8. Billie
Billie
T he weekend following the birth drama meant two days without seeing Gage, and I told myself the restless energy humming through my system was just professional concern.
Patients recovering from traumatic injuries needed consistent care, especially patients who had a tendency to minimize their pain levels and push beyond reasonable limitations.
It had nothing to do with the way my chest had tightened when I'd heard about Barrett's birth through the Willowbrook gossip network. Nothing to do with the pride that had surged through me when Marie at the bakery had described Gage's heroic delivery with dramatic flair.
And it definitely had nothing to do with the way I'd found myself smiling every time someone mentioned his name.
Monday morning found me reviewing his file before our session, noting the remarkable progress he'd made over his first week home.
Range of motion improving ahead of schedule, pain levels dropping consistently when he actually took his medication as prescribed, mobility increasing every session despite his stubborn resistance to using appropriate assistive devices.
Everything about his recovery was textbook perfect, which made the nagging feeling in my gut even more confusing.
Something had shifted after Barrett's birth.
Not just in his physical presentation—though that was notable too—but in something deeper.
The way he carried himself, maybe. Or the way his family looked at him, like they'd witnessed something that had changed their understanding of who he was underneath all the guilt and self-punishment.
"Ready for some actual work today?" I asked as I entered his room, noting immediately that he'd managed to dress himself in a button-down shirt like I'd suggested. Progress.
"Define actual work," he said, but there was something lighter in his tone than there had been during our previous sessions.
"Weight-bearing exercises. Core strengthening. Maybe some crutch work if you promise not to try anything stupid."
"I never try anything stupid. Stupid things just happen to me."
The dry humor caught me off guard. This was closer to the boy I'd once known than anything I'd seen since he'd been back. Self-deprecating but not self-loathing. Resigned to his limitations but not defeated by them.
"Right," I said, pulling out my equipment. "Let's start with range of motion and see how you're responding to the increased medication compliance."
The session went better than any we'd had so far. His shoulder moved through almost full range with minimal discomfort, his core strength was returning faster than I'd projected, and when I had him try standing with the crutches, he managed almost five minutes before needing to sit.
"This is remarkable progress," I said, making notes on my tablet. "You're ahead of schedule in every measurable category."
"Good enough to be useful?"
The question was loaded with meaning I wasn't sure I wanted to examine. "Useful how?"
"I don't know yet. But useful. Contributing instead of just taking up space and being worried about."
There was something different in his voice when he talked about contributing, something that hadn't been there before. Like Barrett's birth had given him a new framework for thinking about his place in his family's life.
"Your brothers seem pretty convinced you're already contributing," I said carefully.
"They're being kind."
"Or they're seeing something you're not ready to acknowledge yet."
He looked at me then, really looked, and I felt that familiar flutter of awareness that had nothing to do with professional assessment.
"What are you seeing?" he asked quietly.
The question hung in the air between us, loaded with implications I wasn't prepared to examine.
Because what I was seeing was the boy I'd once loved, emerging slowly from underneath years of guilt and self-punishment.
What I was seeing was someone who was trying to heal not just physically but emotionally, someone who was fighting to become worthy of the love his family was offering.
What I was seeing was dangerous to my carefully constructed professional boundaries.
"I'm seeing a patient who's responding well to treatment," I said, the words coming out more defensive than I'd intended.
"Right. Professional assessment only."
"Exactly."
But even as I said it, I could feel the lie settling uncomfortably in my chest. Because this wasn't just professional anymore. Maybe it never had been.
"Billie," he said suddenly, "did you know they're working on something? My brothers?"
I looked up from my notes. "Working on what?"
"I'm not sure. Lots of hushed conversations that stop when I enter a room.
Trips to Dex's garage for 'parts' that they won't specify.
" His expression was carefully neutral, but I could see the uncertainty underneath.
"I can't tell if they're planning something for me or planning how to handle me leaving. "
The vulnerability in his voice, the fear that his family might be preparing for his departure instead of planning for his permanence, made my chest tight.
"What makes you think they'd want you to leave?" I asked before I could stop myself.
"Because that's what I do. I leave. And maybe they're smart enough to prepare for it instead of being blindsided when I disappear again."
"Are you planning to disappear again?"
The question came out sharper than I'd intended, loaded with personal investment I had no right to feel. But I couldn't take it back, and I found myself holding my breath as I waited for his answer.
"No," he said quietly. "For the first time in eleven years, I'm not planning my next escape route. But they don't know that. They don't know that Barrett's birth changed something fundamental for me."
"Then maybe you should tell them."
"Maybe I should." He was quiet for a moment. "Or maybe they're planning something that will make staying easier. Something that will help me feel less like a guest and more like..."
"Like family," I finished.
"Like family," he agreed. "I don't want to ruin anything for them. I don't want to disappoint them."
I gathered my equipment, trying to process the shift in his demeanor, the way he was talking about staying and family and contributing.
This was the most hopeful I'd heard him since he'd been back, and despite all my professional boundaries, I found myself hoping his optimism was justified.
But it was more than I could allow myself to have.
I couldn't afford to be invested in Gage to this level, not if I was going to keep my head and my heart intact.
"Same time Wednesday?" I asked as I reached the door.
"Wouldn't miss it," he said, and something in his voice made me look back.
He was watching me with an expression I couldn't quite read, something that might have been gratitude or might have been something deeper.
"Billie?" he called as I started to leave.
"Yes?"
"Thank you. For not giving up on me when I was being difficult. For pushing me to follow the treatment plan even when I fought you on it."
"That's what good therapists do," I said automatically.
"Is that all you are? My therapist?"
The question hit me like a physical blow. Because no, that wasn't all I was. I was the girl who'd once loved him with her whole heart, who'd kept his letter for eleven years, who was fighting every day not to fall for him all over again.
But I was also a professional who couldn't afford to blur those lines, no matter how much my heart wanted to.
"I'll see you Wednesday," I said instead of answering, and walked away before he could ask any more questions I wasn't ready to answer.
As I drove back toward town, I caught myself glancing in the rearview mirror at the ranch growing smaller behind me. At the place where Gage was learning to heal, learning to hope, learning to believe he might deserve the love his family was offering.
And despite every wall I'd built, every defense I'd constructed, I found myself hoping he was right to believe it.
Because maybe some people were worth the risk of caring about.