18. Billie
Billie
T he rehabilitation center's observation window had the perfect view of the main therapy room. Perfect for monitoring patient progress, ensuring proper technique, and definitely not for watching your former patient work with his new therapist while your heart did uncomfortable things in your chest.
Not that I was doing that.
"He's responding well to Laura's approach," Xander said, appearing beside me with two cups of coffee and a knowing look that made me want to disappear into the floor.
"Mmm," I said, not taking my eyes off Gage as he navigated the parallel bars. Two weeks with Laura, and his improvement was remarkable. His gait was steadier, his balance better, and the lines of pain around his eyes had softened.
"She's got him doing exercises that would have taken you another month to introduce," Xander continued conversationally. "Aggressive approach, but he's responding well."
I finally turned away from the window, accepting the coffee with what I hoped was professional gratitude. "Laura's excellent. He's in good hands."
"She's one of the best," Xander agreed. "So why are you standing here watching his sessions every day like a mother hen?"
Heat flooded my cheeks. "I'm not..."
"Billie." His voice was gentle, but firm. "You've been here every morning at six-thirty for two weeks. Laura mentioned that yesterday you actually took a step toward the therapy room when he overextended during a shoulder rotation."
God. Was I that transparent?
"Professional interest," I said weakly.
"Bullshit."
I nearly choked on my coffee. Xander rarely swore, which meant he was either very angry or very concerned. Given the gentle way he was looking at me, I suspected it was the latter.
"I transferred his case for ethical reasons," I said, trying to inject some authority into my voice. "It was the right decision."
"It was," he agreed. "But that doesn't mean it was an easy one."
Through the window, I watched Gage attempt a movement that should have been impossible with his injuries. Laura was beside him immediately, steadying him, encouraging him, doing all the things I used to do. All the things I wanted to be doing.
"He's pushing too hard," I said, my hands tightening around my coffee cup.
"He's motivated."
"He's going to hurt himself."
Xander studied my face for a long moment. "Or maybe he's trying to prove something."
"Like what?"
"That he's worth the effort it takes to put him back together."
The words hit me like a physical blow, because they rang with a truth I'd been trying to avoid. Gage wasn't just recovering from his injuries, he was trying to become worthy of the forgiveness his family had given him. Worthy of the second chance he'd been handed.
Worthy of the friendship I'd offered.
"He's pushing himself too hard," I said, watching through the window as Laura guided him through exercises that should have been impossible with his injuries just weeks ago. "Look at him. He's accelerated his recovery timeline by months."
"And that bothers you."
"It worries me." I pressed my hand against the glass, studying the careful way he moved, the determination in every line of his body. "Laura mentioned he's using rehabilitation as self-punishment. He's working through pain levels that would stop most patients."
Xander was quiet for a moment, following my gaze. "Maybe he needs something to work toward. Something worth healing for."
The implication in his voice made my chest tighten. "Don't."
"Don't what? Don't point out that he's been making record progress ever since you offered to be his friend again? Don't mention that he lights up every time someone mentions your name? Don't acknowledge that he's working this hard because he wants to be worthy of what you offered him?"
"We're just friends," I said firmly. "That's all either of us can handle right now."
"Is it?" Xander's voice was gentle but persistent. "Because you've been standing at this window every morning for two weeks, watching him work with Laura like you're afraid to miss a single moment of his recovery."
Heat flooded my cheeks. I'd been telling myself I was just ensuring continuity of care, maintaining professional oversight during the transition period.
All lies. I was here because I missed being part of his healing journey.
Missed the quiet conversations during therapy, the way he said my name like something precious, the moments when his guard would drop and I'd see glimpses of the boy I'd once known.
"I miss working with him," I admitted quietly. "Is that pathetic? Missing the professional relationship I had to end for ethical reasons?"
"It's honest." Through the window, Gage looked up suddenly, his eyes finding mine across the glass. The surprise and hope that crossed his features made my heart clench. He lifted his hand in a small wave, and without thinking, I waved back.
Laura noticed immediately, following his gaze to the window, and her face broke into a knowing smile.
"I need to go," I said abruptly, turning away from the window.
"Billie..."
"I have patients to see," I said over my shoulder, already heading for the door.
But I couldn't escape the image of his smile, or the way he'd looked at me through that window like I was exactly what he'd been hoping to see.
Three days later, Blake cornered me at my house with a bottle of wine and a look that brooked no argument.
"Emergency girls' night," she announced, pushing past me into my living space. "Non-negotiable."
"I don't need..."
"You've been moping around town like a kicked puppy for three weeks," she interrupted, setting the wine on my kitchen counter and fixing me with a stare.
"Emma saw you standing outside the rehabilitation center yesterday morning, just staring at the building.
Your aunt mentioned you've been taking the long way to avoid driving past Booker's ranch.
And Delaney said you actually turned around and left the grocery store when you saw Gage in the produce section. "
Heat flooded my cheeks. "I forgot my shopping list."
"Bullshit." Blake pulled two wine glasses from my cabinet like she owned the place. "You're running from him, and everyone in town can see it."
I accepted the glass of wine she offered, mostly because I needed something to do with my hands. "I'm not running. I'm maintaining appropriate boundaries while he recovers."
"By hiding?" Blake settled onto my couch, tucking her legs under her. "Come on, Billie. This is me. I know what it looks like when someone's terrified of their own feelings."
I joined her on the couch, curling up in the corner with my wine.
The truth was, I had been avoiding him. Ever since our conversation at the house, since we'd agreed to try being friends, I'd been second-guessing every interaction, every professional decision, every moment of concern that went beyond appropriate boundaries.
"It's complicated," I said finally.
"How complicated can friendship be?"
"That's just it." I took a larger sip of wine than was probably wise. "I don't think I know how to be just friends with Gage Farrington. We were never just friends, even as kids. There was always something more underneath, even when we were too young to understand what it was."
Blake's expression softened. "And now?"
"Now I'm terrified that trying to be friends with him is just going to lead us both somewhere we're not ready to go.
" I stared into my wine glass, watching the liquid swirl.
"I can't be objective about his recovery, Blake.
When he's in pain, I want to fix it. When he makes progress, I'm prouder than I should be.
When he smiles, really smiles, not just that careful expression he wears around everyone else, I feel like I could fly. "
"That sounds like..."
"That sounds like I care too much about a man who broke my heart once and could do it again," I interrupted. "A man who's still figuring out his own life, still healing from his own trauma. A man who might decide Willowbrook isn't home after all."
Blake was quiet for a moment, studying my face. "He bought a house, Billie. He's not leaving."
"But what if he does?" I countered. "What if I let myself hope, let myself care, let myself believe that we could build something real together, and then he disappears again? I barely survived it the first time."
"You were seventeen then. You're not the same person you were eleven years ago."
"Neither is he." I finished my wine and set the glass aside. "That's what scares me most. What if the boy I fell in love with is gone? What if the man he's become is someone I don't even know?"
"Or what if he's someone even better than the boy you remember?"
The question hung in the air between us, and I stared blindly out the window, not wanting to see the look on Blake's face. Somewhere out there, Gage was probably lying awake too, staring at his own ceiling, thinking his own thoughts.
"I don't know how to find out without risking everything," I admitted.
"Maybe that's what love is," Blake said softly. "The willingness to risk everything for the possibility of something real."
That night, I lay in bed staring at the ceiling, Blake's words echoing in my mind. But every time I tried to imagine taking that risk, tried to picture myself vulnerable and open and trusting again, my chest tightened with familiar panic.
I'd told Gage we could try being friends, and I'd meant it. But friendship felt like standing on the edge of a cliff, knowing that one wrong step would send me tumbling back into feelings I wasn't sure I was strong enough to handle.
Maybe it was better to keep watching from the observation window. To care about his recovery from a distance.
Some relationships were meant to stay in the past, no matter how much they'd once meant to us.
But as I finally drifted toward sleep, I couldn't shake the image of his smile when he'd seen me at the window. Couldn't forget the way he'd waved like I was exactly what he'd been hoping to see.
Maybe some risks were worth taking after all.