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Mother and Father love me conditionally, and those conditions might as well be flaming hoops to jump through. I’m being burned with each attempt and all I’m seeking is their love and acceptance.
“I’ve got to go,” I say into the phone and disconnect.
My phone immediately rings.Motherflashes across the screen. I silence it and dismiss the call. The ringing begins again.
I finally put my phone on do not disturb and fold onto the floor, dropping my face into my hands.
The first hitching sob gets Kyle’s attention. I know because he whimpers and pushes up on his haunches to amble my way. He sits in front of me and pushes his snout under my chin.
When he starts to lick my hands, I reach up and stroke his broad head.
“Love you, Kyle. So thankful for you.”
He makes himself small—at least he attempts this—and puts his head in my lap, looking up from droopy eyes to watch me, his eyes constantly monitoring my face.
I let the tears fall.
From the outside looking in, people see an accomplished woman. Heck, I have a doctorate and that’s nothing to sneeze at. I’m employed by a prestigious institution and have the respect of my colleagues. I’m thirty-one, and due to a nice contract with Excel and Layton Ranger’s recommendation, I own my little beach house outright. I paid it off last week when the endorsement check came in. I have an enviable life with the best dog on the planet.
What they’ll never see is the rest of my reality…
My parents can’t choose me. My sister is inconvenienced by me. My deficiencies cost me my fiancé and my future. And Kyle—perfect, sweet Kyle—won’t live with me until I’m ninety and ready to die.
Sometimes learning the truth is more painful than living the lie.
I want the comfort of talking to Sabine. I want the ease of being with Layton. Instead, I let the moment hit me—it’s a tidal wave of reality shifting the sands on which I stand—and own the reality of my life.
For all its joys and sorrows, it’s my reality. What am I going to do with it?
NINETEEN
SYMPHONY OF ANGUISH
LIVY
Days became weeks and now weeks want to become months. Or, at least, it feels like it.
Layton is home. I’ve heard this in medical team meetings at the office, not because I’m working with him or that I’ve even developed a PT plan for him. That’s because he was unwilling to see me.
I try not to let the repeated rejection sting, but it does. I stopped going after the third time I knocked on his hospital room door only to be turned away.
Three times I showed up professionally for a patient and personally for a friend.
Three times Mr. Ranger refused to let me into his room to discuss his care.
Three times Layton didn’t refute his dad or override his decision.
Three times I left feeling a little less than. That was three times too many.
Before the accident, I wanted to play and release some sexual tension, not build a deep relationship. I thought there was a connection. Even if we couldn’t have more, I thought there was mutual respect. But to deny professional medical treatment means he either doesn’t trust me or doesn’t want to see me. Or both.
Both hurt.
If I wanted to be a better runner or shave seconds off my time at the starting line, I’d ask him. He’s an expert at that.
I’m the expert at getting his body back to how it was designed to function. His refusal to see that angers me. It diminishes my part on this team and it’s insulting.
Dr. Silverberg leads his care team, and after submitting my notes on his continued refusal for treatment, I recuse myself. I’m back to patient care with players who want the help and are willing to do the work.
