23

Marianna.

Dr. Lindholm's gone.

And it's just us.

Duane and me, standing in this pristine room full of expensive equipment, pretending we don't know each other. Pretending the last week didn't happen. Pretending he didn't pick me up from the airport and let me live in his apartment and tell me I'm not his type while I wore his clothes and breathed his air and fell apart in his guest room.

"Table 3," he says, moving past me toward the window. "I assume they told you."

"They did."

He settles onto the treatment table, his back to me, presenting that landscape of muscle and tension I've already memorized. The bruise from the crash has faded from purple to a sickly yellow-green, spreading across his shoulder blade like a watercolor gone wrong.

I pick up the tablet. Scan his file again, even though I already know everything in it. Buying time. Trying to remember how to breathe.

"Your range of motion was at 65% last session," I say, my voice carefully neutral. "Any improvement since then?"

"You tell me."

I step closer. Professional distance. Clinical detachment.

"I'll need to assess the tissue quality before we start. Let me know if anything is particularly painful."

I reach for his shoulder—

"Wait."

I freeze. Hand hovering an inch from his skin.

"I want someone else."

The words hit me like a slap.

"Excuse me?"

He turns his head slightly, looking at me over his shoulder with that cold, dismissive gaze. "I don't work with trainees. Get me someone senior."

"I'm not a trainee." My voice comes out sharper than intended. "I'm a licensed athletic trainer with a BOC certification and five months of clinical experience—"

"Five months." He says it like it's nothing. Like five months of Mrs. Patterson's tears and Mr. Goldman's cookies and all those hours of learning and growing and caring are worthless. "I have a test session in two days. I need someone who knows what they're doing."

"I do know what I'm doing."

"Then you'll understand why I'm requesting an alternative."

He's not even looking at me anymore. Just staring out the window at the Miami skyline, dismissed.

Like I'm nothing.

Like I'm less than nothing.

My eyes are burning. I will not cry. I will not cry in front of Duane Richter again, not after everything, not when he's already taken so much—

"Fine," I hear myself say. "I'll get Dr. Lindholm."

I turn and walk toward the door, my heels clicking against the pristine floor, my back straight, my face carefully blank.

I make it all the way to the hallway before the first tear falls.

Dr. Lindholm is in her office when I knock, still trembling, still fighting to keep my composure.

"Ms. Reyes." She looks up from her computer. "That was quick. Is there a—"

"He doesn't want me."

The words come out flat. Dead. Like I'm reporting the weather rather than the systematic destruction of my self-worth.

"He requested a senior therapist. Said he doesn't work with—" I swallow hard. "—trainees."

Dr. Lindholm's expression doesn't change, but something shifts in her eyes.

"Did he give a specific reason?"

Because he knows me. Because I've already touched him. Because three days ago he told me I'm not his type and now he can't even stand to be in the same room as me.

"No."

She studies me for a long moment. Then she sighs.

"Mr. Richter is... difficult." She removes her glasses, rubs the bridge of her nose. "He's refused to work with several of our staff over the years. It's not personal."

It is, though. It absolutely is.

"I'll reassign you to Dr. Okonkwo's clinical support rotation for today," she says. "We'll find you a different client assignment going forward."

"Thank you."

I turn to leave.

"Ms. Reyes."

I stop.

"Don't let one difficult client define your experience here." Her voice is softer now, almost kind. "You're talented. I wouldn't have hired you otherwise."

I nod without turning around. If I turn around, she'll see the tears still tracking down my face, and I can't handle that level of humiliation. Not today. Not ever.

"Thank you, Dr. Lindholm."

I walk out of her office, down the hallway, past the recovery suite where he's still waiting for someone better, someone more qualified, someone who isn't me.

I start walking toward the bus stop. The Uber budget has officially been cut until further notice.

Tomorrow will be better. It has to be better. I'll avoid Duane Richter and his stupid face and his stupid shoulders and his stupid ability to make me feel like nothing.

I'll build my career and my life and my self-worth, brick by brick, until I'm someone he can't dismiss.

Someone he can't hurt.

Why am I crying, fck?