Heal the Heart

13.

After three months of breathing in Mumbai's sultry, summery, polluted air, one would think I'd had enough of the heat and vehicle exhaust.

Wrong.

I still hated Vancouver's wetness. The moment I landed, I didn't even exit the plane, and it started to pour. Thick, heavy drops pattered against the metal and all I wanted to do was beg the pilot to take me back. Back to any place that had sun and heat and dryness. It took me over an hour to cross immigration, another hour to get my fucking bags—and when I did, it was fucking damp—another full hour to get a cab and an extra two hours to reach campus thanks to rush hour with downpour as a side dish.

But I never hated it more than now when I conveniently forgot my umbrella and had to wade through puddles to get to the rehab centre with my bag as a handy portable shelter .

I entered through the front door and before I could open my mouth to let out my barrage of complaints, Mandy held up her hand and stopped me. "Yeah, yeah, I know, eh. But if ya start goin' on a rant now, then I'll go on a rant and then you'll go on another rant and we'll never get any work done, ya know? Take a breather, chill out, and get your arse back here."

I saluted her with two fingers. "Aye-Aye, captain."

Rebecca was nice enough to let me continue for the next school year as well. Which was honestly a blessing for me. I didn't have to look for a new job and I didn't have to start over with new colleagues. The people here were well tuned to my sudden screaming at my phone screen tendencies, and I did not have more energy to explain this again at a new workplace.

I took a seat beside Mandy at the front desk and saw a medical file under the keyboard.

"This supposed to be here?" I asked, raising it.

She snatched it from me, quickly scanned the front page and handed it over again. "Ah, shit. I forgot to return it. Can you return it for me, please? The patient is in consultation room two."

"Just arrived and already got me running errands," I murmured.

"Hey, we didn't hire ya just to sit here lookin' pretty, eh," she yelled as I left for the corridor of consultation rooms.

I heard Dr. Nazmi's voice before I saw her. The door to consultation room two was slightly ajar and I would've knocked had I not heard the patient's voice as well.

Warm like whiskey mixed with honey. Smooth and flowy like a spring. The words rolled off his tongue with such sleekness, I could've stood there listening to him talk for hours.

Fucking hell.

I scrambled to open the medical file and reading the first line that contained his name got me feeling all sorts of shit.

Mostly embarrassing shit.

Because of course Christopher fucking Beckett chose to visit the rehab centre I worked in out of all the other ones in the city.

"I wouldn't say it's painful exactly, but yeah, it feels weird," he said.

"And if I stretch it further?"

"Yep. Pain pain pain." I heard a groan and then a sigh of relief as Dr Nazmi told him to sit up.

"Your hip flexors are unusually tight. Stand up." And then, "No, no, try without the support." Some shuffling later. "Pain?"

"A solid seven in my right knee."

I heard a loud plop and another grunt.

"That fixator thing completely fucked my knee," he said, followed by a meek, "Sorry."