Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
“ I ’m here to do my second round of therapy.” I enter her office.
She drops some papers onto her desk. “Right.”
“If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were sneaking out of here.” We were getting along great. Until— let it go, Bennett.
Jenna’s hand rubs up and down her arm. “I wasn’t sneaking. You weren’t here, so I wanted to go home and change.”
“Why? Have a hot date?” With Austin the Asshole?
She moves her shoulders. “Sure do.”
All my bravado slides to the floor. Why wouldn’t someone as smart, kind, and gorgeous as her have a date? My gaze bounces from her messenger bag to the floor. “Oh.” I suppress a sigh. “Do you have another therapist I could work with tonight?”
“No.”
My shoulders straighten. “Message received. Loud and clear.” I turn toward her office door.
“Wait,” she commands. “What I meant was I can work with you. I do have a date tonight, but not until a bit later.” She closes her eyes. “It’s my birthday and I’m going out with my mother to celebrate, like we do every year. ”
“Oh, Happy birthday.” Heat flares up my neck. Now I feel like a schmuck. “I don’t want to keep you from your family gig.” This will be the second time this week she’s eating dinner with her mother. Such an occurrence is so far outside my own experience it’s as if she’s speaking Japanese.
“No worries.” She places her half-full messenger bag onto her desk. “Seriously. I’m not picking Ma up until eight.”
Keeping my gaze glued to the floor, I reply, “Then I better do my PT in record time.”
“Get started and I’ll be there in a few.”
“You got it.”
I return to the exercise room and start my normal exercises. Act normal, Bennett. Forget earlier’s non-event. Jenna enters and oversees my exercises, making adjustments as needed. Her hands don’t linger on my thigh, yet they don’t bounce away from it either.
We get to the towel on the floor and squat one, which I do with care. After the hip check from Michelle, I don’t want to aggravate it.
“I think you can add some weight to the squat,” Jenna pronounces.
My forehead wrinkles. “Weight?”
She hands me a twelve-kilo kettlebell and tells me to take it slow. “You seriously want me to do a squat with this? It’s twenty-six pounds!” My voice lifts at the end.
“I’m sure you lift much heavier.”
“Yeah, when I didn’t have this groin pull,” I grumble and switch the kettlebell between my hands.
“It’s only one kettlebell between your two hands. If you want to get better, you’ll need to add weight to this exercise. You need to be using weights on a barbell before you’re out of here.”
“You’re a sadist.” Now my mind conjures Jenna wearing skin-tight black leather and in all sorts of kinky positions. Fuck.
“I’m not, Bennett. You were the one who’s been harping on getting better for the tour, which starts in what? Less than a week now. ”
“Yeah.”
“To do that, you have to keep pushing yourself. There’s another set of exercises I want you to try, but you need to master this one first.” Her chin lifts.
I pass the kettlebell between my hands again. “Another?”
“At least one.”
Knowing I need to do this for the sake of my career, I get into position. “Fine. I’m going to take this slow.”
She nods. “You can do it.”
Her confidence in me spurs me to try. My foot slides out and I bend down into the squat. The kettlebell takes me off balance, which forces my inner thigh muscles to work. And by work, I mean throb. I bite my lip to keep from crying out in pain as I stand.
“One. Awesome job,” Jenna encourages.
I repeat the exercise, willing myself not to cry.
“Two.”
With deliberate breaths, I force myself to do more reps. When I get to ten, Jenna takes the kettlebell from me. Thank God . I focus on breathing.
“Great job, Bennett. I know it was difficult, but you’re in great shape, so I knew you could handle it.”
She offers me a towel, which I use to wipe my face. Sweat drips down my neck and beneath my clothes. Out of frustration, I peel my T-shirt over my head and toss it toward the rest of my clothes. I dry my torso.
In a hushed tone, she says, “Oh.”
I glance over at Jenna, and her hand’s in front of her mouth. Her eyes are wide open and she’s staring at my chest. I look down and pluck at the necklace she gave all the members of UC that Christmas so long ago. “We all still wear ours, Jenna. Even gave one to Tris.”
She whispers, “You do? You did?”
“Yes.” I fiddle with the UC pendant. “You may not know this, but these necklaces mean a lot to the band. I wear it as a reminder of the thing that took me away from a bad situation and gave me purpose.” Like real estate for King. “We always wear them.”
Darren was wearing his when he died.
“I have Darren’s,” she admits.
Her confession is so low I almost don’t catch it. “Really?”
She nods. “His mother gave it to me before the funeral. It’s in my jewelry box.”
I don’t know how to respond. Over the years, the band and I have often wondered what happened to his necklace, assuming he was buried with it. I’ll have to share this detail with them when I return for the tour.
“I thought you only wore it when you were performing. Like a prop with all your rings and bracelets.”
It doesn’t go unnoticed she admitted to knowing what I wear onstage. “The necklace means much more than that.” Case in point, my fingers and wrists are now jewelry-free. Following an awkward silence, I continue, “Well, I guess it’s ice time?”
Bit by bit, she brings herself to her full height. “Yes. You did great this afternoon. You’re making good progress.” She walks over to the freezer as I lie down on the table, my hand covering the UC pendant.
When she doesn’t place the ice pack on my leg, I peer over at her. She’s studying my body, and I resist the urge to flex. “I’m ready when you are.”
“Right.” She shakes her head, causing her ponytail to swing. Her steps bring her next to me and she places the ice onto my thigh.
“Tsss,” I groan. “I’ll never get used to how cold this is.”
Jenna sets the timer. “Don’t be a baby—it’s good for you.”
“I’m not being a baby. This shit’s fucking cold.” Maybe I did sound a little whiny?
“I’ll be back soon. Should I turn on a lullaby for you?”
“No,” I retort. “Some Hunte would rock it.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” She changes the channel on Spotify. “Backdoor Clouds will have to do.”
Alone in the room, I listen to “Broken.” This song is sick, especially during the drum solo. Darren used to love this group, even getting tickets for him and Jenna at their New Year’s Eve concert in Colorado. I’m sure Jenna never knew about his obsession since the concert happened after he had passed.
Grabbing the UC pendant, I tuck my thoughts about Darren into it. This pendant holds all my secrets. About Mom. Dad. Lissa. Curtiss. I give it one more—while she’s off-limits, Jenna’s intriguing me. The song changes to one by Cole Manchester, and I get lost in “Taboo.”
Soon, Jenna returns and retrieves the ice pack. Should I bring up the elephant in the room? Her grey eyes focus on putting it away, on stopping the music, on adjusting her scrubs. Anywhere but on me.
I sit up and fix the bottom of my shorts.
Here goes. “Jenna, about what happened earlier?—”
“It was nothing. No big deal.”
She sounds so convincing I decide not to touch this subject again. “So you and your mother are going out tonight to celebrate your birthday, huh?”
“We are.” She pulls out her phone and checks the time.
“You know, I don’t have any dinner plans tonight. Or any night, really, while I’m here.” I force my eyes to look like a basset hound’s. Those dogs have the saddest eyes I know.
“You don’t? I’m sure you could make friends with anyone.”
How wrong she is. I don’t do friends. “People who don’t know me would only see the rock star. I don’t want to be him.” I pause. “Tonight.”
“The Huntes set you up in a wicked rental. I bet it has a kitchen.”
I lift my shoulder. “It does, smarty pants. I don’t want to eat alone, though.” I double down on my puppy dog eyes.
“Well, maybe I can ask my mother if she wouldn’t mind a rock star barging into our girl time.”
“Don’t put it that way. I may be a rock star when I’m on stage, but right now I’m just an injured guy. Interested in not eating alone.” Perhaps getting to know his physical therapist a bit better. Perhaps ?
“Fine. I’ll ask if I can bring a stray patient with us.”
“I suppose that sounds better.”
She picks up her phone and walks into her office. Jenna Westfield is unlike anyone I’ve ever met before. She’s amazing as a physical therapist, yes, but it’s more than that. Something in her wounded soul calls out to me. Makes me feel seen. Adrenaline rushes through my bloodstream as if I were about to take the stage. As a distraction, I toss my T-shirt and sweatshirt over my head and pull the sweatpants over my shorts.
“So, it seems Ma has a soft spot.” Jenna walks into the room. “You’ve wrangled yourself an invitation to join us for my birthday celebration.”
I clap. “Can’t wait.”
“Hmmm,” she adjusts the strap of the messenger bag over her shoulder. “I’ll drop you off to change before heading home to do the same. I’ll pick Ma up and be back to your rental in an hour.”
I close her car door in front of my rental and wave as she drives away. Then it hits me. I’m going out for her birthday dinner—with her mother. I’m not prepared for this. What background do I have dealing with mothers? Mine certainly is not the standard bearer.
Ignoring the voice in my head mocking my intrusion into her celebration, I let myself into the rental and change. A nice pair of pants and a button-down shirt should look good no matter what type of restaurant. Which I presume is a nice one, since they’re celebrating her birthday.
The clock above the stove reads seven-thirty. With thirty minutes to spare, I lock the rental and walk as fast as I can, which isn’t too fast, thanks to my injury, and enter a neighborhood stationery store. I choose a birthday card that’s not sappy, featuring flowers on the front. I check out the novelty items for sale, hoping to find a nice gift. Nothing snags my attention, so I simply pay for the card.
On the sidewalk, I check my cellphone and realize I still have fifteen minutes. There has to be another store around here. Of course, everything’s closed. All except for the arcade. She did say she used to hang out here as a kid. Maybe this would be the perfect gift?
By eight, I stand outside my rental, rubbing my gloved hands together. Headlights turn down my street and pull over in front of me. Bending down, I wave at the two women inside, then take my time climbing into the backseat. “Hi, Jenna, Mrs. Westfield.”
“Please call me Faith,” her mother replies.
“Faith,” I repeat. A reminder to have faith she won’t be anything like my own mother.
Jenna waves at me, her blonde hair loose for a change. Looks fan-freaking-tastic. “The restaurant is about fifteen minutes away, so get comfy.”
Her mother turns on the radio to an oldies station. The two talk in quiet tones.
What have I gotten myself into?