5. Liliana
5
LILIANA
Two years later
When I walk into my apartment at 7 a.m., the sweat from my spin class already cooled onto my body, I’m welcomed by the glorious smell of coffee.
I see my roommate and best friend, Tina, standing at the counter, her phone in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other.
“Morning,” she greets when she spots me, her typical bubbly smile on her face. She nods at the other mug on the counter. “I know you’re working a double today, so I made your cup a little stronger.”
I make my way over to the kitchen but pause at the living room couch, where my fat orange cat is, predictably, sleeping. But when he notices me approaching, his purring rumbles to life instantly.
Leaning down, I give in to his silent demand for cuddles. “We really won the roommate lottery, didn’t we,” I muse. “Freshly brewed coffee before work and she loves spoiling you.”
As if to prove my point, Garfield answers with a huge yawn and a flip onto his back, exposing his treat-rounded belly for more scratches.
Smiling, I shake my head—while giving into the silent demand. “ Definitely spoiled.”
When I finally pull myself away to continue to the kitchen, I grab my coffee mug and take a sip, immediately sighing.
“I swear to God, Tina, you’d be my perfect woman if I was into women.” I take another sip happily. “Thank you for this. I’m definitely going to need it today.”
“Done at seven today, right?” she asks, glancing at the calendar we have posted on our fridge to keep track of our schedules. When I nod, she adds, “Do I need to feed Garfield?”
I think back to the conversation with my cat not twenty minutes ago and shake my head, amused. “No, he’s good. He’s got his automatic feeder.” After a thought, I add, “By the way, we might have to limit the treats for a few weeks. He’s looking a little too round lately.”
Tina gives me a sheepish grin. “Sorry, that’s my fault. I was teaching him a trick last week and may have given him too many fish sticks.”
I wave her off with a smile. “It’s okay. Teaching him to play dead at the sound of a gun was worth the extra pound.” Glancing at the stove clock behind her, I realize I need to get going. “Thanks again for the coffee. I—” When she places a to go mug in front of me, I let out a heavy exhale. “See? Dream woman, I swear.”
She chuckles. “Get out of here. You’re going to be late.”
By the time I get to the clinic, my coffee mug is empty, and I’m vibrating with energy for the day. I absolutely love my job. Rehabbing patients and helping them better their lives is not only fulfilling, it’s exciting . Even with a long day ahead of me, I’m stoked to tackle it all.
I’m mentally checking off the patients I have scheduled today as I walk through the front doors. Waving to our receptionist, I continue toward the break room to unload my jacket and bag.
When I find a gaggle of my colleagues huddled together, I freeze mid-step.
I pull off my jacket with a frown. “What’s going on?”
Their heads snap up at the sound of my voice. They look downright gleeful.
“You didn’t hear?” one of them says, basically bouncing on her feet. “We have a new patient.”
That has my head tilting. “So? Why does that make you look like you’ve won the lottery?”
“Because it’s Roman Ward .”
At the sound of his name, my breath catches in my throat.
It can’t be…
My colleague misinterprets my expression and says, “You know, the MMA fighter who was paralyzed two years ago in one of his fights? Don’t tell me you don’t know who he is.”
Fuck.
Of course I know who he is. The night we met, as soon as I was done holding Tina’s hair back while she puked in the toilet, the first thing I did was google ‘Roman MMA fighter.’
I didn’t let myself do a deep dive into his socials or biography, though. Despite regretting not giving him my phone number, I wasn’t oblivious to the fact that we lived completely different lives. It was better that I tried to put him out of my mind.
But that doesn’t mean I didn’t hear about his injury when it happened. Or that my heart didn’t shatter for him at the news.
And now…he’s here. In my clinic. As a patient.
“Well, I see the gossip train has already left the station,” comes my boss Fran’s dry tone from the doorway. She plants her hands on her hips. “Is it out of everyone’s system yet? Can we get back to being professionals now?”
The huddle looks properly chastised. “It’s out of our system,” one of them mumbles shamefully.
Fran nods. “Good. Because now I have to decide who his therapist is going to be.”
My head is still spinning, but I somehow manage enough brain power to ask, “If it happened two years ago, why is he here now?”
She sighs, her expression turning sad. “It’s a terrible story. The spinal injury is an incomplete one, so after two years of therapy, the doctors said he should technically be able to walk by now. But after the accident, he just…stopped caring. He’s been through a dozen therapists at three different clinics, but none can get him to do any more than show up to his appointments. Sometimes, he doesn’t even do that. Our clinic is just the next one to try to help him.”
It's no longer shock I’m feeling, it’s heartache. A spinal injury is bad in itself, but suffering an accident at the height of your career? For a man like Roman, whose entire life was based around that career? Even only knowing him for one night, I learned that much about him.
I can’t even imagine how much pain he’s in. No wonder he’s not making progress.
“So based on that background,” my boss continues, looking around at the room full of therapists, “I need to decide who would be the best fit for him. Because he is not going to be an easy patient.”
“I’ll do it,” one of my colleagues says. “I can help him.”
“I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I don’t think your soft heart would be able to handle this one,” Fran says gently.
“I can do it,” one of the men says. “I did some kickboxing in college; I could relate to the patient.”
My boss assesses him, but after a moment, she says, “In that case, I’d like you to consult during treatment if necessary. For a primary therapist, I need someone…”
She trails off as she looks around the room, her eyes narrowing as she weighs each of our abilities.
And then her gaze stops on me.
“Lily,” she says simply. Evenly.
I can only blink at her, right back to being frozen in shock.
“I’d like you to work with him,” she says, either oblivious to my current state or, knowing her, ignoring it. “His introduction appointment is in an hour. I’ll lead it, set the boundaries and expectations. Then I want you to take over.”
“Why me?”
“Because he needs someone with a backbone, who also won’t take his attitude and negativity personally,” she explains. “I won’t lie to you: he’s in a bad place. Two years later, and he’s still in a wheelchair. He’s been passed around from tough love PTs to hippie wannabe therapists, and he hasn’t responded to any of them. Whatever’s keeping him from progressing, it’s been working overtime for two years. I need you to figure out what it is and break it down.”
My mouth opens, closes, opens again. But no words come out.
My boss nods. “Then it’s settled. Here’s his chart.”
She presses the thickest folder I’ve ever seen into my hands. I’m functioning on autopilot as I take it and immediately open to page one, but there’s a good bit of subconscious curiosity there, too.
My eyes scan over the document, taking in the key details.
…Spinal Cord Injury (SCI) to the T11 vertebrae…
…diagnosed incomplete…
…demonstrates self-limiting behavior and fear avoidance tendencies which may affect his ongoing progress…
…patient shows no interest in speaking with a psychologist…
With every word, my stomach drops more and more. I can’t imagine having to deal with this kind of injury, and knowing it’s Roman makes it even more incomprehensible. The last time I saw him, he was on top of the world. And now…
Thankfully, my first patient is no stranger to her therapy routine, because I’m only half-focused on her while we work through her exercises. I can’t stop my mind from drifting back to Roman.
Will he remember me? Will he even want me to work with him? Is this a conflict of interest I should be disclosing to my boss?
Nerves have made me chew my bottom lip raw by the time I knock on my boss’s office door. It’s that last question that’s stressed me the most, because I take my job very seriously, and I’m not even sure where the professional boundary is here. We’re told not to treat family or friends, but I’ve seen colleagues treat random acquaintances from their past. Does my one night with Roman two years ago fall under the same category?
Fran waves me in. I open my mouth to say—I don’t even know what. But before I get the chance, she says, “Perfect timing. I was just about to come grab you. We’re going to meet Roman downstairs in the room closest to the back entrance. Apparently, he’s uncomfortable with anyone who isn’t staff seeing him.”
And…that makes the decision for me. The thought of Roman not going out in public for two years because of his injury is something I’m determined to rectify.
“Sounds good,” I choke out, clearing my throat when the words come out hoarse.
I follow silently behind her as we make our way downstairs, my pulse pounding faster and faster with every step. It’s unlikely that this is going to go well.
But even still, a small part of me is looking forward to seeing him.
When we reach the room we use as a makeshift office downstairs, my boss swings the door open and says, “Ah, Mr. Ward. I see our receptionist has already shown you in. It’s nice to see you again.”
Then she steps aside, and I come face to face with Roman for the first time since the night we met.
Only, it’s not the same Roman. The person in front of me is someone entirely different from the man I remember.
It’s not that he’s in a wheelchair. It’s…everything else.
For one thing, he’s covered in tattoos. The baggy t-shirt he’s wearing exposes not only the massive amount of muscle he’s lost, but also the black ink covering both of his arms, reaching all the way down to his hands. I can also see a few peeking out near his collar.
His hair’s also different. It’s buzzed, no longer the clean and styled haircut he had when I met him. Now, it’s a low-maintenance, lazy style. Same with his facial hair, but with one key difference: it looks like he hasn’t shaved in days. He’s also got dark circles under his eyes, his exhaustion obvious.
As he lifts his head, and our eyes meet, two things hit me at once.
First, he’s hungover.
And second, he has no idea who I am.
“Mr. Ward, I’d like to introduce you to Lily Davis. She’s one of our best physical therapists here and the person I’d like to pair you with for the time being,” my boss says, too focused on the file in her hand to notice my lack of breathing. “Were you able to fill out the new patient forms we talked about last time?”
It doesn’t occur to me until this moment that Roman hasn’t said a word. Not a hello, not an introduction with his name, nothing. He simply glanced my way and then turned an empty stare on my boss as she talked.
Now, he answers her question with a nod.
“Excellent,” she says, clearly unfazed by Roman’s demeanor. “In that case, I’ll let Lily introduce herself and run you through what our usual approach is with an injury like yours. She’s already reviewed your file and made herself familiar with what you have and haven’t tried in your therapy.”
I startle at the sudden handoff. “Oh. I—uh, hi, I’m Lily.” I wave awkwardly, then want to smack myself in the head when Roman’s dead stare meets mine. I’m rarely nervous, but this—Roman—is setting me off my game. “I’ve, um, been a physical therapist here for two years, and have helped multiple patients learn to walk again after surgeries and injuries. So I’m more than familiar with the rehab you’re dealing with. And actually—” My voice grows stronger, less shaky, as I settle into the topic at hand. This I can do. “I worked on a lot with SCIs while I was in school. I learned about the spine from some of the best therapists in the area. Between consistent strength training and using exercises specific to your injury, I feel confident that I can help you.”
I don’t know how I expect Roman to respond, but he simply…doesn’t. He merely continues staring at me, his expression blank and leaving me unable to read his thoughts.
I glance helplessly at my boss. “Um, okay. So, your file said you were seeing your previous therapists three times a week. Did you intend to stick with that routine?”
He nods, just once.
Flipping through his file, I try to busy myself with something so I can look away from Roman and give myself a brief reprieve from his intensity.
“What days work best for you? My schedule is fairly flexible; I’m here most days. Tuesday is the only day I’m not in at all. The clinic is open 8 a.m. to 7 p.m., so we can?—”
“It has to be after-hours.”
My head snaps up at the sound of Roman’s voice. Even his voice sounds different. It’s deeper, more…raspy.
Then his comment registers, and I frown in confusion. “Why’s that?”
Something flares in his gaze. Irritation, maybe? “Personal preference,” he answers simply.
I debate pushing him on it, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out Roman isn’t going to budge on that request, and I’d rather pick my battles. Especially this early on. Besides, it’s not like I have a life outside of here, anyway.
I turn to my boss, silently waiting for her confirmation that we can make this kind of exception for a new patient. She nods and says, “Of course, we can absolutely accommodate that. Whatever makes you feel comfortable.”
Roman scoffs but doesn’t comment.
I let out a weary breath. I’m going to have my work cut out for me.
“How about Mondays and Wednesdays at seven, and Saturdays at four?” I ask.
Once again, I only get a nod.
“Great.” I snap the file closed. “Then I think we’re done for today. Since I’m assuming you don’t want to get started right now, during business hours?”
There’s another flash of something in his eyes. And this time, it makes me wonder if maybe he does remember me…
“I’ll see you on Wednesday, Miss Davis,” he says in a hard voice, and my hope evaporates into thin air. He turns his attention to my boss. “If there’s nothing else…?”
Without missing a beat, Fran stands to her feet, with me quickly following. “Nope, we have everything we need.” She extends her hand, which, to my surprise, Roman actually shakes. “I’m looking forward to following your recovery, Mr. Ward.”
Roman drops her hand and looks back at me. I feel like I need to follow my boss’s lead, so I also extend my hand, albeit a little hesitantly.
Slowly, he slides his hand into mine, his gaze locked on me the entire time. His skin is warm, his touch a contrast to his abrasive personality.
“So am I,” he rumbles, his voice so deep I swear I can feel the vibration of his words where our hands are still touching.
It takes me a second, but eventually, I pull my hand back with a tight smile. “I’ll see you on Wednesday, Mr. Ward.”
It isn’t until I’m watching him wheel out of the room that I realize I’m going to be alone in the building with a man who gave me the hottest kiss of my life but who doesn’t even remember my name.