3. Billie
Billie
I stood outside Booker's guest room with my bag of equipment, taking one last steadying breath before knocking.
Professional. Clinical. That was the mantra I'd been repeating since I'd woken up this morning, the armor I'd carefully constructed around the part of me that had spent the night replaying every moment of seeing Gage again.
The door opened to reveal Xander, who stepped aside with a knowing look that I chose to ignore.
"How's our patient this morning?" I asked, slipping into my therapist voice like a well-worn coat, giving myself a moment before looking at the man I was really here to see.
"Stubborn," Xander said with a wry smile. "Already tried to get up and make his own breakfast. Booker had to physically block him from attempting the stairs."
Of course he had. Some things never changed.
The room was larger than I'd expected, with afternoon sunlight streaming through tall windows.
Gage sat in a reclining chair that someone had positioned to elevate his casted leg, his left arm secured in a sling against his chest. He looked up as I entered, and for a split second, I saw something raw and vulnerable flash across his face before his expression shuttered.
"Good morning, Gage," I said, setting my bag down and pulling out my tablet. "How are you feeling today?"
"Fine," he said automatically.
I raised an eyebrow, making a note. "On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate your pain right now?"
"Three."
I looked at him more closely. The tight lines around his eyes, the careful way he held his torso, the slight pallor beneath his tan. "Try again."
"Four," he said after a pause.
"Gage." I kept my voice level but firm. "I can't help you if you're not honest with me. And trust me, I've seen enough patients to know when someone's lying about their pain levels."
He was quiet for a long moment, and I could see the internal war playing out across his features. The stubborn independence that had always been part of him warring with the reality of his limitations.
"Six," he admitted finally. "Maybe seven when I try to move."
I made another note, ignoring the way my chest tightened at his admission. Professional. "Have you been taking your medication as prescribed?"
"Most of it."
"Most of it?" I could already feel the frustration building.
"I take the morning dose. Skip the afternoon one."
"Why?"
He shifted uncomfortably in the chair. "I don't like how it makes me feel. Fuzzy. Out of control."
There it was. The heart of the issue. Gage had always needed to feel in control, even as a teenager. Eleven years of complete independence would have only reinforced that need. Even when he was wild and raising trouble, it was always on his terms. Only within the limits he let himself have.
"Pain medication serves a purpose beyond just making you comfortable," I said, pulling a goniometer from my bag.
"When you're in significant pain, your muscles tense up, your range of motion decreases, and your healing actually slows down.
The medication isn't about making you feel good.
It's about giving your body the best possible environment to heal. "
"I've been managing pain for years without…"
"Without access to proper medical care," I interrupted. "This isn't about being tough, Gage. This is about being smart."
I could see him bristling at my tone, but I didn't back down. I'd learned long ago that some patients needed firm boundaries from the start, and Gage had always been one to push limits.
"Let's start with some basic assessments," I said, pulling up a chair beside him. "I need to check your range of motion in your right shoulder and see how your ribs are healing."
I reached for the edge of his T-shirt, then paused. "I'm going to need you to take your shirt off so I can properly assess your shoulder and check for any signs of complications from the road rash. Are you okay with that?"
For a moment, neither of us moved. The request was perfectly professional, completely necessary for a proper evaluation. But the weight of our history hung in the air between us, making even this clinical interaction feel charged with significance.
"Right," he said finally, his voice rough. "Yeah, that makes sense."
With his right arm in the sling, getting his shirt off was awkward and clearly painful. I watched him struggle for a moment before stepping forward.
"Let me help," I said, keeping my voice steady. "You could try a button-down for the next couple of weeks. It will be easier on your shoulder and less painful when you need to get changed."
He grunted in acknowledgment, but I didn't take it personally. I could see from the tension in his jaw that he was hurting a lot more than he was trying to let on right now.
I carefully worked the shirt over his head, trying to ignore the way my fingers brushed against his skin, trying not to notice how the years of physical labor had changed him. Broad shoulders, defined muscles, a roadmap of scars that told the story of a decade's worth of dangerous work.
And there, across his chest, the familiar jagged line I remembered from when we were teenagers.
The scar from the car accident when he was fifteen, when he'd wrapped his father's car around the old oak by the creek after a night of drinking and fighting.
Fifty-two stitches, three cracked ribs, a broken arm in two places.
Xander had found him pinned in the wreckage and stayed by his hospital bed for three days straight.
This wasn't Gage's first time suffering through a lengthy recovery.
I'd visited him in the hospital back then whenever I could, watching him struggle with the same restless energy that was radiating from him now, the same hatred of being confined and dependent on others.
The memory hit me harder than I expected. He'd been so young and reckless. How scared we all were that he might not make it. How angry he'd been at being stuck in that hospital bed, desperate to prove he was fine when he clearly wasn't.
Some things, apparently, never changed.
Focus, Billie. Professional.
"Okay," I said, stepping back and reaching for my tablet. "I can see the road rash is healing well. Any areas that are still tender or showing signs of infection?"
He shook his head, and I began my examination, starting with gentle palpation around his collarbone. His skin was warm under my hands, and I could feel the tension in his muscles despite his attempts to appear relaxed.
"Range of motion is more limited than I'd like," I noted, carefully moving his arm through its available range. "We're going to need to work on some gentle exercises to prevent stiffness."
"When can I get rid of the sling?" he asked.
"Another few weeks, minimum. The collarbone needs time to knit properly."
"And the cast?"
I moved to examine his elevated leg, checking for swelling around the edges of the cast. "You're about two weeks into a six to eight week timeline for the cast to come off.
So we're looking at another four to six weeks minimum before you're weight-bearing, then several more months of intensive therapy after that. "
I saw his face fall, watched him process the reality of his timeline.
"Months?" he said quietly.
"Months," I confirmed. "Gage, you suffered significant trauma. Your femur was fractured, your collarbone broken, and you have extensive soft tissue damage. This isn't something you can push through or rush. Your body needs time to heal properly."
"I can't be stuck here for months," he said, and I heard the edge of panic in his voice. "I can't be a burden on everyone for months."
That was his real issue. Not the pain, not the limitations, but the feeling of being trapped and helpless.
"You've been taking care of yourself for eleven years," I said, settling back in my chair. "I get it. You're used to being completely independent, used to being able to just pick up and leave when things get uncomfortable. But right now, accepting help isn't weakness, it's smart."
"You don't understand," he said, frustration bleeding into his voice. "I shouldn't be here. I shouldn't be putting this burden on them."
"Burden?" I kept my voice carefully neutral. "Your family has been looking for you for months. They want you here."
"They think they want me here," he corrected. "They think they know what I did, but they don't understand…"
"Stop." The word came out sharper than I intended.
"I'm not here to discuss your family dynamics or your guilt about the past. I'm here to help you heal physically.
But I will tell you this. If you keep pushing yourself beyond your limitations because you're trying to prove you don't need anyone, you're going to set back your recovery significantly.
Is proving your independence worth permanent damage? "
He stared at me, clearly surprised by my directness.
"I know you hate feeling dependent," I continued, "especially here, with people you feel guilty about facing.
But your recovery isn't negotiable. You can either work with me and follow the treatment plan, or you can spend even more months dealing with complications from not allowing yourself to heal properly. "
The room fell silent except for the soft sounds of the house around us, voices from downstairs, the distant sound of a door closing. Gage was looking at me like he was seeing me for the first time, and I wondered if he was remembering the girl who used to let him get away with everything.
That girl was gone.
"What do you need me to do?" he asked finally.
"Take your medication as prescribed. Don't try to do more than your body can handle. And trust that your family wants to help you, even if you can't understand why."
I spent the next thirty minutes walking him through gentle exercises he could do while seated.
Ankle pumps to improve circulation, breathing exercises to prevent pneumonia, careful range of motion work for his uninjured arm.
All the while, I maintained perfect professional distance, even as my body remained hyperaware of his proximity, even as memories threatened to break through my carefully constructed walls.
This was harder than I'd thought it would be.
I'd convinced myself that seeing him again had given me clarity, that realizing he'd been too much of a coward to fight for us had somehow immunized me against whatever hold he'd once had over me.
I'd walked away from that first dinner believing I'd finally understood my worth, finally recognized that I deserved better than someone who would disappear rather than stay and work through problems.
But being this close to him, touching him in the name of medical necessity, watching the way he tried so hard to be strong when he was clearly in pain, it was stirring up feelings I'd thought I'd buried.
The ghost of the girl who'd once believed he was her whole world was whispering that maybe, just maybe, the man he'd become was worth a second chance.
Stop it, I told myself firmly. You know better now.
He'd had eleven years to come back, eleven years to fight for what we'd had. Eleven years to prove that love was stronger than whatever had driven him away. And he'd chosen to stay gone. He'd chosen to let me wonder what if, to let me build a life without him.
That choice said everything I needed to know about what I'd really meant to him.
"I want to see you again in three days," I said as I packed up my equipment, using the familiar routine to ground myself. "Same time. By then, I want you to have taken your medication consistently and practiced the exercises I've shown you."
"Yes, ma'am," he said, and there was something almost like a smile in his voice.
"I'm serious, Gage. If you don't follow the treatment plan, I'll transfer your care to someone else."
The threat was real. I couldn't afford to let personal history interfere with my professional judgment. But more than that, I needed him to understand that this version of me, this Billie Schulster, wasn't someone he could charm or manipulate.
"I'll behave," he said quietly. "I promise."
I stood, slinging my bag over my shoulder. "Your recovery is going to be slow, and it's going to be frustrating. But if you let your body heal properly, if you do the work, you'll come back stronger than before."
"And if I don't?"
I met his eyes directly, letting him see the seriousness of my expression. "Then you'll spend the rest of your life dealing with the consequences. Some damage can't be fixed, Gage."
The words hung in the air between us, loaded with meaning that went far beyond his physical injuries. For a moment, I saw that flicker of something in his expression that I'd seen before. Understanding, maybe, or recognition of the deeper truth in what I'd said.
Some things couldn't be fixed. Some hearts couldn't be broken and mended again. Some chances, once lost, never came back.
"I'll see you Friday," I said, turning toward the door.
"Billie," he called softly, and I paused without turning around. "Thank you. For taking me on as a patient. I know it can't be easy."
For a moment, I was tempted to turn around, to let him see that it was destroying me to be this close to him while maintaining professional distance.
To tell him that every casual touch during the examination had sent electricity racing through my system.
To admit that walking away from him right now was one of the hardest things I'd ever done.
Instead, I kept my back to him and my voice steady.
"Like I said, you're hurt and I'm a physical therapist. It's what I do."
I walked out of that room with my head high and my professional composure intact. But as I made my way down the hall, I couldn't ignore the truth that was becoming harder to deny with each encounter.
Some loves never really died.
They just learned to masquerade as professional duty.