that be rude? Raise a flag, at the very least? When we're there, our roles are fixed. I'm her patient. That's it.
Daisy, it's me, Penn.
Hugo is pushing hard for me to come clean. It's not that I don't want to, especially when I look in Daisy's eyes, into her open and honest expression. Nothing can change what made me leave Olive Township, which means nothing can change the way I need to protect Daisy from knowing the truth, even now. I need Daisy to think of me fondly when she parses her past. I can't stomach it any other way.
So here I am, doubling down on my resolve. I will scowl my way through my appointment to mask that I pine for her in a way that's absolutely inappropriate when she's someone else's fiancée. Even if that person is Duke The Twat.
Honor among thieves, and all. And it's fucking depressing.
"Hi," Daisy says brightly when I walk in. She's standing at the small front desk area, and instead of exercise clothes like she had on at our first appointment, she's in light blue fitted scrubs. From what I can tell, she was doing a whole lot of nothing when I walked in. No phone, no tablet, no papers shuffling. It's like she was waiting for me. And damn if that doesn't make my chest swell.
I should really slap myself. This is Daisy I'm talking about. She makes every person she talks to feel like they are the most important person, the center of the world. It's one of her many talents. I am not special.
"Hey," I respond, my tone unnecessarily gruff.
"Ooh," Daisy volleys, unperturbed. "Are you a grumpy pants today?"
"No." I try to adjust my tone, but it's only marginally improved. Gruff adjacent, at best.
"Careful," Daisy teases. "You're about to come off as downright cheery."
My mouth twitches into a smile, a gleam stealing into Daisy's incredibly beautiful brown eyes. "Are we here to put my tone under a microscope, or work through my physical issues?"
"Physical issues," Daisy chirps, walking back to a contraption that looks a lot like a torture device.
"What is that?" I ask, eyeing it with trepidation. No matter what it is, I'd still take it over the foam roller.
"It's to stretch you out before we start." Daisy lies down on the padded table, hooking one of the straps around her thigh and demonstrating a stretch. "It doesn't bite."
"What a relief."
Daisy hops off the table, and when she does, I notice a bandage wrapped around her palm. Nodding at it, I ask, "Did you hurt yourself smacking your fiancé upside the head?"
Daisy gives me a look like she can't believe what I just said. To be honest, I can't believe I said it either. I've got to be better about not word vomiting my thoughts.
"Close," she says, patting the table to let me know she wants me to get on. "I was using a pry bar and I cut my hand."
Without thinking, I reach for her hand, intent on examining it myself. At the last second I think better of it, turning the maneuver into an awkward way to hoist myself onto the table.
Clearing my throat to cover up my supreme dumbassery, I ask, "Why were you using a pry bar?"
"To pry something."
"Oh, really?"
She lifts her eyebrows twice, affirming.
"Let me try this again," I start, but Daisy presses on my shoulder with a fingertip, trying to coax me down. I press back against her, refusing to lie down. " What were you prying that required the use of a pry bar?"
"My bathroom sink. Cabinet. Vanity thing . I don't know exactly what it's called."
She pokes at me again. Again I press back. She audibly sighs at me.
"Did you just weaponize a sigh?"
Daisy puts her hands on her hips. "I don't know why we're having this conversation. I hurt myself. People do it all the time, in varying degrees of severity. Have you never given yourself a paper cut, Peter Bravo?"
"Never," I respond solemnly.
She laughs. "Right, right. You just get yourself in a situation that requires you to need physical therapy."
"Paper cuts are for amateurs."
Instead of poking me, Daisy places her palm on my shoulder. It's warm, and comforting, and when she flexes her fingers, gripping me, I melt. Like a human popsicle, I dissolve into her touch, allowing her to gently guide me down. In a honeyed voice, she says, "Tell me what happened to you when you were serving. You said a little bit about it at our last appointment, but I'd like to know more. Why are you in physical therapy?"
I gave her the short version of my injury story before, but she's seen my scars, and she's curious. I get it.
She stands over me, an angel, so beautiful it hurts. I thought of her that day, when taking a breath felt like being stabbed, when my skin screamed with the sharp sting of lacerations, and the back of my head throbbed in reverberation.
"It was a maritime operation. The mission was to intercept arms smugglers who had also taken an American contractor hostage." I've talked about this so many times, recounted the events to military provided therapists, that it's no longer upsetting. It's become a recitation of events.
"I take it everything did not go as planned?" She threads the strap around my thigh.
"I'm not at liberty to give details."
Her brown eyes meet mine briefly before flitting away.
I have the urge to tell her as much as I can. For her to know me. "There was an explosion on the ship. We were supposed to be all-clear from the vessel before detonation, but it didn't work out that way." I point to the jagged line on my face, the scars hidden beneath the fabric of my shirt. The memories of that day aren't foggy, but it all happened quickly, and it's hard to focus on some aspects. "There was hand-to-hand combat, the broken ribs I already told you about. And then the explosion. I was concussed from the blow. Ended up in the water."
Daisy, who has been nodding along with my vague report, finally gives in and looks horrified. "The water? As in, the ocean?"
"Maritime, Daisy."
"I know you said that, but it didn't fully sink in. No pun intended." She smiles despite her dismay. "I can't believe you were a part of all that. I was here in this small town, doing whatever it was I was doing that day?—"
"Night," I correct, though it was probably daytime for her.
"Night," she echoes, shocked. "You were in the ocean at night with broken ribs, concussed, and lacerated."
And I thought of you .
I saw her in my mind's eye, but it was thirteen-year-old Daisy. The way she looked the last time I saw her. I never looked her up on social media, not for lack of wanting to. Once, in a group photo posted by Hugo on his professional page, there was Daisy in the background. I clung to that image too, as I did my best to tread water in the dark sea, on a night shot through with stars. I told myself Daisy would be waiting for me on dry land. She'd be on base, or in the hospital, or in my living room. Though I knew it impossible, I clung to the falsehood. Daisy, and the lie I told myself, saved my life.
I was located and pulled to safety, and then the shock wore off and the pain took over. And now I'm here, in front of Daisy, breathing the same air. I know how I got here, but also, how did I get here ?
"Paper cuts are most definitely for amateurs," Daisy says, bending my knee and crossing it over the opposite thigh.
I tap her wrist with a finger. "Tell me how you hurt yourself with a pry bar."
"I'm remodeling my master bathroom," she says reluctantly. "The sink is basically superglued to the wall, and I had to pry it off. I guess I pried a little too enthusiastically, and"—she lifts her bandaged hand—"this happened."
"Pry bars aren't known for cutting people. Bludgeoning, sure, but not slicing like a knife."
"Leave it to me," she shrugs, releasing my leg. She slips the strap around my opposite thigh, rounding the table to stand on the other side. "It slipped and there was enough force that when it grazed my palm, it cut me. It's not deep, but it's a tender area." She sighs, and this time it's not directed my way. "It'll make it harder for me to keep going on the remodel."
"So, a remodel, huh?" I ask as she guides me into another stretch.
"Yes." She quirks an eyebrow at me. "Why do you sound dubious?"
"Seems like a lot to take on. Wedding planning, remodeling"—I gesture around us—"running a business."
"I like to be busy." A defensive edge sharpens her tone.
"I'm not criticizing you," I say, gentling my voice. I'm dying to ask her if she still helps out on her parents farm, and at her mother's tea house.
"It wouldn't matter if you were," she says, chin lifting. "I know what I'm doing."
"Right." I point to her bandaged hand. "Looks like it."
She growls at me. Literally. Daisy fucking growls . It takes everything I have not to smile, pumping my fist in the air celebrating Daisy's authentic response. It's not that I want to celebrate her unhappiness, but her willingness to show me her genuine emotions elicits a feeling of pride in me. That's right, it's me who she feels comfortable being herself with.
"Anyway," she says, being less than gentle as she puts me in my next stretch.
My groin protests. "Daisy, I don't know if my body should?—"
"You're fine, Sailor," she snaps.
Everything inside me seizes. Sweet Mother Of Dragons, did she just call me Sailor? And did I like it?
My body warms. Tingles. Blood pumping. Muscles swelling with the desire to be used. Oh yeah. I liked it. Probably too much.
She finishes torturing me, releasing my leg and stepping back while I sit up. She has me help her roll out yoga mats, and I eye them skeptically. "Yoga?"
"Core strength," she responds. "You need to work on it. I watched you run down the street the other day and noticed you hunch in, like you're protecting yourself. We're also going to work on upper back strength to help pull you up and correct your form."
"Whatever you say, boss." I ease off the table, stepping onto the top of the yoga mat to match Daisy's positioning.
I look down at her, waiting for instruction, and find her already looking at me. Seriousness overtakes her face, and she gazes at me in a way that makes me want to squirm. "What?"
Her head moves back and forth slowly, only a few inches in each direction. "It's stupid, but sometimes you seem familiar to me."
Rubbing the back of my neck with my hand, I mutter, "I wouldn't call it stupid." Remorse tears at me, hot and angry. I feel its chant, along with Hugo's, in stereo. Tell her, tell her . If I thought it was best for Daisy, I'd tell her who I really am in a heartbeat. But Penn is a ghost to Olive Township, and resurrecting him will bring nothing but strife.
Daisy's quiet for the rest of our time together, leading me through exercises with detached professionalism. At one point, Isla interrupts to tell Daisy she needs to leave, that the school principal has called her about an issue in class with one of her kids. Daisy wishes her the best in dealing with the situation and offers to let Isla have the next day off if she needs.
At the end of our session I hover near the front desk, unsure if I should say anything else, or let it go. Letting it go is probably best, considering I'm nothing to her. A patient, but nothing beyond that. To her, I'm temporary.
"I'm sorry," Daisy says, catching me off guard.
"For what?" I ask.
"I hope you don't think I was being rude. I have a lot on my mind, and, well..." she fidgets with a gold link bracelet. "Something you said triggered me. But that's not your fault?—
"What did I say?" I interrupt.
"—or your problem," she finishes.
But here's the thing. If something has upset Daisy, it is my problem. It shouldn't be, but damn if it doesn't make me want to wear myself out finding a solution.
Daisy shakes her head. "You made me think, that's all."
"I apologize profusely for making you think."
She bats at my arm, a playful blow. "Very funny."
I persist. "What did I make you think about?"
"Something I don't particularly want to give my attention to." She picks up a stack of papers from the desk, straightening them into a neat pile. She taps her iPad, then her phone. Notifications glow on her phone's screen.
"Daisy?"
"Hmm?" She glances up.
"Tomorrow I'm spending the morning at the Bellamy house." Cue an internal wince at referring to my childhood home in such a detached term. "There's going to be a lot for me to throw out, but I'm sure I'll still have space in the back of my truck if there's anything you'd like me to haul away from your remodel for you."
Daisy bites the side of her lower lip. "Actually, that would be great. I wasn't sure how I was going to get stuff to the landfill."
Fucking Duke. Worthless.
On the ledge of the front desk sits a tray of Daisy's business cards, alongside a sleeve of marketing material listing services found at the Sagewood Wellness Spa next door. Plucking out a business card, I turn it over, my eyes searching the desk for a pen. Daisy seems to understand what I'm doing and hands one over.
"There," I say, drawing out the word as I attempt to make my handwriting neat and legible. "My number." Using one finger, I slide the card across the wooden desk top. "You let me know what works for you tomorrow."
Daisy nods. "Ok. Thank you."
I take a step back, hands going into my pockets. "Have a nice day, Daisy."
"You as well, Peter."
Something slices through me at the sound of that name. Guilt, perhaps? The feeling intensifies, growing teeth.
Jealousy.
What a dope.
I'm jealous of my alternate identity.
It's my name I want on her lips.