Page 64 of Brooklynaire

“We’ll move on. I’ll be back at work in a couple of weeks and things can just go back to the way they werebefore.”

“Right,” I agree, because there’s nothing else I can say without being an asshole. Except I know it’s not technically possible. I can’t ever forget that night. I can’t unsee her body arching toward mine, and I can’t untaste her mouth undermine.

“Thank you,” she says. There’s a long pause while we both stare at each other. I’ve just done exactly what she asked me for. But she doesn’t look relieved. She’s looking at me like she’s trying to figure something out, but can’t quite manageit.

But then I see the exact moment she gives up. Her pretty eyes drop. She looks around the room, spots her jacket on the arm of my love seat. She stands, snaps it up with one hand, and then walksout.

My gut clenches at the sight of her leaving. So that’s it? One perfect night, and a three-minute conversation. That’s all I’ll everhave.

“Bec,” I say, stopping herprogress.

“Yeah?” And when she turns to meet my gaze, I realize I’m not the only one struggling. She looks conflicted as she struggles into thejacket.

I lean on the doorframe. I’m keeping a safe distance because I don’t trust myself. “My door will always be open toyou.”

“Thank you,” she saysquietly.

“Anything you need. Ask Bingley if you don’t want to call me. Be well, and take care ofyourself.”

“You too,” she says. Then she gives me a watery little smile, turns around, andleaves.

Thirty seconds later I hear the door to the lobby open and shut. She’sgone.

15

Rebecca

May 3, New York

“That’s it,girl! Now ease up on the death grip before I lose all feeling in thisarm.”

I force myself to ease my grip on Ramón’s wrist, but I leave my eyes screwed shut. I’m bouncing on that damned trampoline again. Little bounces. And my hold on Ramón is the only thing keeping mevertical.

Still, it’s progress. I couldn’t do this two weeksago.

“Ten more,” he encourages. Then he counts down. “Ten, nine. Breathe, Becca.Eight…”

When he gets to “one” I open my eyes and stop. “Wow. Okay.” The room takes a second or two to reorient itself. But I’m getting used to these little reboots of my system. They’re not as confusing as they used to be, and therefore not as scary. I take another breath and wait to feelsteady.

“Nicely done,” Ramón says. “How’d thatfeel?”

“I’m not puking on your Nikes. So there’s your first clue.” I haven’t actually puked in therapy, but there were a couple of closecalls.

“Rebecca!” Dr. Armitage himself strides toward me across the training center in his lab coat. “How are wedoing?”

“The trampoline is now possible,” Ramón says. “Her recovery time still has some room to improve, but, heck. Give her a week. She’s shaping upfast.”

And it’s true. I’mfinallydoing better. Every day I feel a little more steady. And the number of tipsy episodes I experience keeps diminishing. Even better—I don’t feel as feeble or hopeless as I did the first time I walked in here. “You guys are miracleworkers.”

“You’re doing all your own healing,” the doctor says. “We just showed you where to look forit.”

“What’s next?” I askRamón.

He checks his watch. “The dreaded spinning chair. And then we’ll have time for one Ping-Ponggame.”

“You have to let mewin.”

“Pffft!” the trainer says, while the doctor grins. “That’s not included in the price. Come on now. Let’s get it over with in thechair.”