29. Annette & Jamie #2
Everything feels familiar - the scent of fresh coffee, the quiet murmur from the front desk, someone laughing farther down the hall.
Today walking into rehab doesn't feel like work. It feels like seeing someone I love.
I move into the clinical area and glance toward the reception desk.
Mrs. Alvarez is arranging patient files.
She looks up. Our eyes meet. Something changes.
Her smile disappears almost before it begins.
My stomach tightens.
"Morning."
"Good morning, Jamie."
She's trying. I know she's trying. But something's wrong.
I hold up the second coffee with a grin that suddenly feels uncertain.
"Think she'll forgive me for getting here five minutes early?"
Mrs. Alvarez doesn't answer. She simply looks at the cup in my hand, then back at me.
Very quietly she says...
"Jamie..."
Every instinct I own comes alive. "Where's Annette?"
Silence. Too much silence. Mrs. Alvarez takes a slow breath. "I'm so sorry."
The words don't make sense. I frown. "For what?"
"Annette won't be coming in today."
I let out a small laugh. "Okay..."
"I mean..." Her voice breaks. "She won't be coming back."
Everything inside me goes perfectly still. "What?"
"She resigned."
No.
The word echoes through my head before it ever reaches my lips.
"No."
"She left early this morning."
I stare at her. The second coffee grows warm in my hand.
No.
"Dr. Reynolds reassigned your remaining sessions."
I shake my head. "No, she wouldn't..."
Would she?
Three days.
The voicemail.
She listened.
She heard every word.
And she still left.
***
The realization steals every bit of air from my lungs.
My fingers loosen.
The untouched vanilla latte slips from my hand.
It lands upright on the reception counter with a dull thud before slowly tipping onto its side.
Coffee spills across the polished surface.
Neither of us moves to stop it. I can only stare at the growing puddle.
She heard me.
She heard every word I never found the courage to say face-to-face.
And she still walked away.
"No." The word leaves my mouth before I can stop it. "There has to be some mistake."
Mrs. Alvarez's eyes glisten. "I wish there was."
"She wouldn't just..."
I can't finish the sentence. Not Annette. Not without saying goodbye.
Not after...
The voicemail.
I look toward the treatment hallway. Toward Room Three.
I’m half expecting her to come around the corner carrying her clipboard, ready to tease me for arriving early.
The hallway stays empty.
"When will she be back?"
Mrs. Alvarez slowly shakes her head. "Jamie..."
"No." My voice comes out sharper this time.
"I need to see Dr. Reynolds."
Mrs. Alvarez hesitates.
"Jamie..."
"I need to see him."
She studies me for a long moment before giving a slow nod. "I'll let him know you're here."
I don't sit. I pace. Three steps toward the windows. Three steps back. This doesn't make sense. Annette wouldn't disappear. Not without explaining.
Not after everything we'd shared.
Not after...the voicemail.
The office door opens, and Dr. Reynolds steps into the hallway.
His expression tells me he already knows why I'm here.
"Jamie. "Mrs. Alvarez told me you were here."
"Where is she?"
He sighs quietly.
"Just what Mrs. Alvarez already told you."
"She resigned?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"This morning."
I shake my head. "No... When did she decide?"
"I don't know."
"But she talked to you."
"She did by phone."
"What did she say?"
"Only that a personal matter required her to leave sooner than expected."
The words land like another punch – a personal matter.
"So that's it?"
"I'm afraid so."
For a long second neither of us moves.
Then Dr. Reynolds gestures toward his office.
"Come in for a minute."
I follow him, still expecting someone to tell me this is all a misunderstanding.
Instead, he picks up a folder from his desk.
"Annette left this for your continuing care."
He places it in front of me. Every page is covered in her handwriting.
Measurements.
Progress charts.
Strength goals.
Exercises.
Restrictions.
Notes about what aggravates my shoulder. Notes about what doesn't.
He turns another page.
"She documented every session."
Another.
"She outlined every remaining appointment."
Another.
"She even anticipated the adjustments we'd likely make once your range of motion improved."
I stare at the pages.
Every detail.
Every possibility.
Everything planned.
My throat tightens. "So..." I swallow. "She knew she was leaving."
Dr. Reynolds nods once.
"Yes."
"She planned this."
"Yes."
The room suddenly feels too small. This wasn't panic. This wasn't confusion.
She packed. She organized. She made certain I'd be taken care of.
This wasn't an impulsive goodbye.
She made sure I wouldn't need her. Somehow, that hurts most of all.
She thought of everything... Except telling me goodbye.
I don't remember leaving the hospital.
One minute I'm standing in Dr. Reynolds' office.
The next... I'm sitting alone in my truck.
The second coffee is still sitting untouched in the cup holder.
Cold now. Just like the knot settling in my chest.
***
My phone buzzes.
Coach Calling.
I almost ignore it.
Instead...
I answer. "Walker."
"You missed film."
I close my eyes. "I know."
A pause. "You okay?"
No, not even close. But the words catch somewhere behind my ribs.
Coach has known me for nearly ten years. He doesn't need the answer.
"Where are you?"
"Truck."
"Hospital?"
"Yeah."
"I'm coming."
"You don't have to."
"I'm already grabbing my keys."
The line goes dead.
Twenty minutes later he climbs into the passenger seat without asking permission.
Neither of us speaks. He notices the untouched second coffee.
Doesn't ask.
Finally, very quietly. "She left." It's not a question.
I nod once.
Coach leans back against the seat and stares through the windshield.
"I've coached hundreds of players."
Silence.
"I've watched grown men play through broken bones."
Another silence.
"I've never seen anything hurt a man like this."
My laugh sounds nothing like one. "The irony…I finally told her."
Coach turns toward me. "And?"
I stare at the cold vanilla latte.
"She listened." The words scrape coming out. "Then she left."
The truck falls silent again. Coach doesn't offer advice, doesn't tell me I'll get over it.
He just sits there beside me.
For months Annette has been teaching me how to heal.
Somehow, she's become the one wound I don't know how to survive.