Rough Edge (The Edge #1)(37)

“What do you have, Greyson? Because I have nothing.”

“And Ronin’s treatment isn’t going to work?”

“No.”

“Did he say that?”

“In so many words.”

“When Ronin asked—”

“Fuck Ronin.”

I tucked my free hand into his. I couldn’t let disappointment grip me. It was too easy to lapse into depression over ungranted wishes. “He asked if it was a pain thing or a control thing.”

“And?”

“And you never answered him.”

“I don’t know. Both maybe. It’s hard to get a handle on it right after. Give me… at this rate, twelve hours.”

The microwave dinged. He got up and popped it open before I had a chance to assert myself. Flipping the gel pad from one hand to the other while saying hot-hot-hot, he reminded me of a carnival juggler, starting low and getting more daring. He flipped it, spun it, tossed it from one hand to the other before whirling it like pizza dough until I laughed.

He lobbed it high, pulled the dish towel off the rack, and caught it with his hand protected by the fabric. I put my wrist on the counter, and he put the warm pad over it, keeping it steady with a firm hand.

“Ah, that’s nice,” I said.

“Good.”

“I was thinking.”

“Uh-oh.”

“About what Ronin asked, and don’t say—”

“Fuck Ronin.”

We smiled together, and he kissed me.

“Would you be less afraid of hurting me if we tried to focus more on giving you control?”

He looked at my arm, his mouth twisted with consideration, as if he was holding his thoughts back.

“Well?” I asked.

“We could try it. But I’m warning you.” He put an upraised finger between us. “You’d better be controllable, or we’re going back to pain.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

He put his free arm over my shoulder and held me. I buried my face in his chest. I could hear his heart beating, red, warm, alive, and vital, home in its cage.



* * *



With my arm in a sling, I had to completely cancel two days’ worth of sessions and truncate a full week to only the most needy patients. The painkillers made it hard to think quickly enough to engage properly, and the orthopedist had recommended a week of elevation and rigidity, which I couldn’t deliver. Two days would have to do.

I spent the time finishing up my proposal for the Gibson Center. A state-of-the-art mental health facility for post-war trauma. Synergy with VA hospitals in three states. Transportation. Outreach and medication stability for homeless vets. A licensed day care center for children while their parents were in counseling or treatment.

I put ten weeks’ of research into fifty pages of narrative and a general operating budget that took two weeks to write. I’d listened to the trials of the vets in my office and tried to find solutions. It was the best thing I’d ever done.

Five days after Caden brought me home from the ER, the sling was an optional annoyance and the proposal was ready. I emailed Tina.



* * *



Dear Director Molino,



* * *



I’ve finished the proposal. Thank you so much for the extension.

I am on reduced hours for the next two weeks, so I’ll be free to preview it for you ahead of the board of directors meeting.

I look forward to showing you the project.



* * *



Dr. Greyson Frazier, M.D.



* * *



I tidied the waiting room one-handed. The pain in my wrist had gone from a dull throb to a sharp tremor that ran to my shoulder. The nerve had been damaged when I broke it in basic training. As much as my marriage to Caden was the result of the horrors of war, the best parts of my life were the result of falling on my wrist in my first week as a soldier.

The army had always been my goal. My father and older brother, Jake, were in the army. Both had commissions and careers that contained adventure and excitement inside an orderly routine. Only Colin had no interest in serving, and Mom still gave him a hard time about it. Meanwhile, she had been surprised when I signed up. She juggled surprise, pride, and an inability to understand my motivations. That was understandable, since I didn’t really understand them either. Not fully.

I was going to be a medic. There was no war at the time, but that didn’t stop me from fantasizing about scrambling through muddy trenches with my kit, telling wounded men they’d be all right, patching them up to be moved under enemy fire. I would be their rescuing angel.

Then I smashed my wrist in basic training. I couldn’t put weight on it. Couldn’t hold anything too heavy for too long. There was no way I could manage the physical demands of a combat medic. Nor could I hold a rifle for a long time, nor squeeze a trigger repeatedly. War or no war, I couldn’t train for jobs I’d never be ready to do.

“You can get an honorable discharge,” the army therapist had said.

He was in his sixties, and I’d never forget his name. Dr. Matt Darling. I’d been sent to him to see if I wanted to be counseled out.

“I’m not quitting.” At eighteen, I was stubborn with a side of petulance.