All the Way (Romancing Manhattan #1)(27)

“I get it,” she says, and then yawns. “And I’m so glad you’re feeling better. You sound so good. It makes me happy.”

“I’m pretty happy,” I confirm. “Is that bad? I mean, my parents have been gone for less than four months, and my career as I know it may be over. Is it wrong that I’m happy?”

“What are you supposed to do, London? Be miserable for the rest of your life? You’re only thirty-two, with a lot of life ahead. So no, I don’t think it’s bad that you’re healing. Grief is a process, and you’re processing. I think you sound healthy.”

“Thanks.” My glass is empty. I pull my knees up to my chest and feel the pull of tired, sore muscles.

But not sore because I’m injured. Sore because I spent the night having sex with maybe the sexiest man I’ve ever met in my life.

“Oh, one more thing about Finn; he’s almost forty.”

“That explains it,” Sasha says, and I can hear her snap her fingers in the background. “He’s older, so he has his shit together. Younger guys don’t have their shit together.”

“Most don’t,” I agree. “But not all men are like that. Finn thought that I might have an issue with the age difference.”

“Why? You’re not a minor.”

“That’s what I said. It’s not like I’m thirty and he’s seventy. That might give me pause.”

“Ew. That should give you pause. Does he have any gray hair?”

“No.”

“Too bad. I like a silver fox. That salt-and-pepper-hair thing is sexy.”

“Maybe you should date an older guy,” I reply with a laugh. “But no, he has dark hair, no gray that I’ve noticed, and dark brown eyes. Olive skin. I think his family is Italian.”

“That’s kind of hot. Does he speak Italian?”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to ask him.”

“When are you going to see him again?”

“Later today. I think it’s safe to say that I have a massive crush on him. But I think it’s more than that too.”

“It’s about time you fell in love,” she says, and I can hear the satisfied smile on her gorgeous face.

“I didn’t say love.”

“It’s okay if you’re still in denial. Enjoy your sexy, older lawyer. Fuck him all day long. Let him spoil you a bit.”

“I plan to do all of that,” I say. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow?”

“Same bat time, same bat channel.”



“You’re doing so great,” Joe says at physical therapy a week later. “How does this feel?”

He stretches my leg up by my head.

“It doesn’t hurt,” I reply, close to tears. I don’t understand why today has been so emotional for me at therapy. One minute I’m happy with my progress, and the next I want to break down into ugly sobs. “My muscles are tight because I’ve lost some of the flexibility, but I don’t feel injured.”

“Fantastic, kiddo.” He runs me through a series of exercises, watching me like a hawk. “That last lunge looked a little shaky.”

“Yeah, because I did thirty of them,” I reply, and shake my head. “I’m not training for the Olympics here.”

“True. And your strength has increased nicely. I’m very happy with your progress, London. You should be proud.”

“I am.” I blink rapidly and look down, but he catches my chin in his fingers and makes me look at him.

“What’s up with the tears today?”

“It feels different.” I shrug a shoulder, glance out the window that faces the water, and then back to Joe, who’s become more than a therapist. He’s my friend.

“How so?”

“I just . . .” I swallow hard. “It feels like things are changing with my body, and with how I feel about everything that happened. When you stretch me out, I want to cry. When I lunge, I feel proud, and angry at the same time.”

“Why angry?”

“Because my parents can’t lunge. They can’t do anything. But I’ll be damned if I’ll let the fire kill all of us, especially if I’m still living. So I’m proud, and I’m sad because I miss them.”

“They’d be so proud of you, London.” Joe pats my shoulder and waits while I brush a tear from my cheek. “You’re healing. Let’s go to my office.”

I follow behind him to his office and sit across from him, snagging a tissue from the box on his desk and wiping my eyes.

“You’ve held a lot of your grief in your body, London.”

I nod, unable to answer at first. “I hold most emotions in my body. It’s why dance was always so important to me.”

He leans forward, listening avidly.

“I express myself in dance, in music. I haven’t been able to use that as my outlet for this grief, for the sadness. But the therapy has helped.”

“I’m glad.” He smiles and opens the folder sitting on his desk. “And I have some exciting news.”

“What?”

“Well, I’m happy to report that I think our time together is done.”

I stare at him in disbelief.