Healing Her, Losing Me

The day Eamon got promoted to Associate Attending, I received an anonymous AirDrop.

It was a Live Photo.

Inside the physical therapy clinic, the same hands that slipped a wedding ring on my finger were gripping his ex-girlfriend’s waist.

He gave her a deep, lingering look before pressing his body weight against her.

In the brief loop of motion, her fingers were tangled in his hair, and her eyes fluttered shut as she let out a soft gasp.

I didn’t screenshot it.

I didn’t text him to demand an explanation.

I just placed my phone face down on the table.

Late that night, he came home smelling of sweet orange blossom oil and woke me up.

"Babe, it was a tricky trigger point. I had to get the right angle to apply pressure. It's just a weird visual trick from the camera."

I pulled the blanket up to my chest.

"Okay. You should get some sleep. You still have to do her pelvic floor physical therapy tomorrow."

He looked a bit surprised. "You're not mad?"

I shook my head.

So what if he can't let go of his first love?

Big deal. I have one, too.

......

Eamon sat next to me on the bed, quietly drying his freshly washed hands with a towel.

In the photo, those were the exact hands gripping Cecily’s pelvis.

His forehead had been practically resting on her shoulder.

The posture was way too intimate for a soft-tissue manipulation.

It looked exactly like a lover's embrace.

The person who sent the photo was a physical therapy resident.

We all started at the hospital together, and she still worked in his department.

Her message was brief:

[Linnea, I'm not trying to start drama, but Dr. Drummond has been doing this every single day for the past six months.]

Eamon scooted closer and reached out to stroke my hair.

"Linnea, Cecily's old lower back injury is tricky. A standard massage won't reach the inflamed tissue. I have to get in close for the myofascial release."

"I'm just treating a patient, that's all."

I tilted my head, dodging his touch, and stared blankly at the ceiling. "Yeah."

"Her ballet rehearsals have been brutal lately. Her back muscles are in severe spasm, and I'm the only one I trust to fix it."

"Yeah."

"You know my skills. I'm the best in the field."

I finally turned to look at him and gave a faint smile.

"I know, Dr. Drummond. Such a healer's compassionate heart."

That shut him up for a second.

He looked defensive.

"Are you still hung up on her?" I asked quietly.

"We broke up ages ago. We're just casual friends."

I didn't answer.

I knew exactly how heavy that "past" weighed on him.

Since Cecily moved back to the States two years ago, she never truly left his life.

A pulled muscle during rehearsal, a flared-up old injury, a sleepless night demanding a late-night house call for a massage.

The night of our legal wedding, she texted him at eleven o'clock: [Eamon, I know it's your special night with Linnea, but my back just gave out... It hurts so much. I'm so sorry to be a burden, but I didn't know who else to call.]*

Eamon had just taken off his jacket. He read the text and immediately started tying his shoes again.

I grabbed his arm. "Does it have to be tonight?"

"She's all alone in her apartment. She has absolutely no one else to rely on."

I sat on the edge of the bed and lowered my head.

He leaned down and tucked the edges of my blanket in.

"I'll be back soon. We still have our official wedding photoshoot tomorrow morning."

He didn't come back until 3 AM.

His collar carried a faint smudge of orange blossom essential oil.

He claimed it brushed onto him while he was applying a hot compress to her back.

I didn't cry. I didn't scream.

I just quietly memorized the date.

Whenever I brought Cecily up, his excuse was always the same: "She's my patient. It's my job."

The more fragile she acted, the more patient he became.

The more unreasonable her demands, the less he could say no.

Everyone in our circle whispered that they were "broken up but still entangled."

As his actual wife, I felt more like a background prop in their epic romance.

Eamon opened his mouth to say something else, but his phone buzzed on the nightstand.

I didn't mean to look, but the notification was right there.

Cecily: [Are you asleep? My body still feels hot where you pressed it. I'm so anxious about tomorrow's show...]

He glanced at the screen, his expression shifting slightly, and quickly silenced it.

"Probably just her pre-performance anxiety."

I closed my eyes. "Answer it. If she can't sleep tonight, her rehearsal tomorrow will be ruined."

He didn't pick it up.

Instead, he placed the phone face down and wrapped his arms around me.

"Don't overthink it. She and I are ancient history."

I didn't hug him back.

Suddenly, a sharp, twisting cramp shot through my lower abdomen, like someone had pinched me from the inside.

I frowned but kept my mouth shut.

There was no point in telling him.

He wouldn't listen right now anyway.