Chapter 5 Marnie #2
The music choice is deliberate. Studies show classical music lowers heart rate and reduces muscle tension, both of which Roman needs. His heart rate spikes every time I work on that shoulder. I’ve been tracking it, watching the way his pulse jumps in his neck when I dig into the deeper adhesions.
He shows up ten minutes early.
“That’s different,” he says, pausing in the doorway.
I don’t turn around from organizing supplies. “Beethoven. Symphony No. 7.”
“I meant different from your usual stuff.”
“Fall Out Boy doesn’t lower blood pressure. Beethoven does.” Now I do face him. “Your heart rate’s been elevated during our sessions. Need to keep you calm.”
“My heart rate’s fine.”
“It’s elevated. I’ve been monitoring it.” I gesture to the table. “Shirt off, Captain.”
His mouth quirks at the title, but he complies. I’ve seen him shirtless enough times now that it should feel routine. Clinical. Just another patient, just another body, just another session.
Except it doesn’t feel routine or clinical. And he’s definitely not just another patient.
“Face down,” I say, pulling on gloves.
He settles onto the table and I warm oil between my palms, trying to find the professional detachment I’ve spent years developing.
The detachment that’s supposed to insulate me from noticing how his muscles move under his skin, from cataloging the ink that covers his back, from being aware of him as anything other than a collection of joints and tissue that need my expertise.
“This will hurt,” I warn, placing my hands on his shoulders.
“Always does.”
I start working through the adhesions in his rotator cuff, feeling the tension immediately. He’s been doing something he shouldn’t. Extra weights, probably, or pushing his range of motion past what I’ve cleared.
“You’ve been cheating on your protocol.”
“I’ve been following it exactly.”
“Your tissue says otherwise.” I increase pressure, feeling him tense. “What did you do?”
“Nothing.”
“Roman.”
A pause. “Some pull-ups. Light weights.”
“Define light.”
“Thirty pounds.”
“Twenty-five pounds more than the five I prescribed.” I work deeper, feeling the new micro-tears. “You’re going to set yourself back.”
“It’s healing fine.”
“It was healing fine. Now you’ve got fresh damage on top of old.” I move to a different angle, attacking the problem from another direction. “This is exactly why you’ve had five dislocations. You don’t listen.”
“I listen. I just don’t always agree.”
“Agreement isn’t required. Medical compliance is.”
He makes a sound that might be a laugh or a grunt of pain. Hard to tell with the way I’m digging into muscle that’s fighting back.
My phone buzzes on the counter. I ignore it, focusing on the work.
It buzzes again. And again.
“You should check that,” Roman says, voice tight.
“I’m working.”
“It might be important.”
Another buzz. The insistent pattern of someone who needs an answer now.
“Fine.” I strip off my gloves, grab my phone.
Teresa
She’s asking for you
Getting confused about where you are
Can you call when you get a chance?
My stomach drops. I check the time. Only three thirty. Mom shouldn’t be confused yet. The evening is when things get bad, when the sundowning kicks in and she forgets what year it is.
I call Teresa, turning slightly away from the table.
“Sorry to bother you,” Teresa says immediately. “She’s fine, just having an earlier difficult patch today. Wants to know when you’re coming home.”
“Same as always. Six.”
“I know. I told her. But she’s forgotten already.” A pause. “Maybe come home a bit early if you can? She’s calmer when you’re here.”
The suggestion sits heavy. Every session I cut short is time Roman loses, healing he misses, protocols we can’t complete properly.
“I’ll try,” I say, which is the best I can offer.
“That’s all anyone can do, honey.”
I hang up and stare at my phone for a moment. Trying to switch gears from daughter managing a crisis to PT who has a job to do.
“Everything okay?” Roman asks. He’s propped up on his elbows, watching me.
“Fine. Just my mom’s aide.” I pull on fresh gloves, needing to finish this session. “Lie back down.”
“We can reschedule—”
“I said lie down.”
He does, but the tension in his body has changed. Not pain now. Something else. Awareness, maybe. Of me barely holding things together.
I work in silence for a while, hands moving through familiar patterns. Finding knots, releasing them, building strength where there’s been compensation. The Beethoven helps. The steady rhythm of it, the swell and retreat of strings, the way it fills silence without demanding attention.
“You play this for all your patients?” Roman asks quietly.
“No. Just the ones with elevated heart rates who need to calm down.”
“So just me.”
“So far.”
I can feel him processing that. Can feel the way his breathing changes, the slight tightness in his shoulders that has less to do with the pressure I’m using and more to do with this tension that’s building between us.
“Can I ask you something?” he says after a moment.
“You can ask. I might not answer.”
“Why’d you really come back to Seattle?”
My hands still on his shoulder. “You know why.”
“I know your mom’s sick. That’s not the same as knowing why you left a position in D.C. to take a lateral move here.”
“It wasn’t lateral. It’s the NHL.”
“You were already working with professional teams. This is the same level, different market.” He shifts slightly under my hands. “So why here? Why now?”
I could deflect. Could give him the professional answer about coming home, about opportunities, about career growth.
Instead I say, “Because she has maybe six months and I need to be here for them.”
The truth costs more than I meant to spend. I feel it leave my mouth and immediately want to take it back, to rebuild the walls that keep my personal life separate from this room, this job, this man who keeps seeing through me.
“Six months,” he repeats quietly.
“If we’re lucky. Pancreatic doesn’t really do remission.” I resume working, needing the familiar motions to ground me. “So yeah. That’s why I’m here. That’s why Winters’ bullshit in meetings matters. That’s why I can’t afford to lose this job.”
“He’s not going to fire you.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I do. Barrett hired you. Barrett keeps you.” His voice is certain. “Winters is just noise.”
“Noise that makes my life harder.”
“Yeah. But still just noise.”
We fall quiet again. My hands work through the last section of his shoulder, feeling the improvement already. He’s healing despite his stupidity with the pull-ups. Faster than he has in years, according to his file.
“Done,” I say finally, stepping back. “Ice tonight. And no more pull-ups.”
“What about push-ups?”
“Roman.”
He sits up, rolling his shoulder experimentally. “It feels better.”
“Good. That’s the point.”
“You’re good at this.”
The compliment lands awkwardly. I’m good at lots of things. Maintaining boundaries, staying professional, not getting involved with patients who make my pulse race. Except I’m failing at all of those lately.
“It’s my job,” I say, turning to clean up.
“Marnie.”
His voice makes me pause.
“Go home early if you need to. We can make up the time.”
“Your protocol—”
“Will survive me missing twenty minutes.” He’s pulling on his shirt now, careful of his shoulder. “Family matters more than my PT.”
The echo of earlier makes my throat tight. “I’ll see you Friday.”
“Friday,” he agrees.
He leaves, and I’m alone in the treatment room with Beethoven still playing and the knowledge that Roman Varga keeps offering me permission to be human.
That he sees me struggling and doesn’t make me explain why.
That the distance I’m trying to maintain between us is shrinking every session, every conversation, every moment he notices things I’m trying to hide.
I pack up slowly. Change the sheets on the table. Queue up tomorrow’s schedule. All the routine tasks that keep me functional, keep me moving, keep me from thinking too hard about how much harder this job has gotten since I met a captain who refuses to let me carry everything alone.
When I get to Mom’s house at 5:15, forty-five minutes early, she doesn’t remember asking for me. Doesn’t remember being confused. Just smiles from the couch where Teresa has her settled with tea and says, “You’re home early. Bad day?”
“Just wanted to see you,” I say, and it’s not a lie.
But it’s not the whole truth either.