22. Jamie
Chapter twenty-two
Jamie
The Day Everything Feels Normal
There are mornings when progress announces itself, not with fireworks or dramatic breakthroughs.
Just with one movement that suddenly feels easier than it did the day before.
This is one of those mornings. I raise my arm overhead during my warm-up and stop halfway through the motion, not because it hurts but because it doesn't.
For a second, I simply stare at it. Then I keep going until my fingertips point toward the ceiling. No hesitation., no sharp pull through the shoulder. Just movement.
Annette notices before I say a word. "I was wondering how long it would take you to realize."
I lower my arm slowly and grin. "You saw that?"
"I've been watching your face instead of your shoulder."
"That's probably smarter." She makes a note on the chart before handing me a light resistance cable. "We're adding strength work today."
Those words would have terrified me six weeks ago. Today they sound like freedom. The first exercise is deceptively simple. Controlled rows. Slow shoulder presses. Movements designed to teach the muscles around the repaired joint to trust one another again.
I move carefully, paying attention to every instruction Annette gives. She notices immediately. "No negotiations today?"
"I've retired from contract discussions."
"I'm relieved."
"I've accepted that my rehabilitation plan is not a democracy."
She laughs, the sound filling the therapy gym more easily than it used to. "That's tremendous personal growth."
"I like to think so."
"Your shoulder agrees."
The exercises leave the muscles tired but steady, and for the first time since the injury, the fatigue feels earned instead of discouraging. When I finish the last repetition, Annette compares today's measurements with the ones from my first week. Her eyebrows lift. "Well..."
I study her face. "That's usually a good 'well.'"
"It is." She turns the clipboard toward me. Even I can see the difference.
The numbers are no longer creeping forward, they're climbing.
"You've gained almost fifteen degrees since last month. You've also regained enough stability to begin strength progression."
I read the chart as though the numbers might change. "They're my shoulder."
"They are."
"They don't look like my shoulder." She smiles. "They're the shoulder of someone who has done the work." For reasons I can't quite explain, that sentence means more than the measurements themselves. Not lucky. Not gifted. Worked.
She reaches out without thinking. Her hand stops halfway between us before continuing. "Congratulations."
I raise mine at the same moment and our palms meet in an easy high-five.
The sound echoes lightly through the gym.
Neither of us pulls away immediately. It lasts only a heartbeat longer than it should, just long enough for both of us to notice.
Then we step back almost simultaneously.
Neither of us mentions it. We don't have to.
Annette clears her throat and looks back at the chart.
"I suppose I should continue acting like a professional. "
"I was wondering when that might happen."
She gives me a wry look over the top of the clipboard. "Don't push your luck, Captain."
"I've learned that's generally unwise."
"It is."
Her smile returns. "So..." She closes the chart. "I believe someone earned coffee." I blink. "Weren't you going to ask if I wanted one?"
She tilts her head. "I assumed you were coming." I laugh. "I suppose I was."
"Good." She slips the chart on the desk as we start toward the hallway to the parking lot. I fall into step beside her without another word. Some traditions don't need invitations anymore. They simply become part of the day.
***
The bell above the café door jingles as Annette and I step inside. Before we reach the counter, the barista looks up from the espresso machine and smiles.
"Right on schedule."
Annette laughs. "I didn't realize we had a schedule." "Oh, you do." She reaches automatically for two cups. "Medium coffee for Captain Walker. Vanilla latte with cinnamon for Annette."
I glance sideways at Annette. "You've been ordering the same thing every time?"
She shrugs, looking completely unapologetic. "I like cinnamon."
"I wasn't judging."
"You sounded like you were."
"I was admiring your consistency."
The barista sets both drinks on the counter. "I almost started making them when I saw your truck pulling up.”
Annette smiles. "I think we've become predictable."
"I'd say you've become regulars."
I reach for my wallet at the same moment Annette reaches for hers.
"I've got it," I say.
"You always say that."
"I usually mean it."
"So do I."
The barista watches our familiar debate with an amused smile.
"I can split the bill if you'd like."
Both of us answer at exactly the same time.
"No."
We look at one another, then laugh. I hand over my card before Annette can recover.
"Longer arms."
She shakes her head as we collect our drinks. "That is still not how coffee works."
"It worked."
"It worked because you cheated."
"I prefer to think of it as excellent positioning."
"I'm beginning to think you've practiced this."
"I have years of experience."
Still smiling, we carry our coffees to the small table beside the front window. Neither of us suggests another seat. At some point this one quietly became ours.
Outside, Briar Cove is beginning to wake from winter. Shopkeepers prop open their doors, people stroll along the sidewalks without heavy coats for the first time in months, and someone across the street is arranging bright spring flowers outside the florist.
Annette wraps both hands around her latte and watches the town with a contented smile. "I think this might be my favorite hour of the day."
"After therapy?"
She shakes her head. "Before everyone gets busy. The whole town feels like it's taking one deep breath before the day begins."
I follow her gaze toward the street. Families wander from shop to shop. A delivery driver waves to the bookstore owner while carrying in another stack of boxes. Across the intersection, two children skip ahead of their mother, each proudly carrying a cookie almost as large as their faces.
"I never really noticed this before," I admit.
"You were usually passing through."
"I guess I was."
"You don't have to pass through anymore." There is something wonderfully uncomplicated about the way she says it.
Our conversation drifts the way it always seems to after therapy. We compare favorite movies, laugh about terrible motel rooms, and debate whether hotel coffee should legally qualify as coffee.
Annette insists she once stayed in a motel where the carpet extended halfway up the walls.
"I have pictures," she says. "I feel like pictures should be required before anyone believes that story."
"They're somewhere on my old phone."
"I'd like to see them."
"You'd laugh."
"I already am."
She grins over the rim of her cup. "You're impossible."
A few minutes later she stops in the middle of a sentence and looks directly at my hands.
"What?"
She points toward my coffee cup. "I've been watching you for almost five minutes."
I glance down. Without realizing it, I've folded the cardboard sleeve into a neat little triangle. One corner is already creased into what looks suspiciously like the beginning of a paper airplane.
"I didn't even notice."
She reaches across the table, gently takes the sleeve from my fingers, and sets it beside her cup.
"There."
"There?"
"Now let's see how long you last."
I fold my hands obediently in my lap and meet her gaze with exaggerated confidence.
"I'm perfectly capable of sitting still."
She doesn't answer. She simply smiles. Thirty seconds later, my fingers have found the paper napkin.
When I catch myself folding the corner into another tiny airplane, I look up to find Annette laughing so hard she has tears in her eyes.
"I knew it!"
"I honestly wasn't thinking about it."
"I know."
She wipes at the corner of one eye, still smiling. "That's what makes it funny." She studies the little paper airplane before sliding it back toward me.
"You know what I think?"
"What?"
"I think you've spent so many years looking after everyone else that your mind doesn't know how to be off duty."
I instinctively glance toward the room. An elderly gentleman is balancing a tray near the counter. A young mother is helping one child while another reaches for a napkin dispenser. Without thinking, I begin assessing whether either of them might need help.
Annette notices and says, "You just did it again."
"I know."
"No." She smiles gently. "I don't think you do."
I follow her eyes around the café and suddenly realize she's right. Even while we're having coffee, part of me is quietly scanning the room, looking for someone who might need something.
"You know what I think?" she says softly. "What?" "I think it's okay to simply enjoy your coffee."
The words are so ordinary they almost make me smile, but beneath them is something much bigger. It's okay to stop watching. It's okay to rest. It's okay if someone else opens the door, carries the tray, or solves the next problem.
For one full minute, I do exactly what she asked. I don't watch anyone else. I don't look toward the door. I simply sit across from Annette, enjoying good coffee and easy conversation.
She notices almost immediately.
"There."
"What?"
"That's the first time you've completely relaxed since we sat down." I smile into my coffee. "I think you might be right."
She lifts her cup toward mine. "To progress."
I gently tap my mug against hers. "To progress."
Neither of us says another word for a while. We simply sit together, watching Briar Cove welcome another spring day.
***
We leave the café without discussing where we're going next.
Somehow, we always seem to end up walking through town after therapy. It has become part of the routine, as natural as coffee or Annette reminding me to stretch before bed.