Page 23 of The Long Way Home
“You’ve earned it, Rachel. You’ve got the best outcomes in your caseload, patients ask for you by name. The team trusts you. You’re already doing half the job.”
“I—I’m not really management material. I’m better one-on-one.”
Faier tilts his head. “That’s exactly why you’d be good at it.”
My throat goes dry. The words are kind, but they don’t fit right in my head. Ben used to say I was “too tender” to be in charge. “You take everything too personally,” he’d tell me when I cried after work, as if that was some moral failing.
I press my hands together to steady them. “I just—I wouldn’t want to let the team down.”
“I don’t think you would,” Faier says simply. “You’ve already led them. This would just make it official.” He leans forward, elbows on his desk. “You don’t have to decide now. I want to offer you the position before the posting goes up. There is no pressure, but I think you should consider taking it.”
I nod, but my ears buzz. Faier shifts to another topic—scheduling, patient load—but I’m barely listening. By the time I step into the hallway again to leave, my brain is only repeating one thing: Director of Outpatient Neuro Rehabilitation.
Could I really do this?
I try to picture myself standing in front of the team or running meetings. I’d be making decisions that mattered.
Maybe I’ll apply.
By the time I pull into the driveway, the sun is sinking low, painting everything in the soft glow. It is just after six when I nudge the door shut with my hip and bend to untie my sneakers, wiggling them off with a small groan.
Ben’s gym bag is on the couch, half-zipped with his sneakers hanging out. From the living room, the low hum of a sports channel drifts in, some kind of recap or commentary. I glance toward the TV, but don’t see him.
“Hey, I’m home,” I call, slipping out of my jacket and hanging it on the hook by the door.
A muffled grunt answers.
I head to the kitchen, tugging my scrub top over my head as I go. The fabric is still warm, slightly damp along my spine. It is just one of those days where I need it off my body. I fold it over one arm and drop it onto the barstool before grabbing a glass from the cabinet.
Then I press the rim of the glass filled with cold water to my forehead, and close my eyes.
“Do we have any dinner plans?” I ask even though I’m not sure where he is anymore.
To no surprise, I don’t receive a response. I rinse out my water bottle and place it upside down on the drying rack. Just as I reach for the dish towel, my phone buzzes across the counter. The sound cuts through the stillness.
I dry my hands and pick it up.
Unknown Number:
Hey. It's Rhett. Not sure if you still have my number or not.
Unknown Number:
Anyway, I'm still in town and was wondering if you want to meet up sometime this week?
Unknown Number:
Maybe allow me a chance to apologize for being a dick?
I blink at the screen and force myself to read it again. I’m hopeful that on the third read, my brain will start to cooperate. My thumb hovers over the reply button. Why is he still in town?
I haven’t seen or heard from him since the wedding. No texts. No calls. No run-ins. Nothing. Which is completely normal for us. I figured he’d gone back to wherever he came from—back to the firehouse in Nashville or wherever he’s stationed now. I told myself the glances we’d shared had been situational, fleeting. Very easy to shake off.
So what in the hell is he still doing in town? And why is he texting me?
Ben walks into the kitchen from the bedroom, a towel slung around his neck. He is wearing his usual sweatpants and nothing else. He looks good without a shirt on, and I register it in passing, the way you notice the color of the sky before looking away. He glances at me, just once, but I’m still staring at my phone, the message from Rhett open on the screen.
“I haven’t thought about it, but I’m starving. Want me to order something?”
