A Boy Like You (Like Us Book 1)(65)

Bruce was warm as always, hugging me, and begging me to stay for dinner.  But I couldn't. One look in his wife's eyes was all I needed. She was  as broken as I was, missing her son. There couldn't be two of us at that  dinner table.

Before I left, Bruce mentioned that they were probably going to go  through some of Wes's things this week. Not to get rid of, but just to  put away, so Maggie didn't have to look at them with any false  expectations that Wes would one day return to claim them-that he  wouldn't step through the door and slide out of his shoes and into his  favorite sweatshirt. He invited me to come back to take anything I'd  like. I couldn't tell him no, but I didn't tell him yes.

There's a part of me that doesn't want the false hope either. Then,  there's another part that wants to keep that hope alive and where it  belongs-in Wes's home, in his room, with his brothers. It feels like  we're picking apart the pieces, like vultures.

"Joss? Ready?" My father's question startles me from my thoughts.

I nod.

He holds the door of his car open while I find my balance and step out.  There's an older man walking in front of us with his wife. He's been  here at the same time as me for the last week, and I notice he's making  better progress. Then again, he's trying.

I notice my dad's eyes on him, and when his gaze moves to me as he holds  the door to the center open, I see the judgment. He masks it quickly,  but not before a hint of it slips through. I'm not trying hard enough.  But I guess I don't see the point in rushing. What am I rushing to?

We're past needing to fill out paperwork and formally check in. The  therapists all know me. My dad made sure of that too. I wished he hadn't  told them I was an athlete. I'm not. Not anymore. And all he's done is  put high expectations in place that I will never reach.         

     



 

"Are we ready for the bolster work, Joss?" asks Stephanie, my main  therapist. My dad requested her, thinking I'd work better with a woman.  Stephanie is peppy, and her lips are always pink with glitter. My dad  has no idea who I am at all.

"Sure," I say, ambling toward the table. I lift myself up and push my  hips higher with my hands, lifting my legs while Stephanie slides the  round bolster in place for me to complete a series of hip flexers and  leg raises. The goal is to strengthen my muscles in other places to  improve my gait and let me walk with my prosthesis for longer periods of  time. Right now, my legs hurt after a couple hours, especially the  stump.

My dad is usually right next to me, coaching me through the exercises.  But this morning he steps to the other side of the therapy room. The  peace is welcome, and without his watchful eye, I coast through my sets.  I'm operating at maybe thirty percent of my normal output, but  Stephanie is still clapping and praising every exercise I complete.  She's walking confetti.

I finish my bolster work and push myself to sit while Stephanie puts it  away. My eyes catch my father's across the room. His arms are folded,  and he's talking out of the side of his mouth to a woman next to him.  She's in a black sweat suit, one made for runners. Her hair is dark,  long and pulled back tight. Her face is hard, and she doesn't smile. She  stares at me for several seconds, and I look back, daring her to look  away. She never does, but she raises her hand, cupping her mouth,  whispering something to my dad.

They're talking about me.

Stephanie helps me to my feet, and I answer a few questions about the  fit of my new leg, any trouble I've been having with it, any adjustments  I might need.

"I don't really think there's anything you can do to make it much better  than it is now. It sort of is what it is, ya know?" I say, looking at  the top of Stephanie's head while she bends down in front of me and tugs  on the socket, feeling around my stump.

"There are plenty of things that can be done," a woman's voice says. Her  tone isn't nice, and it causes me to jerk up and meet her hard eyes  quickly. "You're failing yourself, you know."

I'm a little stunned, as is Stephanie, who stands up quickly and places  her small, sparkly body between me and the woman in the dark track suit.  It's like watching a bad guy in a Superman comic have a showdown with a  pixie.

"I'm sorry, but our sessions are private, unless the patient approves of  you being here," Stephanie says. I smirk slightly, impressed at her  ballsy response. The woman looks to my dad as he steps up, his hand  rubbing on the side of his face.

"Actually, it's okay. This is Becca Fontain. She's here to work with  Joss. Not … not to replace what you do, but just to … supplement it some,"  my dad says, barely navigating through hurting my therapist's feelings.

"I'm sorry?" I say, leaning to the side from behind Stephanie's big  hair. She turns to me, blinking away tears. Apparently, my dad didn't  navigate delicately enough.

"I'll be right back," she says, squeezing my shoulder and moving to the  back room where I know she's going to wipe away the evidence of her  emotions.

"Great, you made my pixie mad," I say, rolling my eyes. My legs are  tired from the morning, so I rest one hand on the table behind me.

"You're tired from standing. How do you expect to ever get on the field  again, to compete, if you can't stand and have a conversation?" Becca  says, her eyes shifting from my hand on the table, which I quickly  remove, to my face.

"I'm sorry, how do I … what?" I'm too stunned to respond to her. I look at  my dad to fill in the blanks-and there are dozens of blanks. Maybe even  hundreds.

"Becca, give me a second," he says. The woman nods and steps back to the  other side of the room, pulling a cellphone from her pocket and  flipping through apps on how to be evil to pixies and new amputees.

My dad clears his throat, looking over his shoulder to the table I'd  just let go of. He urges me to sit, but I refuse. Becca might see me  resting, and fuck if I need another dose of her today. My father leans  against the table, crossing his arms. He looks down for a few seconds  before he begins to speak.

"I thought you'd get more out of sessions if you had someone like Becca  to work with. She's a para-athlete. She was one of the first women in  the Iron Man competition … "

"What's wrong with her?" I ask, my eyes raking over her hard body, wondering what her tracksuit is hiding.         

     



 

"She lost her right leg, below the knee. Just like you," he says. My  eyes shoot to his, and my lips push together hard. She didn't lose  anything just like me. Nobody lost anything like me. I lost everything.

"And she's here because you think … " I don't finish, my jaw working back  and forth as I fail to complete that sentence. I let my dad fill it in.

"She's here because you're an athlete, Joss. Because she can get you  back on that field, and if you work hard enough-in time for you to play  your senior year," he says.

I laugh hard once and stare at him.

His chest rises slowly as he draws in a long breath, his demanding eyes  full of expectation. The coddling period is gone. He's returned to being  the coach. But what if I just need a father? What if I just need  someone to hold me and tell me it's okay that I'm only going to be what I  am now? What if I need a daddy to tell me another boy will love me one  day, just like the one who disappeared?

Just like the one who died.

That thought flashes through me unwanted, and my eyes burn instantly. I run my arm over my face and turn away.

"I'm done playing. You need to get over it. I have. I'm done for today  too," I say, walking as quickly as I can to the main door. Stephanie  rushes out to help me, but I hold a hand up, telling her I'll see her  tomorrow. She looks hurt, and I feel bad. I know she's only trying to  help me. That's what all of her positivity is about-about making me feel  good about the tiny strides I made. But that's all they are. Tiny. And  those small things exhaust me; they feel impossible to the point where I  will myself to believe I'll never achieve them. It's easier than being  disappointed at the end.

I get to the car and stand at it, my arms draped over the roof, my  fingers tapping urgently while I wait for my dad to come out behind me.  It takes him nearly ten minutes to leave the clinic, and I see him take a  card and program a few things into his phone with Becca before they  shake hands and he strides my way. She pushes her sunglasses on her face  and keeps her body pointed my direction, watching me. This time, I  break the hold and look down.

"That was rude," my dad says, unlocking the car and getting inside.

I laugh and open my door, climbing in after him.

I shake my head and buckle my belt, every move of my arm an angry  jerking motion. I fold my arms over my body and let my good leg bounce  nervously, my teeth clenched. I hold back everything I want to say, but I  rehearse it in my head in an effort to rid my system of it. It has the  opposite effect, and by the time we pull into our driveway, I'm so mad I  want to kick a hole through the car door and take off running, never  looking back.