Chapter 2 - THE MAN WHO HATED HELP
At 7:00 the next morning, Massimo was already angry.
By 7:03, he hated me.
“Again,” I said.
“No.”
“You moved your left foot.”
“It twitched.”
“That’s movement.”
“It’s nothing.”
“It’s more than yesterday.”
Massimo gripped the parallel bars.
Sweat ran down the side of his face.
His arms shook.
“Stop talking.”
“No.”
His glare could have cracked glass.
“You enjoy this?”
“Watching arrogant men discover gravity? A little.”
One guard near the wall coughed to hide a laugh.
Massimo turned his head.
The man immediately looked at the ceiling.
I checked Massimo’s posture.
“Shift your weight forward.”
“I know how to stand.”
“You knew how to stand.”
Silence.
I regretted it instantly.
His entire body went rigid.
Then he released the bars and dropped back into the wheelchair.
“Session over.”
“We have forty minutes.”
“Get out.”
“Massimo—”
“I said get out.”
I crossed my arms.
He pointed toward the door.
“Leave.”
“No.”
His eyes narrowed.
“People usually listen when I tell them to leave.”
“That probably explains why three therapists quit.”
His jaw tightened.
I lowered my voice.
“You don’t hate therapy.”
“I hate you.”
“No. You hate needing me.”
For once, he had no answer.
I crouched in front of him.
“You want to be angry? Fine. Be angry. Curse. Break something. Threaten me if that makes you feel powerful.”
His face hardened.
“But you don’t get to waste your recovery because your pride is hurt.”
“You know nothing about my pride.”
“I know exactly what I see.”
“And what do you see?”
“A man terrified he’ll never walk into a room again.”
His breathing changed.
“And if I don’t?”
There it was.
The question beneath all the anger.
I softened.
“Then we build a life worth living from the chair.”
He looked away.
“But first,” I said, “we fight like hell.”
For three weeks, that became our routine.
He pushed.
I pushed harder.
He called me impossible.
I called him dramatic.
He threw a resistance band once.
I threw it back.
Slowly, movement returned.
A toe.
An ankle.
A knee.
Tiny victories nobody else would understand.
But I saw the way hope scared him.
Hope was dangerous because it gave him something to lose.
One night, I found him alone in the therapy room.
It was almost midnight.
His hands were locked around the bars.
“What are you doing?”
“Go away.”
“You can barely sit upright.”
“I said go away.”
Then I saw it.
His feet were on the floor.
He was trying to stand alone.
“Massimo, stop.”
He pushed.
His arms trembled.
His knees buckled.
I rushed forward.
He fell.
Hard.
We hit the floor together.
His weight knocked the air out of me.
For several seconds, neither of us moved.
Then he whispered, “Don’t tell anyone.”
I looked at him.
For the first time, the feared Massimo Pascale looked embarrassed.
Human.
“I’m your therapist. Not your mother.”
He laughed quietly.
Then his hand touched mine.
Neither of us moved away.
The door opened.
A man I hadn’t met stood there.
Tall.
Expensive suit.
Cold smile.
“Massimo.”
Massimo’s body immediately stiffened.
The stranger looked down at us on the floor.
Then at me.
“And who is this?”
Massimo’s voice turned dangerous.
“Tessa, meet my younger brother.”
The man smiled.
“Luca Pascale.”
May you like
He held out his hand.
“And you must be the woman making my brother believe miracles are real.”
