“He told me that.”
I shook my head. “The thing is, I just had this really triumphant moment with my parents where I told them to stop running my life, and then I made a grand step toward—you know—being my own person and making my own choices from the inside out, and that extra gumption you saw in the gym today was me claiming my own long-lost power, so if I just give in now and let them take back over, I’m kind of surrendering after I’ve already won the battle.”
There was no way he’d followed that.
But he nodded. “I understand.”
“You do?”
“I absolutely think you should”—here, he slowed down to get the words right—“‘claim your own power.’”
He wasn’t going to fight me. “Thank you,” I said.
“Except,” he said then.
“Except what?”
“As good as it feels to win a battle, I want you to win the war.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means your parents are right.”
I gave him a look, like, Really? “That’s not exactly helpful.”
“You could benefit from extra help. There are all sorts of things we could do that are outside the range of typical PT.”
“Like?”
“Like anything. Swimming. Yoga. Horseback riding. Massage. Reflexology. Cold and heat. Acupuncture. Anything we can think of. In the gym, we’re limited to a specific insurance-approved list. It’s not a bad list, but it’s certainly not everything.”
Why was he here right now? Why had he said yes to my dad? Why on earth would he stay in this hospital one second longer every day than he had to? “Are you saying we’re desperate?”
He shook his head. “Not desperate,” he said. “Creative.”
I stared at him. I was tired and hungry, and ready for the day to be over, and pissed at my dad for siding with my mom. “Why would you do this?” I asked. “I know my dad. The money couldn’t be that good.”
“This is what we did at my gym,” he said. “This is the part I loved—the creativity, the challenge, the thinking outside the box.”
Did I want to give Ian a chance to do what he loved? Of course. But, after finally tasting the sweetness of what it felt like to do something for me, I did not want to backslide and agree to extra PT just so Ian could have better job satisfaction.
Until he said these words: “Plus, I could get you out of here.”
“What do you mean, out of here?”
He shrugged. “If you’re doing therapeutic horseback, we can’t exactly do it in this building.”
“You mean, you could check me out?”
“For therapy, yes.”
“Often?”
“If you had the energy for it.”
“You wouldn’t get in trouble with Myles?”
“I’m in trouble with Myles either way.”
And voilà! An internal motivation! Doing something that would make my parents happy or give Ian job fulfillment might blur my newly drawn lines, but there was nothing blurry about getting the fuck out of here.
“Sold,” I said. “I’m in.”
Ian stifled a smile. “Great,” he said. “Let’s go.”
“I can’t go now,” I said. “My sister’s bringing dinner.”
“Oh,” he said. “That’s all right. I’ll wait.”
“Are you hungry? Do you want to eat?”
“That depends on what you’re having.”
“Italian, I think.” Then, as if to confirm, Kitty walked through the door with a bag from Napoli’s.
“Who is this?” she asked, breezing past him.
It was so weird to think she’d never met him. But his shifts were during the day—and she was all about the night.
“Kitty, this is Ian, my physical therapist. Ian, this is Kitty, my sister.”
“Your black-sheep sister,” Kitty corrected, and then she looked Ian over. “You didn’t tell me he was gorgeous.” She reached out to shake hands. “You can call me Kitty Kat.”
“Do not flirt with my physical therapist,” I said.
“He looks like he can resist me,” Kitty said. Then, to Ian, “Want a soda?” She pulled a can of full-sugar Coke out of her purse. I looked at her, like, I can’t believe you drink that stuff, and she shrugged at me, like, You’ve gotta have some vices.
“No, but thanks,” Ian said.
Kitty turned to me like a kid who’d just spotted a candy bar. Then she whispered, “He really is Scottish.”
I nodded.
“Yum.”
“Do not flirt with my physical therapist!”
“Hello? He’s Scottish. All rules are off.”
“Dad hired him to be my walking tutor. Against my wishes.” At the memory, I tried to wiggle my toes. Nothing.
Ian said, “I really do think I can help you.”
“Well,” I said, “you’d better. My mother wants me to be perfect again, and she won’t accept anything less.”
“Amen to that,” Kitty said.
But Ian was looking at me. “Were you perfect before?”
I shrugged. “I tried like hell,” I said, just as Kitty said, “Yes.”
“That sounds like a lot of work,” Ian said.
“You have no idea,” Kitty said.
“What did you do for fun?” Ian said, looking at me.
I looked at him back. “I worked really hard all the time.”
“That doesn’t sound like fun to me.”
“I’m not sure you’re qualified to judge, triathlon guy.”
“I’m fun,” Ian protested.
“You are the opposite of fun,” I said.
“You might not say that after tonight.” He raised his eyebrows a little, as if to say, Listen up.
I squinted with suspicion. “What happens tonight?”
“I’m taking you swimming.”
I stared for a second. “There’s a pool?”
“A therapy pool.” He nodded. “In the basement.”
I looked around the room. “I don’t have a swimsuit.”
“Yes, you do,” Kitty sang out. “Mom packed you one.”
Ian nodded at me. “Sounds like you do.”
“But you could also just skinny-dip,” Kitty suggested.
Suddenly I remembered my donor sites. And the third-degree burns on my neck. “Wait! Can I swim?” I gestured at my whole collarbone-neck-jaw area. “With these?”
Ian just gave me a little shrug. “Let’s go find out.”
*
AN HOUR LATER, I was wearing my least favorite swimsuit—a retro polka-dot two-piece that I hadn’t worn in years—and sitting on the edge of the pool with my spaghetti legs dangling in. It was something I’d done thousands of times before, but it was different now. For one thing, my sensation was spotty below the knees, so I could feel the cold water in some places, but not in others. For another, I could not kick my legs, so they just draped like wet towels over the edge.
The therapy pool was deserted at nine-thirty at night, and it reeked of so much chlorine it was like sniffing a straight bottle of bleach. The fluorescent lighting gave it a slight public-bathroom vibe. I had a distinct feeling we were not supposed to be here.
I was waiting for Ian while he changed, wondering if he kept a swimsuit at work for last-minute swims just like these.
No, it turned out. He appeared in just a pair of regular cotton cargo shorts. No shirt. The sight of his naked shoulders and his torso was so shocking, I could only stare.
“You’re going to swim like that?” I asked.
“I could skinny-dip, if you prefer.”
“Did you just make a joke?”
“I never joke,” he said. Then he cannonballed into the far end of the pool. When he surfaced, he shook out his hair like a dog and then freestyled over to me.
I put my hands out as he approached. “Don’t get me wet.”
“No,” he agreed. “It’ll be weeks before your donor sites heal up. Check with the doc, but I think it might be up to a year before you can swim after a graft like that.”
“A year?” I had not gotten that memo.
“But that doesn’t mean you can’t use the water, if you’re careful.”
“I’ll be careful, Cannonball Run. You just be careful.”
He frowned like he didn’t get my obscure American reference to my dad’s favorite Burt Reynolds movie, and then he went on. “The great thing about water is it makes everything easier.”
“What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to walk,” he said, like it was the easiest thing in the world.
I suddenly got the feeling he was about to pull me into the pool. “Be careful!”
He read the nervousness on my face. “Listen. This is the shallow end. It only comes to your waist.”
“But I can’t stand up.”