Page 65 of Reaching Ryan

“I have no idea,” I tell him with a shrug. “And I drove here.”

That gets his attention.

“You drove here. In a car?” He closes his book and shoves it aside. “Do tell.”

I ease myself through the doorway, snagging the doorknob to pull it closed behind me as I go. “Your mom came to get Molly and Grace was running late so I offered to drive her.”

“And?”

“And I did.” I drop myself into one of the chairs parked in front of his desk and shrug. “I was pretty sure I couldn’t do it—I mean, a four-year-old tied my shoes for me this morning for fuck’s sake—but then I got behind the wheel and I suddenly knew exactly what to do and where to go. No confusion. No anxiety. I just knew,” I tell him, remembering how sure I was. How it good it made me feel. “It’s a sign, right?” I look up at him with something that feels like hope. “That I’m getting better. That maybe I’m—”

That maybe I’m not broken.

Instead of saying it, I shake my head and sigh. “I don’t know, man—you’re the genius. You’d have a better idea of what the fuck is happening than I do.”

“I wish I could tell you it was…” Con sits back in his chair and rubs the back of his neck with a wide, callused palm. Finally, he sighs. “But TBIs like yours don’t just heal themselves, Ry. It was most likely a fluke. Or maybe muscle memory took over—you spent a lot of time, in a lot of cars, driving all over this city with Declan,” he reminds me. “It could be all of those things or none of them—but without treatment for your TBI real recovery is unlikely.”

“So, I’m not getting better.” It’s a kick in the gut, saying the words out loud, the pain of it telling me just how deep the hope had taken root.

“Shit.” He mutters it before leaning back in his chair. “My Uno cards and I can only do so much, you know—I’m a doctor not a miracle worker.”

It’s funny because he is a doctor—twice over. Advanced mathematics and cognitive neuroscience. When his joke elicits little more than a grunt from me, Conner sighs. “We’ve been through this, Ry—just let Cap’n pay for the fucking treatments already. There’s a specialist in—”

“I kissed her,” I tell him. My way of changing the subject and even though I know he wants to keep hammering at me, he lets me.

“Grace?” When I nod he cocks his head and shrugs. “So?”

“So, I want to do want to do more than just kiss her.” I think about the way her mouth went soft under mine. The way it parted with a sigh when I licked my way past her lips to stroke her tongue with mine. The small sound of protest she made in the back of her throat when I ended it. “A lot more.”

“Okay—so do it,” he says like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Probably because for him, it is. It always has been.

“I can’t.” I can barely get the words out, my jaw is clenched so tight. “You know I can’t.”

“No, actually, I don’t know,” he says, shaking his head at me like I’m the dumbest son of a bitch alive. “There are a hundred different ways to make Grace Faraday come,” he says bluntly. “And you don’t need your dick for most of them.”

“Jesus Christ.” I mutter it, swiping a rough hand across my mouth because it feels like he just punched me in it. “Why do I even bother trying to talk to you?”

“Because I’m not afraid to tell you when you’re being a dumbass, fucking crybaby.”

The bitch of it is he’s right.

“I hate you, you that?” I say, pushing myself out of the chair I’m sunk into on a surge of adrenaline.

“No you don’t, because you’ve been thinking the same fucking thing since you met her—you just hate me because I said it out loud,” he says in a matter of fact tone that grates on every last one of my nerves. “Which, let’s be honest, is why you brought it up in the first place.

And fuck me if he isn’t right about that too.

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