He’s trapping me between the table and his strong grip or I would turn my head and glare. “Who said anything about nightmares?”
“The big bruise on your hip, dipshit. You fell out of bed, don’t deny it. I’m a masseuse for crap’s sake. I’ve seen it all.”
“What would you do?”
“Seriously?” he asks, kneading the muscles in my shoulder.
Yep. I’m going to need it checked out. I’ve given it two months, and it’s not healing.
“Yeah.”
“I’d talk to her. There’s a good chance she’s just as miserable as you are, and moving here could be what she wants, too. But you know underneath it all, that isn’t the point, right? The point is your mental health gave you an excuse to push her away instead of sitting down and talking to her. You can’t live in denial. I tell you that every time you come in. Avoiding your fears produces a toxic environment in your body. It creates stress, and stress puts you on constant alert. You can never rest. You’re not sleeping, I already know that. You need to change, Rick, or you’re going to cause some serious damage. You work in construction, right? You don’t build on a shaky foundation, and dude, you are so shaky, how do you ever hope to build a future on how you feel?”
I let him rub me down, and my body loosens. Not as much as I need it to, not as much as it can, but by the time my two hours with him are up, my muscles aren’t as tight. When one pain recedes, another has room to take its place, and I miss Devyn so much I can barely speak.
He always lets me lay and rest for a few minutes, let my muscles absorb the rubdown, and I prop myself up on my arms, a towel covering my ass.
“What’s your biggest fear?” he says, leaning against the sink, his arms crossed, his biceps bulging, his pecs straining against his t-shirt.
It’s not so comfortable to talk when he’s not doing his job, and I stare at the table, that little space between my forearms. “That she won’t love me while I’m like this.”
Liam chuckles. “Dude, she already met you while you’re like this. She’s not your ex-wife. Your ex didn’t know how to handle what you were going to be after the accident. That’s her weakness, not yours, and it’s not Devyn’s. You’re making her pay for what your ex did to you. That’s cool, but if you’re gonna make her do that, then at least tell her the score. I’m no shrink, but I think any one of them would say you weren’t ready to meet her. You weren’t ready, and you should man up and tell her that. Tell her the truth so she can move on. None of this job stuff, or Cedar Hill versus Old Harbor. Tell her that you have a lot more healing to do, and you wish her the best.”
He shuffles to the door.
I can’t look at him. I can’t see through the stupid tears he put into my eyes.
He wants to say more, but in the end he leaves the room in silence, and I lie there, my forehead resting on my arms as I cry.
Because I’m stupid, hardheaded, and obstinate—all colorful (and true) adjectives Liam uses to describe me—I do a lot of thinking in the next few days. Instead of talking to him while he works the knots out of my back, I ask him to meet me for coffee and we talk over large cups of lattes and chocolate chip croissants.
He asks me how Devyn and I met, and I recount our time in the lighthouse while it snowed. I tell him about the interview she never published, her digging into the accident even though I told her to leave it alone. I explain how I rescued her from the second floor, and he only raises his eyebrows when I admit I hurt myself doing it.
Over the course of a week, we talk, and every minute I talk to Liam, I fall in love with her all over again.
It took me long enough to realize it, but it’s not where I am that I’ll be mentally happiest, it’s that I’ll be with her. In my penthouse, in the suburbs, here in Old Harbor at the lighthouse, or in a house we build together on the land I purchased on the other shore. It doesn’t matter.
She said she loves me, and she wouldn’t lie.
“Thank you,” I say, grasping his hand outside the little coffee shop after our last session. Liam’s turned from masseuse and therapist to friend.
“Remember—mind, body, heart, and soul, they’re all connected. You can’t find physical health if your mental health is out of whack. Fix your heart, Rick, and your body will follow.”
A few days ago, I wouldn’t have believed it, but I do now.
“It won’t be easy. She may not forgive me.”
“With everything you’ve told me about her, that doesn’t sound like something she’d do. She put herself in danger to prove there was more to your accident than how it looked. All those things you’ve been running from—you need. Good luck. When she’s settled in, I want to meet her. Happy New Year, man. You deserve it.”
“Yeah. Thanks. Same to you, too.”
He leaves me leaning against the brick wall of the café, wanting to stay and hide, needing to go and face my fears.
I build hotels, malls, office parks. I refurbish buildings, restore old houses that have historical and sentimental value.
I’m good at fixing things.
Time to put those skills to use and fix something that will really matter: the relationships I’ve broken trying to run from something that will never go away.