Page 22 of The Last Pirouette
Dr. Reese, their supervising physical therapist, noticed the stark change in atmosphere. After observing a particularly frosty non-interaction, she discreetly called Liam over to the side, ostensibly to check his form, but really to probe into the sudden shift in their dynamic.
"Liam," Dr. Reese said, her voice low and concerned. "How's the shoulder feeling today?"
"Good," Liam answered automatically. "Great, actually." He rotated his arm, testing the joint. It twinged a little, but he ignored it. He didn't need another reason for Harper to ice him out.
Dr. Reese watched him, her expression unreadable. "You two had a productive synergy going. That's gone. Anything I should know? Hostility can be a major setback for recovery."
Liam, blindsided and defensive, could only stammer that he had no idea what she's talking about, which she clearly didn't believe. "What? No, everything's fine. We're just… focusing on our exercises." He gave a weak smile, hoping to convince her. And maybe himself.
"Really?" Dr. Reese raised an eyebrow, her gaze flicking towards Harper, who was now meticulously adjusting the height of the parallel bars. "Because it looks like you're both trying to set a new record for the silent treatment."
Liam flushed. "I don't know what to tell you, Dr. Reese. Harper's just… intense today."
Dr. Reese sighed, her expression softening. "Just be mindful, Liam. Recovery isn't just about muscles and joints. It's about the whole person. And isolating yourself isn't going to help either of you heal." She patted his arm, her touch surprisingly gentle. "Keep an eye on each other, okay?"
Liam nodded, feeling a fresh wave of guilt wash over him. He glanced at Harper again. Her back was to him, her shoulders tense. He had no idea what he'd done, but he knew he needed to fix it.
Harper made a conscious, painful decision to treat Liam as a stranger. Each clipped response and ignored glance was an act of self-preservation, a brick she laid to wall off the part of her that felt hurt by his perceived indifference.
She focused on the burn in her muscles, the ache in her leg, anything to drown out the thoughts swirling in her head. 'Just a project.' The words echoed in her mind, each syllable a sharp jab. She'd been so stupid, so naive, to think that he actually cared. That she was more than just a broken ballerina he was trying to fix.
She bit her lip, fighting back the tears that threatened to spill. She wouldn't let him see her cry. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
Liam’s internal state shifted from easygoing confidence to a growing sense of confusion and frustration. He replayed their last few interactions in his head, searching for a misstep, but came up empty. Her coldness began to feel like a personal rejection, stirring an unfamiliar feeling of hurt beneath his frustration.
He couldn't figure it out. Had he said something wrong? Had he done something to offend her? He racked his brain, replayingtheir conversation on the ice, their shared laughter, the easy silence that had followed. It had felt… perfect.
He ran a hand through his hair again, his frustration growing. He hated being shut out. He hated not knowing what he'd done wrong. He hated the way her coldness made him feel – small, insignificant, like he was nothing more than a nuisance.
He knew he had to talk to her. He had to find out what was going on. But the words caught in his throat. He was afraid of what she might say.
As the session ended, Harper meticulously wiped down her equipment, packed her bag, and walked out without a word or a backward glance, leaving Liam standing alone in the middle of the room.
The squeak of her crutches on the linoleum was the only sound, each step a nail in the coffin of their… whatever it was. Liam watched her go, his jaw tight, his fists clenched. He wanted to call out to her, to demand an explanation, but the words wouldn't come.
She was gone.
Liam stood alone in the now-empty therapy room, the silence deafening. He looked at the vacant space by the parallel bars where Harper had stood, the echo of her cold departure hanging in the air. He clenches his fists, the frustration churning in his gut, leaving him utterly baffled and, for the first time, feeling completely shut out by her. The air felt thick, heavy, pressing down on him. He felt a surge of anger, directed at Harper, at himself, at the entire messed-up situation.
He kicked a stray resistance band across the floor, the sound echoing in the emptiness.
He hated this. He hated feeling helpless. He hated the way she made him feel.
He took a deep breath, trying to regain control. He wasn't going to let her get to him. He wasn't going to let her ruin his day.
He would figure this out. He would find out what he'd done wrong. And he would fix it. He had to.
He turned and walked out of the room, his footsteps heavy and determined. He had a feeling this wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
Chapter 15
The physical therapy center was a symphony of quiet determination—the soft whir of treadmills, the clink of weights, the encouraging murmurs of therapists. Liam sat on a bench, ostensibly stretching, but his focus was fixed across the room. Harper was moving with a cold, focused grace that kept everyone, especially him, at arm's length. Each precise movement seemed designed to broadcast a single, clear message:Stay away.
The air between them was thick with unspoken words, her palpable hurt. He felt the chasm he'd created. Every apology he'd rehearsed in his head felt cheap and inadequate in the face of her withdrawal. He’d pictured grand gestures, heartfelt speeches… but the iron in her gaze melted any courage he tried to muster.
He watched her, his stomach twisting. She attacked the parallel bars with a singular intensity, her brow furrowed, her lips pressed into a thin line. He knew that look. It was the same look she wore when she was pushing herself to the absolute limit, demanding more from her body than it seemed capable of giving. Only now, the goal wasn't grace or perfection. It felt like punishment.
He glanced around the room, a desperate attempt to distract himself from the icy fortress she’d erected. Mrs. Davison, an elderly woman recovering from a stroke, was diligently working with Maya, her brow furrowed in concentration as she took tentative steps on the treadmill. Across the room, a young gymnast, barely older than Harper, struggled with a balance beam, her face a mask of frustration as she wobbled precariously.
