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I bite back the urge to say she should be here more often. I’m too exhausted from the grueling routine to banter with her right now. That could wait for later, when we’re out on the balcony arguing about the past or the mistakes I’ve made that had dragged me to ruin her life—or just sitting in stony silence instead of talking like we used to when she was my best friend.
Glancing at her, I wonder if she really stopped loving me. I understand the hate, but what we shared was too strong to just forget. She branded herself on my heart and soul—I did the same to her. There’s no way she feels nothing for me, right?
Why can’t she remember how she loved me once?
“The doctor sent me the assessment and treatment plan,” she continues briskly, pulling out her tablet and scanning it.
“So you heard that my hand may never be the same, right?” I try not to sound bitter and since I’m still catching my breath, I mask my feelings pretty well.
“You need to have faith,” she says evenly, not looking up.
I let out a hollow scoff. “Not everything can be fixed, look at us.” I know I sound defeated, but I don’t have any more bandwidth after the grueling session. Marcus has wrung every ounce of energy from me.
Seraphina doesn’t even glance at me, she’s all business now. Sometimes I loathe her therapist-persona because she doesn’t care if I address one of my biggest problems, my relationship with her. It’s fractured and . . . all I need is one fucking chance. Everyone deserves one, why not me?
“Let’s go to the table to start hand therapy,” Seraphina says hurriedly before turning to Marcus.
I just nod mutely. Arguing would take more energy than I can summon. She rattles off more instructions that I half-listen to, eyes closed as I slump on a chair.
“Get the warm water and salt bucket ready. He’ll need that after,” she tells Marcus.
The thought of more therapy makes me want to sink through the floor. All I want is a hot bath and my bed, to forget this miserable day.
“What happened to taking it slow?” I protest half-heartedly.
Seraphina walks over, all business despite my grumbling. My eyes trace down her body as she approaches, lingering on the way the leggings hug every curve. Desire simmers inside me, even through my irritation.
With effort, I drag my gaze back to her face. I study her profile admiring the elegant line of her neck, the sweep of dark lashes. The woman I love is still in there somewhere, buried for now under layers of hurt and armor. And if it takes my last breath, I have to find a way to reach her again.
“This won’t take more than five minutes,” she replies coolly. “Then you’ll soak for another five wiggling your fingers inside the water.”
I stare intently at my injured hand as Marcus places a stress ball in my open palm. “Try squeezing,” he instructs.
I focus everything on that simple task, willing my fingers to curl in. They barely twitch around the ball. Anxiety spikes through me. I don’t understand why they won’t obey even when I’m ordering them to move.
Gritting my teeth, I try again. And again. A fine sheen of sweat coats my forehead as I strain every muscle. The tendons stand out like cords, trembling with exertion. But my fingers remain stiff. Yet, the pain and futility of it leaves me shaken, hollow. The thought of never playing guitar again is too devastating to comprehend.
“Keep trying,” Marcus encourages.
As I continue the tedious exercises, frustration mounts. I’m accustomed to having dexterity and grace in my hands. Now, I have to celebrate being able to minimally wiggle my fingers. The itch to give up and just let myself go is still there, nagging me.
Why continue when nothing will ever be the same?
Seraphina places her hand over mine, stilling my efforts. I glance at her, and my shoulders relax as her eyes radiate calm assurance. “One day at a time. You’ve got this, B.”
But I got nothing.
Fucking nothing.
My fingers are barely twitching despite the immense effort.
I should stop. Why prolong the inevitable? The darkness is winning, consuming me. I should just give in.
“You’ve got this, B.” Seraphina’s voice pierces through the haze. “Don’t push yourself, we can continue tomorrow.”
What if tomorrow is too late? Jaw clenched, I redouble my efforts, forcing my fingers to bend even just a millimeter. They scream in protest, but I override the pain, pulling the strength from Sephie’s touch.
Seraphina’s hand sears my bare shoulder, and my mind drifts unbidden to our first time together. How her palms smoothed over my skin, the touch featherlight yet setting me on fire. The way her lips trailed down my neck, my chest, lower still as she learned every contour of my body.
