Page 22 of The Long Way Home
The words linger in the air for a moment, and then a sharp buzz cuts through the quiet. Anderson pulls his phone from his pocket. While glancing at the screen, his smile softens even more.
“Speaking of my wife,” he says, waving his phone in the air while setting his bottle on the table. “Sometimes I can’t believe I get to say that. Anyways, I probably should head back to her.”
I nod, setting my own drink down beside his. “Go on. I’ll be fine here.”
He stands and stretches his body. “House looks good, Rhett. It suits you.”
“Thanks for the help. Really.”
He grins, that easy, unshakable Anderson grin, and I hear him say, “Hi, baby,” as he walks out the door.
After spending four years away from this place, I pictured it hurting to return. I thought the walls would press in on me, heavy with memories of Josh, of versions of myself I buried because it was easier than facing them. I expected ghosts. Regret. Sadness. Maybe anger. But none of that shows up. Except for regret.
What hurts is simpler. Sharper. The only person in the world who matters to me can’t stand the sight of me. I don’t know where to begin with changing her mind, or if I even deserve the chance to try.
My phone rings, flashing a number I don’t recognize across the top. I swipe my finger and decline the call. If it’s important enough, they’ll leave a message.
I sink back into the couch, surrounded by cardboard towers and the faint smell of dust. I let it wash over me.Myplace.
I drain the last of the beer, feeling it settle warm in my chest. Tomorrow I’ll deal with Sunny. Tomorrow I’ll start fixing things.
Chapter Six
RACHEL
Ipeel off my gloves and toss them into the trash, the sharp scent of antiseptic still clinging to my skin. My final patient of the day just left, Mr. Daniels, who managed to stand from the chair without using his arms for the first time. Internally, I was so happy for him. I gave him an approving nod, scribbled the milestone into his chart and offered one of my smiles. He didn’t seem all that impressed with his milestone, but I was thrilled enough for the both of us.
It has been a little over a week since the wedding, and the world has already moved on. Margo and Anderson are off somewhere in Lisbon, probably sunburned and drinking something served out of a fancy glass. I saw a few blurry photos on Instagram before Margo went dark for their “phone-free” honeymoon.
After the wedding, the routine of life quickly snapped back into place for me. I work as a physical therapist at MemorialRehab Clinic. Seven years of schooling led me here. My mornings are usually reserved for evaluations. Consisting of a lot of post-op knees stiff from surgery and shoulders frozen after months of immobility. I guide patients through measured steps. I assess their range of motion and ask them to trust me when it hurts, when it feels impossible. Some patients are hopeful. Others are angry. Most of them are tired.
This afternoon was a rotation of familiar faces. I spent forty-five minutes with Mrs. Ortega, encouraging her to bend her right leg five more degrees than last week. Mr. Walker, who is recovering from a stroke, came at 2:45 pm. We practiced walking today. It was just a couple of independent steps.
When a patient hits a milestone, whether it’s lifting a dumbbell overhead, climbing the stairs or walking to the end of the parallel bars without stumbling, I usually do the big cheerleader thing. I want them to know how important their progress is. It is my favorite part of this job. Honestly it is the entire reason I chose to continue school after the accident. I remember sitting in class after the funeral, listening to someone explain healing as if it were inevitable.
It isn’t.
He didn’t get that arc. There was no slow strengthening. There was no measured progress to track. Just an abrupt ending in the middle of his story.
So I stayed in school. I studied harder. I learned every origin and insertion, every protocol, every small way a body can be coaxed back to itself. And now, when someone takes those first steady steps, I cheer for them—and for the chance my brother never had.
“Rachel, you got a second?” Dr. Faier’s voice carries out from his office.
My stomach drops instinctively. “Sure.”
“Close the door, will you?”
Faier’s office is in its typical chaos. I’m not sure how he even functions in here with all of his precariously leaning files scattered across his desk. Or the amount of empty coffee cups and sticky notes everywhere. He gestures to the chair across from his desk.
My pulse picks up, and I can’t help but jump to the worst conclusions. Did I miss a report? Did a client file a complaint about me? Before my thoughts completely get the better of me, Faier cuts them off.
“I’ll get right to it. We’re opening up a new outpatient wing with a focus on long-term neuro recovery. The director position has become available.”
I blink. “Oh. Congratulations.”
He smiles, small and knowing. “Not for me. For one of you. The team recommended you.”
The words don’t make sense at first. “Me?”
