9. Roman
9
ROMAN
Once our secret is out there, there’s even more reason for me to ask for a new therapist.
I should want to work with someone else.
It’s not just that I’ve spent the last two years avoiding anyone I know, or who knows who I was before the accident—though that by itself should be a reason to switch clinics. It’s also that I don’t relish Liliana seeing me in what has become the most vulnerable phase of my life. Therapy pushes me to levels of failure and frustration that I never reached even as a fighter. It also brings emotions and reactions out of me that I’m not proud of. To have Liliana be the one to witness those things…
And yet, I can’t bring myself to walk away from her.
Maybe it’s because I’ve reached the end of my rope, and it feels like I only have enough energy for one last try—the energy needed to give a fuck about shame and embarrassment is nonexistent.
But there’s a big part of me that wonders if it’s Liliana I don’t want to walk away from. That maybe, even in my current state, I want to be around her.
And who knows…maybe she really can help me.
All that aside, however, it doesn’t make entering the clinic a few days later any less awkward. Because where it was easy to ignore everything, including my previous and barely-existent relationship with her, now there’s a slightly tense layer of I know you, I know who you really are because I saw you before the accident, and—oh yeah—I know what you taste like.
Maybe that last part is just me. I doubt Liliana is thinking about that kiss anymore when she looks at me.
“Hi, Roman,” she says cheerfully as I push my wheelchair into the clinic’s gym. “Did you have a good weekend?”
“Fantastic,” I answer, my tone flat. “I was so busy; I barely had time to sleep.”
She frowns when she catches my sarcasm. I wonder if she’s going to tease me back, the way she did the night we first met. Or if she’s going to stay with the professional hat she now wears during our interactions.
“You know sleep is one of the most important parts of your recovery,” she says, matter-of-fact, as she walks over to the bins filled with therapy tools. I guess that answers that question .
“So I could be walking already if I’d just stop setting my alarm so early,” I remark dryly. “Who knew.”
That earns me a grin, but it disappears as quickly as it came, giving me only a glimpse of the Liliana from that night two years ago.
“Not exactly what I meant, but you knew that already,” she responds as she digs through one of the bins. When she pulls out the resistance band we were working with during our last session, that now-familiar PT-mode smile is on her face. “You’re going to need sleep and this band. Ready?”
My sigh is tired. “As ever.”
We work in near silence. Besides Lily’s instructions and occasional questions, plus my monosyllable responses, it’s quiet in the room. To the point that Lily puts on some music halfway through.
Weird. This album has my walkout song on it…
Surprisingly, that makes me feel a little bit better. I try not to think about the workouts I put my body through when I listened to it in the past, but if I focus on the way I felt mentally when I was pushing myself, the motivation to do Lily’s exercises becomes slightly easier to grasp.
“Your right side already looks stronger,” she comments as she watches me push the band out with my foot. “Did you practice any of our exercises at home?”
I don’t answer, guilt bubbling in my stomach.
But she reads it anyway. Brow furrowing, she says, “I obviously can’t make you do anything outside of this building, but for the sake of verbally putting this into the world…doing these exercises twice a day for twenty minutes will make a huge difference in your recovery.” Our eyes lock and she sniffs, adding, “Just saying.”
My eyebrow quirks in disbelief at the underlying snark in her words. “Gee, thanks, Doc. No one’s ever told me that.”
An overly bright smile pinches her face. “Oh, good. I’m glad I mentioned it, then.” She jerks her chin at the band in my hand. “See? I’m already adding value. I told you we’d make progress together.”
So much for my theory about the professional hat…
And yet, I find myself fighting back a smile. For the rest of the session, there’s less tension and more lightness in the air.
“Alright, I think that’s it for today,” Lily says as she straightens from the treatment table where we were finishing up with some exercises. “If you’re sore tomorrow, don’t do anything with the band, just work the motions. I want you fresh for our session on Wednesday.” Her eyes twinkle with mischief. “You know, now that you know it’s a good idea to do these exercises at home, too.”
Amused, I say obediently, “Yes, Doc.”
She snorts, the adorable sound making the leash on the smile disappear.
But just as quickly, everything sobers when she glances at the clock on the wall and asks, “Do you drive? Or are you getting picked up? I never got a chance to ask.”
And just like that, embarrassment slithers through my veins.
Because I’m a twenty-eight-year-old grown fucking man and my mom has to drive me everywhere.
I thought about trading in my sports car for a truck and converting it to being hand operated. I could’ve eked out the money for it. But doing that felt…too final. Like I was accepting the idea that I’d never have use of my legs again.
I can’t meet Lily’s eyes as I answer with a gritted, “I have a ride.”
She doesn’t seem nearly as troubled by my transportation situation because she simply nods. “Same. I’ll wait with you.”
That makes me turn my focus back to her. “Wait, what? What do you mean?”
She’s already moving toward the break room along the opposite wall as she calls over her shoulder, “Normally, I would stay later to finish up my patient notes for the day, but my friend Tina is picking me up today. I don’t want to make her wait.”
“Why is your friend picking you up?”
Lily appears with her coat and purse in hand. “My car’s in the shop. I got in an accident the other day so they’re fixing it up. Which means Tina gets to be my chauffeur this week.”
She’s grinning at the end of her explanation, oblivious to the fact that my heart has picked up speed. She was in an accident? Was she hurt?
It isn’t until my eyes dart over her body, checking for injuries, that she catches on to my train of thought.
“Relax, Roman, I’m fine,” she says, a little more gently. “It was just a fender bender.”
“People can still get whiplash from fender benders,” I respond gruffly.
Liliana grins and gestures around her. “Well, the good news is, I know some people who are really good at fixing those kinds of injuries. Not that I got whiplash.” Her lip twitches. “Can I also add that I’m honored you didn’t assume I caused the accident.”
“That’s more a reflection on the trust I put in the steady hands of my physical therapist,” I say simply, trying to cover the worry I just revealed.
But that just makes her grin widen. “That’s just as good of a compliment, so I’ll take that too.”
I let out a heavy sigh of defeat and leave the room.
It isn’t until I reach the parking lot that I realize how awkward this is about to be. I never thought the vulnerability of rehab would be less embarrassing than waiting for my mom to come pick me up.
The discomfort makes me restless in my seat, the need to do something growing. Especially when I hear the door shut behind me and then Lily appears beside me.
She looks around the empty parking lot. “Looks like they’re both late, huh?”
The one time my mom isn’t sitting in her car reading a book…
Finally, the restlessness hits a point that has me reaching into my pocket for my cigarettes. As soon as I light it up and take a big drag, everything inside of me calms.
And then I realize Lily’s staring at me.
Frowning, I lower my hand. “What?”
“You smoke?”
I flick the ashes onto the pavement. “Clearly.”
Her shock turns into a disappointed frown. “So much for only putting healthy things in your body, huh?”
I almost want to laugh.
“A lot of good that did me,” I say, taking another drag.
“That doesn’t mean you need to kill the remaining healthy parts,” she says, her frustration evident.
Part of me wants to explain it to her—how it feels like nothing to tack on an unhealthy habit like this, because every part of my body already feels like it’s reached the bottom of the pit.
But another part of me also dislikes that, out of everything she knows about me, everything she read in my medical history and everything I’ve revealed about my current state, this is what upsets her.
I take another drag before saying carefully, “I’ll tell you what. If you get me on my feet, I’ll quit.”
When her eyes narrow in skepticism, I add, “There’s no point before then, especially since it’s my only form of stress relief, but I promise to dump the habit if you get me walking.”
And as a gesture of good faith, I hold up the cigarette, then quickly lean down to scrape the lit end against the pavement.
After a moment, she sniffs and says, “You make it sound like I’m Jesus.”
That pulls a chuckle out of me. The sound makes Lily’s eyes widen, and her tone is one of awe when she says, “That’s the first time you’ve laughed.”
And… fuck . She’s right.
It might be the first time I’ve laughed in two years.
I look away, out over the parking lot, not knowing how to deal with that. Lily must sense my tension because she tries to lighten the mood. “And only four sessions in. I think I’ll take that as an even bigger compliment than the comment about my steady hands.”
Thankfully, I’m saved from having to respond because just then, a car pulls into the parking lot. And right behind her is my mom’s van.
“Well, this has been fun.” I unlock the brakes on my wheelchair as both cars stop in front of us. “Until next time, Doc.”
The amusement is evident in Lily’s voice. “Until next time, Roman.” But just as she starts toward her friend’s car, she pauses and turns back to me. “And by the way, you’re on for that deal. When I get you walking, you quit smoking.”
When. Not if.
Our eyes stay locked as I say, “You’re on, Liliana.”