Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
“I do.” He runs his thumb along the top of my hand, back and forth, soothingly. “Do you want to keep going?”
“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I like enough of it to stay. I want to be with my friends, use my body, and feel healthy. I love being able to exercise and do all the things in this body that I can do well.”
He nods, then rises, grabs a tissue, and hands it to me. “I hear what you’re saying that you don’t want to ask her to lower it, but for what it’s worth I don’t think that makes you difficult,” he says, his voice soft, free of judgment. I understand why they call him The Professor—his tone isn’t confrontational; it’s thoughtful, steady. It calms my wild beast of a heart.
“I don’t know…” I fumble for the right words. “Maybe it does.”
He strokes my arm. “You know I went to PT for my ACL tear, right?”
“Yes.”
“I went to this sports medicine clinic in Vancouver. For whatever reason, it was so cold in there I thought I’d freeze to death. But I didn’t say anything. I just kept bundling up. I’m an athlete, right? A pro hockey player, no less. We’re supposed to be immune to cold. Then one day, this older guy—the kind of guy who would tell stories about the fish he caught way back when—was doing some rehab for his hip surgery. He walked in one day and grumbled, ‘It’s colder than Santa’s seat on the sleigh at cruising altitude.’”
I laugh, despite myself. “Why can I picture this crotchety old man so perfectly?”
Miles grins too, the warmth of it melting some of the hurt inside me. Then his smile fades, his expression turning serious. “It’s not just you. I get that you feel like it’s you right now. But it’s okay that you can’t hear them over the music, and it’s okay to ask to turn the music down. You might not be the only one who thinks it’s too loud. A lot of people don’t like loud music. And even if everyone else can hear your instructor…so what?”
My brow knits. “So what…what?” I ask, pushing him to explain.
“They can still hear the music even if she turns it down. You’re not hurting anyone by asking for her to lower it.” He hesitates, his fingers flexing slightly against mine. “I know it’s easier to tell yourself it doesn’t matter though. I used to do that all the time after my injury—pretend I didn’t need anything because I didn’t want anyone to think I couldn’t handle it. Joanne tried to help me, but I wouldn’t let her. I thought if I admitted I needed help, it meant I was weak.” He frowns, and there’s hurt in his eyes, but maybe not regret as he brushes over the back of my hand with his thumb. “I don’t miss her—we weren’t right for each other. But I regret how I handled that. She wanted me to be vulnerable. She wanted to help me. Instead, I fed my own pain. I pushed her away because I was in such a spiral. But it didn’t make me stronger; it made me lonelier. It’s something I try not to do anymore.”
I blow out a breath, noodling on that for several seconds, on whether the situations are the same. But before I can ask that—if I’m even going to ask it—he keeps going, perhaps sensing my question.
“I’m not saying it’s the same. I just want you to know that in my experience it’s not always better to think we can do it all ourselves. Hell, I’ve been to yoga classes where people ask to turn the lights up because it’s too dark. Or they ask someone to move a mat because there isn’t enough room. I’ve been at restaurants where they only have candlelight on the table, and my mom takes out her cell phone flashlight to read the menu.” He squeezes my hand again, and it feels like he’s imparting strength, or maybe just the wisdom of years—a wisdom of experience that I don’t have yet. Maybe that’s some of the difference in the ten years between us.
“It’s not just you,” he says gently. “I know it feels that way right now, but it’s okay to ask for something you need. It doesn’t make you weak; it makes you your own best advocate.”
I try to picture asking Jewel to turn down the music. I close my eyes and see myself walking into the studio before class, before anyone else arrives, and asking for what I need. It makes me feel like one frayed nerve. But it doesn’t feel as terrifying as it did before I told Miles.
“Maybe,” I say, on a shuddery breath. “Maybe I’ll do it.”
He runs his knuckles along my cheek. “Maybe is a good start.” His eyes hold mine, his gaze calm, thoughtful, passionate too. “And for the record? I’d do it for you. I’d walk right in there and ask them to turn it down. But I know that’s not what you want.”