Page 45 of Make You Love Me
Me:I thought brothers had each other’s
Delete. This conversation is better had in person.
“Jordan, are you okay?” Nora calls from the other side of the door. Her voice is like a poison-laced drink to my system—revolting, scandalous, wounding.
“Yeah. Just getting ready.”
“Need any help?”
“No,” I say adamantly and all too quickly. “I’m almost finished.”
“Okay. The chair is in the hallway when you’re ready. We need to leave in ten.”
Give me fifty terrorists poised to tear my head off, and I’ll run toward the threat. But faced with having to look at the woman in the process of breaking my heart, and I want to hide away in a bathroom the size of a closet. I hate confined spaces. Hated crawling through pipes, being pushed together like sardines in planes with crates of supplies, and camping under vehicles or inside thick brush in the dark for hours on missions. But I did it for my country and for the safety of my brothers. I did it because each activity had a purpose.
Hiding from my so-called girlfriend in a tiny apartment bathroom serves no purpose other than showcasing my cowardice. And no Marine is weak. Grasping the doorknob with fervor, I swing open the door. The abrupt motion startles Nora, who had been waiting with the chair, into gasping audibly.
I hop twice, spin, and drop into the wheelchair without a word or a glance in her direction. Not exactly man-of-honor behavior, but it is all I can muster.
“I guess this means you’re ready to go?”
“Yes.”
She attempts to make conversation during our walk but gives up somewhere around the halfway mark. Once we enter VETS, I check in and she deposits me in the physical therapy suite.
“I’ll meet you in the lobby in an hour.”
“Actually, I’m meeting with Jackson afterward.”
“For how long?” she asks, perturbed that I hadn’t told her before now.
“Not sure.”
“That’s fine. I can check in with Sydney and get caught up on a few things around here. Take your time, and text me when you’re finished.”
She stalks out, taking with her the elephant that had been sitting on my chest for the past two hours. Air finally enters my lungs as every muscle relaxes.
“Hi, Jordan,” Avery, a physical therapist volunteer, says as she enters the PT lobby.
“Hi. I thought you were only here on Tuesdays and Thursdays.”
“I had today off from work and your therapist called in sick.” She shrugs and takes hold of the chair handles. “You’re in my hands today.”
“I can live with that.”
“Such the charmer.”
We enter the dedicated fitness room for PT patients. Unlike the main fitness room in the center of the two-story VETS facility, it’s a fraction of the size and peaceful. Other veterans and therapists are working in hushed tones, and a clank of metal weights coming together occasionally rings over the calming music playing through the PA system. It’s a welcoming atmosphere, designed to prevent triggers and soothe fragile veteran psyches while focusing on healing their bodies.
“I love it here,” I whisper.
“Me, too. It’s why I’m here on my day off instead of gallivanting around the city.”
“Surprising. Every time I see you, you’re drinking, dancing, or letting loose in some way. The very definition of gallivanting.” I smile at my joke, and her fists find her hips in mock disapproval.
“Well, you should thank your lucky stars I’m not. You could be stuck with Gary instead of me.” She glances over her shoulder at the aforementioned therapist, encouraging another patient in that drill instructor way of his, then comes back to me with a sympathetic wince. “He’s a former Navy Seal and wouldn’t let you skip the last rep when your legs give out. So…”
“I’m thanking those stars as we speak.”
