Chapter 6
Chapter Six
RACHEL
Ipeel off my gloves and toss them into the trash, the sharp scent of antiseptic still clinging to my skin.
My final patient of the day just left, Mr. Daniels, who managed to stand from the chair without using his arms for the first time.
Internally, I was so happy for him. I gave him an approving nod, scribbled the milestone into his chart and offered one of my smiles.
He didn’t seem all that impressed with his milestone, but I was thrilled enough for the both of us.
It has been a little over a week since the wedding, and the world has already moved on.
Margo and Anderson are off somewhere in Lisbon, probably sunburned and drinking something served out of a fancy glass.
I saw a few blurry photos on Instagram before Margo went dark for their “phone-free” honeymoon.
After the wedding, the routine of life quickly snapped back into place for me.
I work as a physical therapist at Memorial Rehab Clinic.
Seven years of schooling led me here. My mornings are usually reserved for evaluations.
Consisting of a lot of post-op knees stiff from surgery and shoulders frozen after months of immobility.
I guide patients through measured steps.
I assess their range of motion and ask them to trust me when it hurts, when it feels impossible.
Some patients are hopeful. Others are angry. Most of them are tired.
This afternoon was a rotation of familiar faces. I spent forty-five minutes with Mrs. Ortega, encouraging her to bend her right leg five more degrees than last week. Mr. Walker, who is recovering from a stroke, came at 2:45 pm. We practiced walking today. It was just a couple of independent steps.
When a patient hits a milestone, whether it’s lifting a dumbbell overhead, climbing the stairs or walking to the end of the parallel bars without stumbling, I usually do the big cheerleader thing.
I want them to know how important their progress is.
It is my favorite part of this job. Honestly it is the entire reason I chose to continue school after the accident.
I remember sitting in class after the funeral, listening to someone explain healing as if it were inevitable.
It isn’t.
He didn’t get that arc. There was no slow strengthening. There was no measured progress to track. Just an abrupt ending in the middle of his story.
So I stayed in school. I studied harder. I learned every origin and insertion, every protocol, every small way a body can be coaxed back to itself. And now, when someone takes those first steady steps, I cheer for them—and for the chance my brother never had.
“Rachel, you got a second?” Dr. Faier’s voice carries out from his office.
My stomach drops instinctively. “Sure.”
“Close the door, will you?”
Faier’s office is in its typical chaos. I’m not sure how he even functions in here with all of his precariously leaning files scattered across his desk. Or the amount of empty coffee cups and sticky notes everywhere. He gestures to the chair across from his desk.
My pulse picks up, and I can’t help but jump to the worst conclusions. Did I miss a report? Did a client file a complaint about me? Before my thoughts completely get the better of me, Faier cuts them off.
“I’ll get right to it. We’re opening up a new outpatient wing with a focus on long-term neuro recovery. The director position has become available.”
I blink. “Oh. Congratulations.”
He smiles, small and knowing. “Not for me. For one of you. The team recommended you.”
The words don’t make sense at first. “Me?”
“You’ve earned it, Rachel. You’ve got the best outcomes in your caseload, patients ask for you by name. The team trusts you. You’re already doing half the job.”
“I—I’m not really management material. I’m better one-on-one.”
Faier tilts his head. “That’s exactly why you’d be good at it.”
My throat goes dry. The words are kind, but they don’t fit right in my head. Ben used to say I was “too tender” to be in charge. “You take everything too personally,” he’d tell me when I cried after work, as if that was some moral failing.
I press my hands together to steady them. “I just—I wouldn’t want to let the team down.”
“I don’t think you would,” Faier says simply.
“You’ve already led them. This would just make it official.
” He leans forward, elbows on his desk. “You don’t have to decide now.
I want to offer you the position before the posting goes up.
There is no pressure, but I think you should consider taking it. ”
I nod, but my ears buzz. Faier shifts to another topic—scheduling, patient load—but I’m barely listening. By the time I step into the hallway again to leave, my brain is only repeating one thing: Director of Outpatient Neuro Rehabilitation.
Could I really do this?
I try to picture myself standing in front of the team or running meetings. I’d be making decisions that mattered.
Maybe I’ll apply.
By the time I pull into the driveway, the sun is sinking low, painting everything in the soft glow. It is just after six when I nudge the door shut with my hip and bend to untie my sneakers, wiggling them off with a small groan.
Ben’s gym bag is on the couch, half-zipped with his sneakers hanging out. From the living room, the low hum of a sports channel drifts in, some kind of recap or commentary. I glance toward the TV, but don’t see him.
“Hey, I’m home,” I call, slipping out of my jacket and hanging it on the hook by the door.
A muffled grunt answers.
I head to the kitchen, tugging my scrub top over my head as I go. The fabric is still warm, slightly damp along my spine. It is just one of those days where I need it off my body. I fold it over one arm and drop it onto the barstool before grabbing a glass from the cabinet.
Then I press the rim of the glass filled with cold water to my forehead, and close my eyes.
“Do we have any dinner plans?” I ask even though I’m not sure where he is anymore.
To no surprise, I don’t receive a response. I rinse out my water bottle and place it upside down on the drying rack. Just as I reach for the dish towel, my phone buzzes across the counter. The sound cuts through the stillness.
I dry my hands and pick it up.
Unknown Number:
Hey. It's Rhett. Not sure if you still have my number or not.
Unknown Number:
Anyway, I'm still in town and was wondering if you want to meet up sometime this week?
Unknown Number:
Maybe allow me a chance to apologize for being a dick?
I blink at the screen and force myself to read it again. I’m hopeful that on the third read, my brain will start to cooperate. My thumb hovers over the reply button. Why is he still in town?
I haven’t seen or heard from him since the wedding.
No texts. No calls. No run-ins. Nothing.
Which is completely normal for us. I figured he’d gone back to wherever he came from—back to the firehouse in Nashville or wherever he’s stationed now.
I told myself the glances we’d shared had been situational, fleeting. Very easy to shake off.
So what in the hell is he still doing in town? And why is he texting me?
Ben walks into the kitchen from the bedroom, a towel slung around his neck.
He is wearing his usual sweatpants and nothing else.
He looks good without a shirt on, and I register it in passing, the way you notice the color of the sky before looking away.
He glances at me, just once, but I’m still staring at my phone, the message from Rhett open on the screen.
“I haven’t thought about it, but I’m starving. Want me to order something?”
“Huh?” I respond, unsure what he is talking about.
“Dinner, Rach. You asked me about dinner like four minutes ago.”
I flip my phone face down on the counter. “Oh—yeah. I’m fine with whatever you feel like.”
He walks to the fridge and cracks open a can of sparkling water. I watch him for a moment longer, then turn away. My eyes fall back to the screen.
Wanna meet up for coffee sometime this week?
I shouldn’t be considering it. I could make a list—long and damning—of every reason I’m still mad at him. I’d start with the way he left things unresolved, add on the silence that followed, and definitely include how easily he can reach out now like none of it mattered.
I should delete the message and block the number. I should pretend this never landed in my lap. That would be the reasonable thing to do.
But reason has never been my strong suit where Rhett is concerned.
I tap the edge of the counter once with my thumb, then again.
I don’t miss him. That’s not what this is.
I just need information. He’s back in town, and I don’t like not knowing why.
How can I avoid him if I don’t know why he is here?
If I can get the answer over one controlled, neutral cup of coffee, then I can file him away properly.
No need for spiraling or nostalgia. And definitely no chance to let him derail my life.
My thumb hovers over the keyboard. I inhale through my nose, already irritated with myself.
I can handle a coffee. Before I give myself time to overthink it, I type:
Me:
What day are you thinking?
I hit send and immediately lock the screen. My heart beats a little faster than I like, and I busy myself by wiping down the counter, desperately needing something to do with my hands.
Behind me, Ben shifts on the couch, scrolling through his phone. “Do you want Thai or pizza? Oh, or a salad?” he asks.
“Anything but salad,” I say, not turning around.
“I wish you’d pick one, Rach.” He glances up, mouth tilting into a half-smile. “You always say you don’t care and then steal half of mine. I’m not sharing tonight.”
His words drift in and out without really landing, but he’s smiling, so I smile back.
“I’m going to take a quick shower,” I say, heading back over to the counter to grab my phone and scrub top. “Wash off the day and all.” It vibrates just as I approach.
Unknown Number: