Page 78 of Love What's Left
He blows out a breath and returns to cradle me. “You don’t want me to go?”
Against his shoulder, I shake my head. “Why would I want that?”
“You used to ask me to leave after you had a nightmare. You said I reminded you of your father.”
I lean back just far enough to look into his eyes. “I slept while you flew the helicopter. You arenothinglike that man.”
28
Sydney
The sun shines the next day as if the storm never happened.
Lifting my arms slowly to shoulder height, then lowering them equally as carefully, I begin another rep of exercises in the pool. My arms shake and muscles burn. Only when my lungs grow too tight for comfort do I realize I’ve been holding my breath.
“Breathe, dummy,”I mutter.
High stone walls surround our private saltwater pool. My physical therapist, Mario, a fit man in his forties with warm brown skin and a ready smile, stands in the shallow end with me and demonstrates a different set of arm movements for me to perform. “Rotate your palms downward. Same lift, but feel how it works different muscles?”
“What?” The water swirls, agitated by my movements, and I take a second to suck in more air.Oxygen. I need oxygen.
“Flip your palm over and try again. Can you feel the difference?” he asks.
Right.Move my hands.Pay attention to something other than the water and the way my lungs feel empty.
You’re not going to drown in the pool. Keep going. Stop panicking like a weirdo.
Rememberingis like making friends with a cat. Chase it, and it’ll run. Sit quietly and ignore it, and sooner or later, it’ll curl up on my lap and demand attention.
This isn’t about brain damage any more than my speech problems are. My brain is fine. It’s my subconscious being a stubborn ass and forcing me to live in the here-and-now.
“Yeah, well, this particular here-and-now sucks,” I mutter. Why has my heart rate only lately decided to spike every time I take a shower? Why is the pool freaking me out?
Mario frowns. “Everything okay? You seem uncomfortable.”
“I’m good. This isn’t that different from regular PT.”
Pacing at the edge of the pool, my husband scowls. “You were fully dressed then, not half naked with a strange man touching you.”
“He’s not astrange man.Be nice, McRae,” I say.
He bobs his head side to side withthatlook on his face.
“You just mimicked me in your head in a voice that doesn’t even sound like me,” I accuse.
He drops his arms and shoves his hands into his pockets. “How do you know that?”
The same way I know he’s currently equal parts irrationally jealous of Mario and worried about me. “I just do.”
He came straight from a video conference to be here for me and immediately tossed his suit jacket over a nearby lounge chair. Sometime later, he kicked off his shoes and socks. Slowly, under the sweltering heat, he’s coming undone.
Directinga pissy look at Mario, he loosens his tie with one hand. Then he turns his green gaze my way and unbuttons his shirtsleeves, rolling the cuffs up his forearms.
That is a very nice distraction. I could almost forget about my anxiety and watch him roll up his sleeves for the next forty minutes.
His lips twitch.
“Are you sure you want to continue?” Mario asks.
