I stare at my list of appointments, knowing Brady is my next one, and my heart races. I’m taken back to last fall. I was like a schoolgirl with a crush on the senior quarterback. Every time he came in for therapy, I hoped I didn’t screw something up because I was so darn smitten. Every time he left, I fantasized about my hands on him. And when that fantasy became a reality, I was sure I could handle it. I was positive I wouldn’t be like one of his other girls who follow him around like a puppy dog lapping at his feet.
On the outside, I think I did a good job tamping down my feelings, but on the inside – I was barking up a storm. It was the first time I’d felt a connection with a man since being with Denny. But I’m not stupid. I know how that turned out, so connection or not, I wasn’t going to let myself fall for Brady. Until I did.
My father’s words echo in my head. You can’t help who you fall in love with.
I hear a noise and look up from my desk to see Brady standing in my doorway. God, he looks good. His hair is perfectly messy in the most put together way. His t-shirt shows off his biceps and is just tight enough to tease with what’s underneath. His jeans are faded and worn and look soft to the touch. His looks should come with a warning sign, because they are dangerous.
He raises a smug brow as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking. I clear my throat and grab my laptop, not making more eye contact as I pass him on my way to the main room.
“How did your arm feel last night?”
“Fucking great,” he says, looking at it as he rolls his arm from side to side. “Sore as hell, but that’s how I like it. I was right to come back to you. Calvin never works me like you do. You know how far to push me.”
“You’ve still got a ways to go, Brady. You’re only two months post-op on the nerve transposition. While you’re making good progress, you can’t expect to be pitching until at least the three-month mark.”
He smiles. “See, that’s why I need you. Calvin would always say three to six months. He’s not nearly as optimistic as you are. Hell, he would even say we can’t be sure the surgery even worked yet.”
“The surgery worked,” I tell him. “You are ahead of where you were last fall. If the surgery had failed, you’d have stayed the same or even regressed.”
“You’re good for me, Ry.”
I search his eyes and try to gauge the meaning of that statement.
I start him off slowly, with hand grips of various tensions and rubber band exercises. Then I move him up to shoulder and elbow motions that involve the wrist and fingers. By the end of our session, I have him throwing a small rubber ball into a net that bounces it back out. He keeps trying to impress me with how strong his throws are, and I have to chase more than a few balls around the room when they bounce back powerfully, almost hitting us.
“Are you back working with a pitching coach yet?” I ask.
“I never stopped. Since I came back to New York last fall, I’ve been working with him on my form and my motion. He won’t let me throw yet until I get more of my grip back.”
“Good. Like I told you before, it might happen slowly, but then someday you’ll realize you can do something you couldn’t before.”
He laughs. “Do you know how many jars of pickles I have in my apartment?”
“Huh?” I furrow my brow.
“Last year you said that someday I would do something completely normal without realizing it, like opening a jar of pickles. So I went out and bought some.”
“You mean to tell me you sit around your apartment trying to open jars of pickles?”
He shakes his head. “No. I sit around my apartment squeezing stress balls and hand grips and occasionally trying to open a jar of pickles. But after I try one and fail, I throw it away because I have to make sure I haven’t just loosened it for the next attempt.”
I can’t help it when I laugh out loud thinking of his trashcan full of unopened pickle jars. “So, do you limit yourself to pickles, or do you try relish as well?”
We both fall into fits of laughter as we start listing all the different kinds of pickles we can think of.
Laughing with Brady brings on waves of nostalgia. I miss this.
I miss him.
When the room falls silent again, he says, “You worked my ass off today. Did I earn a massage?”
I bite the inside of my cheek as I contemplate it.
“Come on, Ry. I’m a paying client. Treat me like one.”
I roll my eyes and motion to the training table. “Fine. Get on up.” I reach into a cabinet and throw him a hand towel. “But cover up. I don’t want to see … anything.”
He smiles and lies down on the table, balling up the towel in his lap as I asked.
I try to keep my fingers from shaking as I work them behind his neck, around his shoulders and up into the base of his skull. I know just how he likes his massages. I know how he likes to be touched. I know how he likes to be touched everywhere.
I close my eyes and pretend I’m working on another patient. Anyone but him. I try to think of Mrs. Patterson – but her flesh is old and wrinkled and thin, not anything like his smooth and toned skin.
A hand reaches up to grab one of mine. “Ry, it’s okay. It’s just me. Just us.”
My eyes open to find him stretching his neck to look at me.
“Sorry,” I say, pulling my hands away. “Was I hurting you?”
He doesn’t release my hand, but puts it back on his neck. “No, you weren’t hurting me. But you’re so tense. Maybe you need a massage.”
I feel heat flush my face at the thought of his hands on me.
“Please don’t say things like that, Brady.”
“I’m only saying what we’re both thinking.” He lets me go and sits up.
I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter what we’re thinking.” I point my finger between us. “This is not happening again.”
“Why?” he asks. “Why can’t it happen again?”
I back away and lean against the other table. “Oh, the reasons are endless. One: I want to be your New York girl about as much as I want a hole in the head. Two: your season is starting and you have about thirty other girls ready and willing to service you. And three: you ran away last time without so much as a word. Maybe that was fine when I was in Tampa and you were here in New York, but I live here now, Brady. And some of your friends are my friends. Need I go on?”
He jumps off the table and approaches me. He gets close enough that I can feel his breath on my face. “I don’t give a shit about those other girls, Ry. The only woman I give a shit about is you.”
I put my hand on his chest and shove him away. “I don’t know anything about you, Brady.” I laugh sorrowfully. “Well, that’s not true. I know plenty about your reputation. How could I ever trust you knowing your track record? Knowing how easily you could walk away from someone you claim to have wanted more with?”
“Maybe that’s why I walked away, Ry. Did you ever think of that?”
I have thought of that. But when he never came back; when months went by without a text or a call, I knew that couldn’t be the reason.
There is a knock on the door to the PT room. “I have to go. I have another client. I’ll see you next week.”
He walks towards the door. “See you soon,” he says.
I watch him stroll down the hallway, disgusted with myself that I’ll be counting down the hours.
~ ~ ~
“Where is that handsome boy, Brody?” Mom asks for the third time.
I spoon soup into her mouth. “Mom, you are thinking of Denny. He doesn’t come around anymore. We broke up, remember?”
I laugh inwardly, wondering how many times I say remember? to her when I’m visiting. Dozens? Hundreds?
“Broke up? But he was here just the other day.”
“That wasn’t the other day, Mom. That was four years ago. I brought Denny to see you a few times. He’s Stryker’s father.”
“Who is Stryker?”
I sigh getting out my phone to show her pictures. “He’s your grandson. He’s three years old now. He’ll turn four this summer.”
She looks at me in confusion. “My, you must have been just a baby yourself when you had him.”
“I was twenty-three, Mom. I’m twenty-seven now.”
She looks around her room. The room I helped decorate when Dad and I moved her here almost five years ago. Five years ago, when I had just started PT school and he couldn’t look after her full-time. Five years ago, when both our hearts broke as we drove home without her.
“Where am I?” she asks. “Is this a hospital? Am I hurt?”
“This is a memory care facility. You live here now. You have Alzheimer’s, Mom.”
“You’re being silly,” she says. “Why isn’t Brody with you?”
“His name is Brady, Mom. And you’ve never met him. Why do you keep asking about him?”
Barbara comes in to take her tray. “She asks about this Brody person all the time. She has for months now. Is he someone significant in your life?”
I shake my head and look at the floor. I guess I did talk about him a lot when I Skyped her last fall. When she was not lucid, and when I couldn’t be here in person to watch television, or help her with her food, it was sometimes hard to find things to talk about with her.
It’s hard dealing with her sometimes when she’s so confused. She doesn’t even know who I am on the really bad days, but most of the time, she thinks I’m still twenty-two years old. She thinks dad is still alive which is both a blessing and a curse. She sometimes thinks Stryker is my brother, her child, but most times she doesn’t remember him at all.
I put my head in my hands thinking about Barbara’s question. Is he significant to me?
“Yes. No. I don’t know.”
She puts a calming hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, dear. The best relationships are sometimes the most complicated ones.” She nods to my mother. “Talk to her about it. It can be good therapy just to get it all off your chest.”
I nod. “Thanks, Barbara.”
She takes the dinner tray and leaves the room, closing the door behind her.
I take my mom’s hand. “I’m a fool, Mom. I’m a fool to love a man who can’t love me back.”
“I’m sure Denny loves you dear. I saw him kiss you the other day when you didn’t think I was looking.”
I ignore her comment. “He’s a baseball player. A celebrity. He’s rich and famous and women throw themselves at him. He throws himself at women. Can anyone really change after being that way?”
“Right. He plays baseball. What team is he on again?” she asks.
“The Nighthawks.”
“No, that’s not the one. It was the Mets, wasn’t it?”
“Not Denny, Mom. Brady.”
“Brady? Who’s Brady?”
I shake my head. “Never mind.” I stand up and give her a kiss. “I have to go now. Stryker is waiting for me. We’re moving into our new place tomorrow. We can start doing Sunday night dinners again, would you like that?”
“I’ll make my famous lasagna,” she says proudly.
“That sounds great, Mom. That’s exactly what we’ll make.”
“And will Brody be joining us?”
“No, Mom. Brody, Brady and Denny all have other plans. It will be just you, me and your grandson.”
“My grandson?”
“Yes. Stryker. My son.” I point to a picture mounted on her wall of Stryker when he was just two years old.
“My, he’s handsome. That Brody must be quite a looker.”
“He’s not Brody’s, uh, Brady’s … Ugh! I have to go, Mom. I’ll see you soon.”
I put a reminder in my phone to go grocery shopping for her recipe after I get settled in tomorrow. I can’t wait to get out of that hotel room and get back to normal.
I laugh at my thought. Normal. My life has been anything but normal from the day she was diagnosed. From the time I got the horrible phone call about my father. From the moment I found out I was having a baby with a man who dumped me.
From the second I laid eyes on Brady Taylor.