His eyebrows jump. “You’d sell your parents’ house?”
His fingers hit the spot where it hurts, and pain shoots through to my shoulder. “Ow. I haven’t decided yet.”
“Breathe.” He lessens the pressure on the sore spot. “What’s making you think you want to sell it?”
“It’s falling apart, and needs a lot of work. I might be better off selling it and getting something smaller for myself.”
“Depends on what needs to be done. Might be better to repair it and turn it into your own. Either way, you’ll need to fix it up a bit before putting it on the market.”
My stomach churns at the idea of random people parading through the house I grew up in, judging it, or conjuring up ways to change it.
My father built the porch swing for my mother when she was pregnant with me. My mother painted the kitchen a pale-yellow because it was her favorite color. We carved our initials into the oak tree out front, and marked off my height each year in my bedroom closet.
Tears sting my eyes at the thought of losing it all.
I blink a few times, willing away the unexpected emotion. “These lights are really bright. You should consider getting something to dim them for your patients.”
Landon’s head tilts. “That’s actually a good idea.”
The conversation dies as he works on me, and I’m grateful. He’s entirely too close and can see too much.
I close my eyes, and let the stress and worry roll off my shoulders for just a moment. Landon’s strong hands feel good, digging into knots and relieving the pressure in my muscles.
He presses his fingers into the base of my skull, giving it a light pull. I let out a mix between an exhale and a moan. “That feels amazing.”
“Now look who’s making this sexual,” he whispers.
My eyes shoot open as I glare at him.
He chuckles, pleased with himself as always. “Relax. Lower your shoulders.”
“Then stop making me angry.”
“Everything makes you angry.”
“Only when I’m with you.”
“You love it.”
I bite my tongue, forgoing a retort. Bickering with Landon seems to scratch an itch no one else can, and I can’t begin to understand why.
He turns my head to the left, and positions it in a specific way that’s slightly uncomfortable. Then he taps on the right side of my forehead. “Push up into my hand and hold it there.”
I do as he says, and let up when he tells me to.
“Good. Again.”
After the second time, something feels different in my neck. “What was that?”
“It’s a muscle energy technique. You were out of alignment, like I thought. That should help.” He pushes up from his seat and holds out his hand. “Let’s get you up.”
As he pulls me to sit upright, he lifts one half of the table and secures it so I can lean back against it. “One of the aides will set you up with some heat. You should be good to go after that.”
I nod. “Thanks.”
After the aide sets the timer for five minutes, I sit under a warm heating pad and watch Landon move to the next patient. Everyone smiles at him like he hung the moon—they always have. He’s personable, and he’s a great listener. He seems like the same boy I once knew, before everything fell apart.
Funny how I’ve forgotten all the things I used to like about him.
