I glance back at the cherry blossoms, their delicate petals catching the light. They don’t wilt. They don’t fall apart. They just . . . exist. And somehow, I have to find a way to do the same.
Later today, I’ll figure out what’s next. How to handle Keane. How to exist in this strange limbo with Haydn. But right now, I’ll let the massage therapist unknot the tension that’s stealing my breath. I’ll let Sherry’s needles find the pain and coax it out of me. I’ll drink the smoothie he made sure was there because he knows I might skip a meal or two.
It’s time to wake up and live, move forward. Because even though I feel broken, even though I don’t know how to put myself back together, I’ll find a way. I always do. And somehow, that’s enough to get me through this morning.
Chapter Thirty
Ophelia
It’s been a long day.After getting myself together this morning, I joined Keane and his team of therapists. They were running him through a series of evaluations to test his strength and capabilities. It didn’t matter that we already had a stack of paperwork from the hospital; they insisted on conducting their own assessments.
Dr. Farrow, Lang’s cousin by marriage, was here to oversee everything. He handed me the report once they finished. His prognosis was cautiously optimistic: Keane could be walking within six months and possibly playing music again by the end of next year.
I wanted to believe him, but it sounded too good to be true. Dr. Farrow had shared a personal story about his own husband who had been in even worse shape years ago and made a remarkable recovery—though he never regained his memory. The neurologist with him had been more reserved, explaining that Keane’s memory couldn’t be fully assessed until his speech returned.
For now, his diet is limited, but today I was told to introduce something more substantial. That’s why I’m here in the dining room, ready to help him navigate this next step.
The room is quiet, save for the soft clink of utensils as I cut the grilled chicken into smaller pieces. Across the table, Keane sits stiffly, his posture nothing like the relaxed confidence I remember. His hands rest in his lap, twitching faintly as if they’re trying to remember how to move, how to grip, how to be. But they don’t. Not yet.
I glance back at the plate, forcing my focus to stay there. I’ve done this before—helped someone through recovery. I spent years caring for my dad after his treatments. But this is different. This is Keane. The man who once held my entire world together. Now I’m the one holding him, and I don’t know if I’m enough for both of us.
The fork scrapes softly against the plate as I spear a small piece of chicken. “Ready?” I ask, my voice calm and gentle, though my insides feel like they’re unraveling. I lift the fork, waiting for a signal. His eyes flick to the bite, and after a pause, he nods once—stiff, reluctant.
He leans forward slightly, his lips parting as I guide the fork to him. It’s such a simple action, one most people wouldn’t think twice about, but for Keane, it’s a battle. He chews slowly, deliberately, his concentration etched into every movement. His hand twitches again, fingers curling faintly, but when he tries to lift his arm, it trembles and falls back into his lap.
My stomach tightens. He’s trying so hard. Too hard. And it’s tearing me apart.
“You’re doing good,” I murmur, the words spilling out before I can think. I don’t even know if he hears me, but I have to say something. I have to let him know he’s not alone, even if he can’t respond.
Keane’s jaw tightens as he swallows, and his eyes meet mine. I see it all so clearly, the frustration and humiliation. He shifts in his chair, his movements rigid with anger, his lips parting like he wants to speak. But no words come.
The low groan that escapes him feels like a punch to my chest. It’s progress, I tell myself. He can make a sound now. That’s something, right?
I glance out the window, trying not to show how much this is hurting me. I hurt for him, for the man who’s always been fiercely independent, now reduced to this. His throat works, his brow furrows, and I know he’s trying so damn hard, but his body refuses to cooperate.
I grip the fork tighter, fighting back the sting in my eyes. I can’t cry. Not now. Not in front of him. He doesn’t need my pity.
“It’s okay,” I say softly, setting down the fork. I reach across the table, brushing my fingers over his hand. His fingers twitch beneath mine, the tremor faint but there. “It’s okay, Keane. You heard the doctors and therapists. It’s about patience and hard work.”
He turns his head slightly, his gaze dropping to the table. His silence feels deafening, the tension between us thick with everything unsaid.
I glance at his hand, limp on the table, an idea sparking in my mind. Shifting closer, I gently lift his hand, curling his fingers around the fork. His hand feels heavy in mine—stiff and unyielding—but I guide him, helping him lift it toward the plate.
His breath hitches, low and rasping, and I freeze, meeting his gaze.
“Just try,” I whisper. “You don’t have to get it right. Just try.”
His brows pull together, his frustration warring with something deeper. Keane Stone has never been the kind of man to lean on anyone. He was always the one people leaned on, the one who held me together when I was falling apart. And now? Now the roles have flipped, and I can see how much it’s killing him.
I guide his hand again, and this time, he lets me. Together, we lift the fork, slow and unsteady, until the piece of chicken reaches his lips. He takes it, chewing carefully, and when I release his hand, it falls back to the table with a soft thud.
“You did it,” I say quietly, injecting as much encouragement into my tone as I can manage. “See? That’s progress. Maybe tomorrow we’ll try finger food. You like pizza—only cheese, no crap on top.”
His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I think I see something flicker there.
“You remember pizza?”
He blinks and I even see a faint smile. As if he’s saying duh, anyone can remember pizza. I would even add fucking before the word since that’s the way he speaks.
