Chapter 38
Kellan
I waved to Roy through the floor to ceiling windows in the sunroom of the Sunshine Rehabilitation Center. It was late afternoon and, with the fishing clients done for the day, I was helping Carla by bringing her stepfather to his daily rehab appointment.
Heather, his physical therapist, preferred when I stayed out of the rehab room, and I was all too happy to avoid the grunts and groans and occasional whimpers that accompanied Roy’s struggles to learn how to walk again.
Peering at him now through the clear glass window, I could see the sweat on his furrowed brow, the determined look in his eye, the cut of his grizzled chin and the veins in his wiry, atrophied arms as he struggled to take two steps while hoisted between two parallel bars about waist-high.
I sighed and turned, avoiding the scene and my heart heavy as I sent Carla another wave of questions marks—“?????”—in a vain attempt to get a response. It had been nearly 48-hours and I hadn’t heard a peep beyond her first “I’m here safe” tweet when she’d first gotten into town.
I trusted her, implicitly, but it wasn’t like her not to respond the minute I texted. Often she responded before I even texted, anticipating what I might be thinking or even thinking about thinking.
Now… nothing?
I paced the length of the rehab center walkway, a scenic enough view dotted with swaying palms and rolling dunes. Like most properties in Siesta Key, the Sunshine Rehabilitation Center was prime oceanfront property, which I supposed brought some relief to the patients who were put through their paces nearly every other day.
Or, in Roy’s case, five days per week. I turned in my pacing, watching Heather help Roy back into his wheelchair. I sighed, glancing at my phone once more. It was silent, as it had been for the last two days as Carla struggled to right the wrongs that had been done to Miami Models. I wasn’t jealous or hurt, per se, I just wanted information.
How was she?
Was she eating enough?
Sleeping enough?
Had she resolved the modeling agency issues or not?
Did she need my help?
I smirked to myself, realizing I was sounding like a concerned parent—or boyfriend—or even more. I realized that, in the last few months, two days was longer than we’d spent apart in ages, and it felt like even longer. I slid my phone into my pocket, mentally preparing myself for getting Roy into the car and back home to his own beachfront cottage, an ordeal in itself—and not just for Roy.
I realized that when it came to Carla, I was more than just her boyfriend. We had shifted, during our time in Siesta Key, to something far more serious, even if neither of us had mentioned it.
Was it love? I supposed it was, though far be it for me to say the word first. At the same time, it was hard to deny my feelings, particularly during Carla’s almost painful absence. I could drive the boat, I could make small talk with fishermen, I could bait hooks and clean fish, tidy up the boat and even cart Roy to and from rehab five days a week. It was familiar, even pleasant, but without Carla, it was meaningless.
Maybe it wasn’t just the routine that was meaningless, I realized, drifting from the wooden walkway outside the rehab center toward the rear entry door, but life itself. Was that what love felt like? I wondered, drifting back into the rehab facility, which smelled like Lysol and Listerine. Was it love making me do the things I was doing, so far removed from South Beach and modeling? Was I just growing up and taking responsibility for someone other than myself?
I chuckled, sensing I needed Carla to help me answer such questions, even if they were about… her! With my phone in my pocket, and a smile on my face, I greeted Heather and Roy in the reception area. The double doors were open and Roy’s new accessible van was in the handicapped space a few feet away.
“Hey pal,” I said, rubbing Roy’s frail shoulder as I approached him carefully from one side. “How’d it go today?”
His reaction time was slow and he often got upset when surprised. But this time he smiled, nodding and saving himself the time of a reply by moving his right hand in a “so, so” manner.
I winked back at him, turning to Heather for a more verbal response. Like most of the therapists here, she was young, motivated and energetic. A little on the harsh side, with dyed blond hair and a trim figure, she was a marathon runner and looked every bit of it, her purple scrubs almost tailor made for her thin, narrow body.
“He’s being modest,” she explained, helping me wheel Roy through the double doors and out onto the front walkway, all but deserted at this hour. “He walked two extra steps today, didn’t you, Roy?”
Roy nodded bashfully, frail in his big wheelchair, swimming in his favorite pair of black sweatpants and matching hooded sweatshirt. “Nice one!” I huffed, opening the double doors on the side of the van and backing his chair onto the metal ramp before strapping him in. “Wait’ll Rose and Carla hear about this new development.”
Face to face as the wheelchair rose into the middle of the van, our eyes met and Roy struggled to speak. I leaned closer, struggling to make out the words that erupted, mushy and fast, from Roy’s mouth. Heather leaned in to interpret but I turned to her with an understanding smile on my face. “No Roy,” I said, belting him in for the quick ride back home. “Carla’s not back from South Beach yet, but trust me… you’ll be the first one I tell when she is!”
He nodded, satisfied, as I shut the double doors to seal him in. I waved to Heather, rounding the front of the van and wishing I could be as satisfied with my own explanation. I wasn’t sure when Carla would be back from South Beach or, for that matter, when I might hear from her again.