The Darkest Corner of the Heart: Chapter 4

A drop of sweat clings to the side of my neck as my feet hit the treadmill in a fast, steady rhythm. The console indicates I’m well past my usual thirty-minute mark, but I keep running. A poor attempt at getting yesterday out of my head.

In my five years as a physical therapist, I have overseen hundreds of patients in all kinds of different physical and emotional states—cheerful and motivated, calm and quiet, tired and impatient. I’d never seen anyone look utterly defeated.

Until her.

The clock on the far wall of the gym lets me know my shift starts in an hour and a half, and I’ve yet to jump in the shower and feed the two gremlins upstairs. With a hint of restlessness still dancing inside me, I hit the stop button and use a towel to wipe the sweat off my face and neck before heading to the elevators.

The in-building gym and the city views from my unit are what sold me on this place years ago. At times like this, when my head gets too loud but my schedule doesn’t allow me to get lost in the bustling streets of Norcastle even to go to my nearest gym a couple of blocks away, I know I’ve made the right decision.

The second I open the front door, I’m assaulted by loud, angry meowing.

Another one of my right decisions.

“Hey, hey.” I shut the door behind me and head for their food closet, carefully so as to not step on them as they circle around my legs. “Calm down, tigers. I fed you right before I went to the gym. Let’s tone down the drama, yeah?”

The loud meowing continues—a clear shut up and feed us again, Dad.

“All right, all right.”

I grab Shadow’s dry food and Mist’s wet pouches—he was born with a dental disease, and the vet had to take all his teeth out, sans his fangs, shortly after I adopted him two years ago. He still gets into daily fights with his brother—who I adopted at the same time since they both lived in the same animal shelter—and eats just fine, so he doesn’t seem to mind his condition at all.

Shadow rubs his black fur against my leg when I crouch down to fill both of their bowls. “There you go.” I scratch him behind his ear before getting back on my feet. “All set. I’ll clean your litter box before I head out.”

Maybe the fact that I have one-sided conversations with my cats is an early sign that I’m losing my mind. It’s definitely an indicator that I should go out more, spend some time with humans who aren’t Graham or my patients, but I can’t be bothered.

I haven’t been bothered for a long time, for reasons I’d rather not think about today. Or at all.

Once I make sure their litter box is clean and their water fountain has enough water, I take a quick shower, get dressed for the day, grab my car keys, and drive to the rehabilitation center.

She’s my first patient of the day.

My brain fixates on that inconsequential fact during the twenty-minute drive, as I greet the rest of the staff, as I set up the equipment, as I pull up her file on my computer.

Maddison Stevens. Twenty-one. Ballet dancer. Posterior ankle impingement.

What her file fails to mention is how she zoned out when she realized she couldn’t get on the examining table by herself, how her hand trembled as she held on to my arm, how I could tell it killed her to ask for help to get back down.

Working out this morning has done shit for me because my head is still too loud.

My watch marks five minutes until she gets here, and I remind myself to get a grip. I specialized in sports injury rehabilitation during my master’s degree, a calling I felt deep in my bones after what happened. It’s probably that, the reminder of what I—

A knock at my office door stops my train of thought before it derails.

“Come in,” I call out, my voice sounding too stiff and business-like. I don’t bother correcting myself.

Her long brown hair, pulled into braid that falls over her shoulder, is the first thing that catches my attention as she walks in, holding on to her crutches.

“Good morning.” She gives me a smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “I’m a little early today. I hope that’s okay. My brother thought traffic would be worse.”

A small part of me is curious about why her brother is the one taking care of her while she’s injured and not her parents. That tall, tattooed man who was with her yesterday had to be in his forties. She’s twenty-one, so that’s a big age gap between siblings. I wonder what prompted that, if their parents—

None of your goddamn business.

“You’re good.” I put on my glasses as she walks up to my desk. “Did you get my email with the treatment plan?”

“Yes, thank you. It was very…um, informative.” She pauses. My eyes are fixed on her file, the one I’ve been mindlessly scrolling through since I got here, but I know she isn’t done. And I’m right. “So, six weeks of recovery.”

There’s a hint of something in her voice, something that sounds a lot like misplaced hope. A disguised plea for me to tell her that no, that six weeks is too much and she’ll be fine in two. That she shouldn’t worry about her ankle because she will go back to the stage in no time, as if nothing had happened.

But I can’t.

“Six weeks, if everything goes well,” I confirm with a nod, not missing the way her breath hitches. “Let’s get started, Miss Stevens. Come over to this wall and take off your shoes, please. You can leave your socks on.”

I motion to the wall next to my desk. She follows my command, clearly unsure, but does as I say. After she removes her shoes and places her crutches against the examining table, I move to stand next to her.

“We’re going to do some isometric holding today.” I’m pretty sure she has no idea what I’m talking about—and it’s not her job to understand. But not informing my patients of what we’re going to do has always felt wrong to me, so I keep going under her confused stare. “See that step stool over here?” I gesture toward the low, black step stool placed against the wall. She nods. “We’re going to use it to get your muscles to turn on.”

Her nervous fingers toy with the end of her braid. “Will it hurt?”

“It shouldn’t.” If her little frown is any indication, she doesn’t really believe me. “You may feel some cramps, but that’s completely normal.”

“Okay,” she mutters, glancing down at the step stool. “So do I just get on it?”

“Only the tips of your feet should be directly on it—your toes and about an inch of your feet past them.”

She takes one careful step after another until she’s on top of it, her hands braced against the wall. “Like this?”

I look away from the way she’s nervously pulling her lip between her teeth. “Yes.” It comes out so unexpectedly rough, I have to clear my throat before I continue. “Don’t press down too hard. Just stand there in a normal, horizontal line. Hold that position for thirty seconds.”

We repeat the same exercise four times, and I confirm that her ankle is responding well. Her lack of complaints tells me she’s doing okay so far, too. “All right, now let’s do it on one foot.”

Her head snaps up to me, eyes wide. “One foot?”

“You will be fine,” I reassure her, catching the way her step falters before she holds herself back up. “I’m here, Miss Stevens. I won’t let you get hurt.”

Her dark eyes remain on my face for a beat too long, as if she were waiting for divine confirmation of my words, before she nods. “Thirty seconds again?”

“Let’s do one-minute holds. We’ll repeat it three times.”

Her barely there smirk catches me off-guard, and I find that I’m unable to look away from the upright tilt of her lips. This time, it looks genuine. “What if I told you I’d rather sit down and do nothing for the rest of our session? Would you let me?”

“If it’s any consolation,” I start, crossing my arms as she holds her position on one foot, “I have some sit-down exercises planned for later. I’ll do all the work, so you can stare blankly at the wall if you want to.”

“I’m leaving you a five-star review just for that.” Her voice is a weird mix between tired and teasing. “Is the minute up?”

I glance at my watch. “It’s been ten seconds.”

A quiet groan escapes her, but she says nothing else. Silence falls over us, and even though I’m never talkative during sessions with my patients, today I wish she would give me something. A thought, a worry, anything.

What the hell are you saying?

“Let’s switch to your right foot now,” I tell her when the minute is up.

Uncertainty is written all over her face when she looks at me. “This is my injured ankle.”

“I’m aware.” My voice is a mask of cool, stiff hardness. “One minute.”

I can tell she isn’t happy about it, but she doesn’t protest. She’s scared of hurting herself again, it’s easy to see that, but I meant it when I said nothing would happen to her while I’m here—taking care of her physical health is my job. And I’m damn good at it.

Twenty seconds go by, then thirty, and I don’t take my eyes off her foot. She’s wobbling a little, but she’s holding on to the wall in front of her, so I’m not worried about—

“Shit, shit, shit,” she hisses, losing her balance on the step stool.

My hands shoot up to grab her hips as my heart skips a beat. Her body leans into mine, my mouth just inches away from her ear as I mutter, “I got you.”

The warmth of her skin seeps through the tight T-shirt she’s wearing, making my palms tingle. I pull away once she’s safely back on the step, relief crashing into me at the loss of contact.

“Thanks.” She sounds breathless, her cheeks flushed, her hand placed over her heart. Taking a deep breath, she shakes her head and places her hands back on the wall. “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d let me sit down and stare at the wall, you know?”

I make a noncommittal sound at the back of my throat, resisting the urge to chuckle. “Let’s do one more minute on your other foot.”

“You’re serious?”

I arch an unimpressed eyebrow. “I didn’t let you hurt yourself, did I?”

A tired sigh is the only answer I get, and I don’t say anything else either. The rest of our session remains incident-free, mostly coated in silence. She lets me guide her foot, tells me when it hurts or cramps, and keeps her promise of staring blankly at the wall while I work.

I don’t like the void I see in her yes. Not one bit.

After I go back home after a long shift and feed Shadow and Mist, I find myself in the gym downstairs for the second time today, despite my muscles groaning in protest. Because, as I see it, this is my only option—work out until I reach the point of exhaustion.

Until this strange edginess inside my body goes away.