17. Gage
Gage
T he sound of my crutches hitting the rehabilitation center floor echoed through the empty hallway like gunshots. Six AM was too early for most people, but I'd been up since four, staring at the ceiling and counting the ways I'd screwed up my life.
Again.
Laura Straits looked up from her clipboard as I hobbled into the therapy room, her dark eyes assessing my mood with the kind of professional competence I used to take for granted from Billie. The comparison hit me like a punch to the gut, which happened about fifty times a day now.
"You're early," Laura said, not bothering to hide her concern. "How's the pain level today?"
"Fine." The lie came easily. Everything hurt.
My leg, my shoulder, my ribs where they were still healing from road rash.
But none of it compared to the ache in my chest every time I thought about Billie's face when she'd transferred my care.
Like she couldn't wait to be rid of me. Even now, two weeks later, those compassionate eyes still haunted me.
But she'd given me the promise of a friendship I so desperately needed right now and she was right, romance, love, whatever we wanted to call it, was too complicated for where we were right now.
"Gage." Laura's voice was firm. "Pain scale. One to ten."
"Five." Another lie, but closer to the truth.
She made a note, then set down her clipboard and really looked at me. I'd worked with enough medical professionals over the years to recognize the look. It was the one that said they were seeing through your bullshit to the broken parts underneath.
"Your recovery is remarkable," she said carefully. "Your range of motion has improved faster than I've ever seen with injuries this severe. But I'm concerned you're pushing too hard."
I shrugged, which sent a spike of pain through my collarbone. Worth it to avoid her knowing stare.
"Let's start with some basic movements," she said, leading me to the parallel bars. "But I want you to talk to me while we work. What's driving this sudden acceleration?"
You mean besides the fact that the woman I love can't risk her heart on me again?
"Just want to get better," I said instead, gripping the bars and forcing my weight onto my injured leg. The pain was immediate and brutal, but I welcomed it. Physical pain was honest. It didn't lie to you or disappear when you needed it most.
"That's not what I'm seeing." Laura positioned herself beside me, ready to catch me if I fell. "I'm seeing someone who's using rehabilitation as self-punishment."
Direct hit. I stumbled, catching myself on the bars, and she was there immediately, steadying hands, concerned voice, everything a good therapist should be. Everything Billie had been.
Everything I'd ruined.
But there was a part of me that could see it was a good thing that she'd stepped back.
Because it did open the possibility for us to spend time together outside of this damn clinical environment.
The problem was I didn't know how to get that started or what I was supposed to do.
It wasn't as straightforward as it had been when we were kids and the perfect answer to a hot day was a dip in the swimming hole.
Everything we used to do felt loaded with so much innuendo when you looked at it with adult eyes.
After an hour of Laura pushing me through exercises that should have taken weeks to master, she finally called it. I was drenched in sweat, shaking from exertion, and probably looking like death warmed over.
"Same time tomorrow?" I asked, already knowing her answer.
"Gage, wait." She caught my arm as I reached for my crutches. "Whatever happened with Billie..."
"Nothing happened." The words came out sharper than I intended. "She did her job. Now you're doing yours."
"She transferred your case because she cared too much to maintain professional boundaries," Laura said quietly. "That's not nothing."
I stared at her, my heart doing something painful in my chest. "What?"
"She's been watching your sessions from the observation window every day since the transfer," Laura continued, adjusting the resistance band around my shoulder. "And yesterday, when you overextended during that shoulder rotation, she actually took a step toward the door before catching herself."
Something warm unfurled in my chest—not the dangerous hope of a desperate man, but something steadier. More grounded. The kind of hope that came from building something real, one careful piece at a time.
"Maybe she's just making sure the transition went smoothly," I said, but I couldn't keep the smile completely out of my voice. "Professional concern."
"Maybe." Laura's tone was carefully neutral. "Or maybe she's trying to figure out how to care about someone she's not supposed to care about anymore."
"You know," Laura said, making notes on my chart, "in twelve years of practice, I've never had a patient whose previous therapist lingered in the observation area to watch sessions."
"She's thorough."
"She's invested." Laura clipped her pen to her chart and gave me a look that was probably meant to be professional but came across as slightly amused. "Which, given what you've told me about your history, makes perfect sense."
I'd been honest with Laura from our first session.
About my relationship with Billie, about the professional ethics situation that had led to the transfer, about the fact that we were attempting to rebuild some kind of friendship.
It seemed easier than trying to pretend my recovery existed in a vacuum.
"The friend thing is new territory for us," I admitted. "We were never just friends as kids."
"And now?"
"Now I'm trying to prove I can be the kind of person she'd want as a friend." I tested my shoulder range again, pleased with the progress. "Someone reliable. Someone who shows up when he says he will. Someone who doesn't run when things get complicated."
"And if friendship leads to something more?"
The question hung in the air between us, loaded with possibilities I was trying not to examine too closely. Not because I didn't want them, but because I'd learned the hard way that wanting something and being worthy of it were two different things.
"Then I'll be grateful," I said simply. "But friendship is what she offered, and friendship is what I'm going to focus on earning."
Laura nodded approvingly. "That's the kind of thinking that leads to healthy relationships. Romantic or otherwise."
Twenty minutes later, I was walking toward the south pasture, moving more easily than I had since the accident. Still, I couldn't wait to get rid of this damn cast and the crutch. The July heat was already brutal, but the morning air still held a hint of coolness that made the work bearable.
Bullet was waiting in his usual spot under the oak tree, ears pricked forward like he'd been expecting me.
Over the past two weeks, our sessions had become the best part of my day.
There was something liberating about talking to someone who couldn't judge my past, couldn't offer advice I wasn't ready to hear, couldn't look at me with disappointment or pity or frustrated love.
"Morning, buddy," I said, settling myself in the grass about six feet from the fence. Close enough to talk, far enough to respect his space. "Laura says I'm making good progress. Ahead of schedule, actually."
Bullet's tail flicked once, his version of acknowledgment.
"Think it's because I have something to work toward now," I continued, pulling up a handful of grass and tossing it aside. "Two weeks until this transition period ends and Billie and I start figuring out how to be friends again."
The horse took a step closer to the fence, his dark eyes fixed on my face with what looked like curiosity.
"I know what you're thinking. Friends might not be enough. But it's more than I had three weeks ago, and it's more than I thought I'd ever get when I first came home." I leaned back against the fence post, tilting my face toward the sun. "Besides, I bought the house."
Bullet's ears swiveled forward, like he understood the significance of that statement.
"The one by the swimming hole. Where we used to go as kids.
Where she'd sit and stare at the windows like she was planning our whole future.
" The memory made me smile instead of hurt for the first time in years.
"Figured if I'm staying in Willowbrook, really staying this time, I should have a place that feels like home. "
I'd been working on the house every day since buying it, within the limitations of my physical capabilities.
I wasn't making that mistake again. Trace and Booker had been helping with the heavy lifting, but the planning and detail work was all mine.
Stripping wallpaper, sanding trim, carefully removing decades of bad renovation decisions to reveal the bones of what the house had always been meant to be.
"She knows about the house," I told Bullet. "Found me there, doing demolition work I definitely shouldn't have been doing with a healing collarbone and a broken leg."
The horse moved closer, now standing directly at the fence line. His nose was almost close enough to touch, though I knew better than to reach for him. Like trust, physical contact would come when he was ready.
"But she came to find me when I didn't show up for therapy," I continued, still amazed by that fact.
"Sat on the floor with me while I had a complete breakdown about my father and Regina and everything I'd been carrying around for years.
Held my hand while I cried like a kid and apologized for leaving her. "
A soft whinny from across the pasture caught both our attention. One of the mares was calling to Bullet, but he didn't move from his spot by the fence. He was choosing to stay here, with me, instead of going to easier companionship.
"She said we could try to be friends," I said quietly, still processing the memory of her hand in mine, the way she'd looked at me when I'd finally told her the truth about leaving. "Not promising anything more than that, but friends. After everything I did to us, she's willing to try friendship."
The sound of footsteps made me turn, and I saw Booker approaching with two bottles of water and the satisfied expression he wore when one of his ideas was working out exactly as he'd planned.
"How's the therapy going?" he asked, handing me a water and settling beside me in the grass.
"Good. Better than good, actually." I gestured toward Bullet, who was now close enough that his breath was fogging the fence wire. "Your equine therapy idea might actually work."
"Considering I've built an entire business on it, that's probably a good thing." Booker took a long drink of water, studying the horse with professional interest. "He's come a long way since he got hurt. Used to bolt if anyone got within twenty feet of his pasture."
"What changed?"
"Time. Consistency. People showing up every day even when he didn't want them there." Booker glanced at me sideways. "Sound familiar?"
I laughed, the sound surprising me with how genuine it felt. "You comparing me to a traumatized horse?"
"I'm comparing you to a survivor who's learning to trust again."
We sat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, watching Bullet graze near the fence while the sun climbed higher.
It was peaceful in a way I hadn't experienced since coming home.
No pressure to talk about feelings or make amends or prove I'd changed.
Just two brothers sitting in the morning quiet, sharing space without needing to fill it with words.
"Billie's been watching your sessions," Booker said eventually.
"So Laura mentioned."
"That bother you?"
I considered the question honestly. A month ago, the idea of Billie watching me struggle through physical therapy would have felt like exposure, like being caught in my weakness. Now it felt like... care. Like maybe she was invested in my recovery for reasons that went beyond professional duty.
"No," I said finally. "I think it bothers her more than it bothers me."
"Because she's trying not to care."
"Because she's trying to protect herself from caring too much." I finished my water and set the bottle aside. "Can't say I blame her for that."
Booker studied my profile for a moment. "You sound different."
"Different how?"
"Hopeful. Like you actually believe good things might happen."
I turned that over in my mind, testing it for truth.
Was I hopeful? The Gage who'd arrived in Willowbrook six weeks ago had been focused entirely on survival.
And not just physical recovery, but basic family reconciliation, getting through each day without causing more damage.
Somewhere along the way, survival had transformed into something bigger.
"You thinking about asking Billie to help with the renovation?" Booker's question was casual, but I could hear the underlying curiosity.
"I'm thinking about taking it slow," I said carefully. "She knows about the house. Saw the potential underneath all the mess I made with my demolition project. But pushing for more than friendship right now would be stupid. She offered friendship, and that's what I'm going to focus on earning."
"And if she's never ready?"
The question should have terrified me, but it didn't. Not the way it would have even two weeks ago.
"Then I'll have a house I restored myself, in a town I once loved, surrounded by family who want me here." I shrugged, surprised by how genuine the acceptance felt. "That's not exactly a consolation prize."
Booker smiled. It was the first completely unguarded smile he'd given me since I'd been back. "You really are different."
"Working on it."
"No," he said, clapping me on the shoulder. "You already are."
As I made my way back toward Booker's guest house that had become my temporary home, I carried that assessment with me. Different. Hopeful. Someone building a future instead of just surviving the present.
It wasn't the future I'd dreamed of as a seventeen-year-old kid who thought love conquered everything. But it was real and solid and mine in a way that felt sustainable.
And if Billie decided she wanted to be part of it, as a friend or something more, then we'd figure out how to build it together.
But if she didn't, I'd still have something worth keeping.
That felt like progress worth celebrating.