Page 152 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

Hannah remained beside the mirror. “Probably, but it’s not a bad thing.”

“What if—” The rest sat behind my teeth.

What if his face changed?

What if the way he touched my waist disappeared?

What if concern replaced attraction?

What if he became careful?

What if he looked at Hunter like a brother because Hunter was a man and looked at me like someone whose body no longer fit whatever picture he’d formed?

“What if what?” Hannah pressed, jotting something down in her clipboard.

I shook my head. “Nothing important.”

We finished the session without returning to the subject of Beau. Hannah added a thin sock layer to improve the socket fit temporarily and told me to schedule with the prosthetist if volume changes continued. It was another ordinary appointment.

That was the strange thing about something that had once felt like the end of the world.

Eventually it became maintenance.

Appointments.

Laundry.

Liners.

Skin checks.

Insurance.

Replacing components.

A life-altering injury eventually became another category on the to-do list.

I changed back into jeans slowly. Before pulling them on, I looked at my residual limb. The redness had already faded slightly after being out of the socket. Scars crossed the skin. Some pale. Some darker. All familiar. There had been years when I couldn’t look. Then years when I could look but didn’t want anyone else to.

Now? I didn’t hate it. That was progress too.

I just wasn’t sure I believed someone could love it as casually as I had learned to live with it.

The drive back toward Willow Creek took a little over thirty minutes. I stopped for coffee despite already having had enough caffeine to qualify as irresponsible, and drove with the windows cracked because the morning had finally cooled into something resembling fall.

My appointment had drained me more than I expected. My phone buzzed in the cupholder. I ignored it until I reached a red light.

BEAU

Beau

How’s your day?

Such a simple question. He had no idea where I’d been. No idea that less than an hour ago I’d been sitting half-dressed on a physical therapy table staring at scars he didn’t know existed while remembering the worst morning of my life.

Carson

Productive.