– Harlow
When Whitney returns, she’s noticeably distressed.
“I am so sorry about that,” she says, her head down in an obvious refusal to look at me.
“Your eyes are too pretty to be staring down at the floor like that,” I tell her.
She has a dimple in her chin that is just too perfect.
She finally looks up at me a little, standing close, and I just can’t help but touch her. I lift her face up to my own, so that I can fully see her beautiful eyes.
“Harlow, I…” she begins.
“I know. You just broke up with your boyfriend.”
“Yeah, but that’s not even why I’m upset. That was a long time coming. As you could likely tell. I just… I’m your physical therapist, and…”
“I know.” I take my finger off her chin, but her eyes remained locked on mine. “It was a reflex. I couldn’t help it. I just hate to see you so damn hurt. He doesn’t deserve you.”
She looks at me like she doesn’t quite believe me. But it’s true. That Tony guy looked scrawny and wimpy, and he sounded like such a loser when he was talking about waiting at home or going out with his friends while she worked and went to school.
“Thank you for the help,” she says. “It got a little scary for a minute. He’s not usually so… upset.”
She looks back down at the floor, obviously embarrassed, and then walks away to retrieve my file from the table where she’d placed it before leaving to talk to Tony in private. Soon her demeanor is professional again.
She doesn’t know this, but I was watching her from the door. I don’t trust that guy, and he clearly has the tendency to get physical, whether she thinks it was out of character or not.
I could hear them, too. It was sad to see her try to talk to some sense into him while he just acted haughty. She definitely deserves much better.
She deserves better in bed— I can’t believe he never gave her an orgasm! I could give her so damn many. But she also deserves better in a relationship.
But you don’t do relationships, I remind myself, as if I need a big brother or father figure to step in and talk some sense into me. So you can’t help her out in that department.
At times like this I wish my father were still alive. For a while Dr. Davis seemed to substitute, but now I’m just becoming impatient with him. And I doubt he’d be happy to hear that I have a thing for the physical therapist to whom he assigned me. Despite all that Dr. Davis has done for me, he could never fill the huge, empty shoes my father left when he passed away.
I make a mental note to call Ramsey— the closest thing I’ve had to a father figure since our own father died— when I’m done with my first session. Although it’s beginning to look like I’ll never get out of here.
As if reading my mind, Whitney says, “All right, well. I’m sorry. Where were we?”
She glances down at the list in her hands.
“You were running your hands down my back,” I tease, but she looks a little more hesitant than she had when we were in the midst of our session.
Tony barging in on our session sure gave her a wakeup call, I suppose.
“And you were giving me the kindergarten physical education tests,” I quickly remind her, to change the subject to something less dangerous or forbidden. “And I was passing all the levels. Do I get a little badge for my Boy Scout uniform or something?”
“Very funny,” she says, but she lets out a genuine laugh, which is nice to hear. “But the tests do get progressively harder. Don’t laugh, but I need to see how many push-ups you can do in a minute.”
“Seriously?” I get down on the floor and begin them before she can even begin timing me her stopwatch. “This really is some little kids’ test.”
Does this place not know how many sit ups I have to do for my physical fitness tests for the SEALs? Even though I’ve not been able to return to active duty, I’ve kept up with all the standards so that I won’t have any obstacles holding me back from formally participating once I’m cleared for duty.
“All right,” Whitney says, after sixty seconds has passed, and makes a note on her piece of paper. “Now, sit-ups.”
Then we go through all kinds of timed tests— I squat, lift weights, and stretch as if I’m a monkey performing in a circus— and I know I do well on all of them. It’s obvious by my performance as well as the look on her face.
“That’s good for today,” she says, nodding resolutely. “I need to talk with my supervisor about the results of your assessment but I think they went quite well.”
“Will you be speaking to Dr. Davis?” I ask hopefully.
She is obviously thinking about my question, but she’s slow to answer.
Finally, she says, “Next time I’d like to take you outside, to the track. If your assessments out there are as good as they are in here, I do think that pending my supervisor’s recommendations, I will need to bring Dr. Davis up to speed on the results of my initial tests.”
This news is as good as anything I’ve heard in awhile.
I want to pick her up, spin her around and kiss her, but of course I don’t. I just say “Thank you. Really.”
I know she doubted me at first but I clearly proved her wrong, just as Ramsey said I would. And I have to admit I’ve had a fun time doing it.