“Next up is the superhero stretch.” I hold up a foam roller. “This is kryptonite, Superman. Feeling brave enough?” My gaze flicks quickly to his father so he can see how painful this exercise might be for his son.
Turner’s face lights up, eyes narrowed, as he embraces the challenge. “I’m the hero for the job.” His voice lowers a few notes as he plays the part perfectly. He doesn’t cringe or turn away as I roll over the tender places near his injury. We play this game for the next fifteen minutes as I tick through the list. Lincoln stays silent for the remainder of the appointment. I do my best to block out anything that isn’t related to Turner and my job, but it’s like Lincoln has awakened something inside me. With a mere look, he has me spiraling back into dangerous territory.
The session wraps and I tell Lincoln to make another appointment with Aspen on their way out. I make notes in my laptop in an effort to appear busy, and to avoid small talk with this man. He doesn’t have an untrusting look about him, but it’s more that I can’t read him that makes me so wary.
Aspen breezes into the hallway. “All wrapped up?” she asks.
I nod, not taking my gaze from the screen balancing on my palm. “Come with me, Turner, I’ll let you pick out a prize from the chest up front.” Her voice is cheerful, and Turner responds immediately, hobbling in his plastic boot to find his prize.
“Dr. Ahern,” Lincoln says, and I have to close my eyes against the onslaught of unease that prickles my skin. It’s just my name. Craning my neck, I peer at him as he walks a step behind me. I nod for him to go on. “This may seem forward, but I was wondering what brought you to Colorado. You were established in Cape Cod, or so it seemed. What brought you way out here?”
I swallow down the nerves threatening to trip me up. “The mountains called.” I offer what I believe is a comforting smile. “I took a vacation here once with a friend in college and I’ve been trying to get back here ever since.” I stop and turn when we reach the reception area. Turner is bouncing a super bouncer on the tile and hobbling after it when it makes a stray turn. “You can trust that your son is in the best hands. My previous position in Cape Cod was the final stepping stone I needed to open my own practice.” It’s true, but also a thinly veiled lie. The life insurance money I received from Rexy’s death is the real stepping stone I needed. It was shocking when I realized he left it to me. I didn’t feel I deserved it. Then again, I haven’t felt like I’ve deserved much of anything, and I couldn’t give the money back.
Lincoln leans his head to the side as he eyes my face. I feel stripped down bare with that solitary look. “Well, I’m really glad that you came here. The way you worked with my son just now was amazing. Not very many people can open him up like that, and so quickly. Pardon my intrusion, I just wanted to know a bit more about you as this doesn’t happen often.”
“What doesn’t happen often?” I ask.
Aspen is staring at me, a fact she’s making blatantly clear.
Lincoln directs his gaze at Aspen and she glances away quickly. “Turner doesn’t really talk much. Especially to women he doesn’t know.” He clears his throat, an awkward gesture. “It’s surprising he felt comfortable enough to play with you.” He looks embarrassed. “Thank you. I really appreciate it.”
He looks crestfallen. Why doesn’t Turner talk to women? Women are mothers. Mothers are safe. They’re supposed to be the trustworthy people in our society. If a child gets lost on a busy street, they will try to find a mother with kids to help them. Pressing my lips together, I offer him a calm grin. “It’s my job, Mr. Wilds. I love my job. Turner’s leg is going to be just fine in time.”
“He’s in good hands. That’s for sure.”
“He is,” I say. Lincoln is a good dad. I see the way he looks at Turner right now, and the empty pang in my heart beats out in protest. He is in good hands. Not mine. His father’s.
Turner hobbles to the front office door and spins on his good leg to look our way. “Bye,” he says, raising one hand in front of him.
“Bye, Turner,” I say, smiling widely.
Aspen hands Lincoln a card with his next appointment and I take that as my cue to head back into my office after issuing a professional good day. Sucking in a deep breath, I put a hand to my chest as I sling myself into my seat. When my pulse slows, I stand up from my chair and head back into the therapy room to retrieve the file I forgot there.
The crumpled white paper on the training table Turner was sitting on catches my eye. There’s a phone number scribbled on there, the name Lincoln printed neatly in capital letters above it. I laugh at first, because of course I have Lincoln’s phone number, but then I realize he wants me to use it. Not to confirm an appointment either. The lightning. The buzz. The palpable draw. He felt it too.
CHAPTER TWO
MAEVE
Ringleaders take a lot of shit. We’re too demanding. Everyone has expectations of us knowing and controlling everything. As if we love that kind of responsibility. Behind closed doors, the Regina Georges of the world are a heaping pile of burning garbage. We own emotions we can’t control, so we assert dominance over everything else. Which is fine because no one else knows it.