Possessive Doctor

“Great,” he says when I’m done. I’m sweating a little bit and I feel stupid.

“That shouldn’t have been so hard,” I say.

“Honestly, I’m surprised you can do as much as you can,” he says, handing me the cane and helping me away from the bars. “People that have a break like you did aren’t typically very mobile for a while.”

“Really?”

“Seriously. I’m impressed. But don’t push yourself too hard. The more you work, the faster your recovery will be, but you can go too far.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

“Good.” He leads me away from the exercise gym and waves at a couple of coworkers. “Come on. I’ll give you some exercises to do at home and we’ll talk about your recovery some more.”

We head back to that room and he leaves me alone for a few minutes. He comes back with some printed pages of simple exercises just like the ones we did back in the gym area.

“Do these every day,” he says. “Ten reps each, nothing too strenuous. If it starts to hurt, I mean really hurt, stop. Don’t go too far. Stop and call me. Okay?”

“Okay,” I say.

He nods and types a bit on his computer then turns back to me. “We’re all done then. Any questions for me?”

“Not really. Well, just one. Any guess on my timeline?”

He shrugs. “Hard to predict. You could recover in a month or it could take a year or more. You’re young and in good shape, so I suspect you’ll be on the faster side, but it’s different for everyone.”

“Thanks. I figured you’d say that.”

He laughs a little. “Sorry. It’s doctor speak.”

“Can you give me the no-BS version?”

“I can. Promise not to sue me if I’m wrong?”

“I promise.”

He leans back and crosses his arms. “Well, you have a tough break. But like I said, you’re in good shape. My bet is six months. You won’t be 100 percent yet, but you’ll be pretty close.”

“That’s not bad at all.”

“No, I think you’ll be good. This is assuming you work as hard every day at home as you did today.”

“Can’t promise that.”

He grins at me. “Let’s make that eight months then.”

I laugh at him. “Ouch.”

“Just saying.”

“Fine. I’ll do the work.”

“Good.”

“I appreciate you giving me the hands-on treatment today.”

He gives me that look again. I stare right back, feeling bold and embarrassed and stupid, all at the same time. He shrugs a little bit and stands. “I’ll help you out.”

“Thanks.”

I let him lower me down off the table. His hands linger on my hips and I don’t mind one bit. I get my cane and limp out of the room with him by my side. He guides me out front and he smiles one last time.

“Call if you need anything,” he says. “Rachel, make an appointment for her for next week with me, okay?”

“Yes, Doctor.”

He waves and heads into the back.

“Okay sweetie,” Rachel says. “You’re a lucky one. Dr. Lofthouse was only filling in today. He doesn’t normally take on patients.”

“Yeah, I am lucky. He seems good.”

“One of the best in the whole state, honestly.” She types then looks at me. “Same time?”

“That works.”

“See you next week.”

I smile and wave then limp out of the building, back into the sweltering heat. I can practically feel the sweat rolling down my back.

I stand there for a second, looking around the parking lot. I don’t see my dad anywhere. I check my phone and sure enough, there’s a text saying that he’ll be late. I curse and think about going back inside, but I can’t bring myself to do it. Instead, I hide in the shade of the overhang and lean against the wall, rubbing my leg.

I keep thinking about Brent’s hands on my body and those looks he was giving me. He couldn’t have been flirting with me, but then again, maybe he was. I mean, it’s possible, that sort of thing does happen.

Still, he’s a doctor. He’s supposed to touch me. I’m just not sure he’s supposed to look at me like he wants to undress me.

Not that I mind, really. It’s nice to have someone look at me like that. I feel like I haven’t been wanted in a long time. Maybe never, if I’m honest with myself.

My dad finally pulls up. I hear him before I see him, like always. He doesn’t get out to help and looks annoyed when I take a while to climb inside.

“Shut the door. You’re letting the damn AC out,” he snaps.

“Sorry.” I close the door once I get my cane inside. “Hard to climb in. Broken leg and all.”

He gives me a look but doesn’t say anything. He starts driving back home. We don’t speak for a bit and I let that last comment hang in the air between us.

“I have another appointment,” I say. “Same place, same time next week.”