But they were ugly. And they were an ugly reminder of the most selfish mistake of his life.

“Tell me what to do,” she said, placing her hands near his.

He nodded jerkily and covered one of her hands with his own. “Here,” he said, directing her toward the most intransigent of the knots.

She pressed her fingers down but with not nearly enough pressure. “Is that all right?”

He used his hand to push hers down harder. “Like this.”

She caught her lower lip between her teeth and tried again, this time reaching that awful spot deep in what was left of his muscle. He groaned, and she immediately let up. “Did I—”

“No,” he said, “it’s good.”

“All right.” She gave him a hesitant look and got back to work, pausing every few seconds to stretch her fingers.

“Sometimes I use my elbow,” he told her, still feeling somewhat self-conscious.

She looked at him curiously, then gave a little shrug and tried his suggestion.

“Oh, my God,” he moaned, falling back against the pillows. Why did this feel so much better when someone else did it?

“I have an idea,” she said. “Lie on your side.”

Honestly, he didn’t think he could move. He managed to lift one hand, but only for a second. He was boneless. There couldn’t possibly be another explanation.

She chuckled and rolled him herself, turning him away from her so that his injured leg was on top. “You should stretch it,” she said, and she held his knee in place as she bent his leg, bringing his ankle to his buttocks.

Or rather, halfway there.

“Are you all right?” she asked.

He nodded, shaking from the pain. But it was— Well, maybe not a good pain, but a useful one. He could feel something loosening in his flesh, and when he lay again on his back and she gently massaged the aching muscle, it almost felt as if something angry was leaving him, rising through his skin and lifting away from his soul. His leg throbbed, but his heart felt lighter, and for the first time in years, the world seemed to be filled with possibility.

“I love you,” he said. And he thought to himself, That makes five. Five times he’d said it. It wasn’t nearly enough.

“And I love you.” She bent down and kissed his leg.

He touched his face and felt tears. He hadn’t realized he was crying. “I love you,” he said again.

Six.

“I love you.”

Seven.

She looked up with a perplexed smile.

He touched her nose. “I love you.”

“What are you doing?”

“Eight,” he said aloud.

“What?”

“That makes eight times I’ve said it. I love you.”

“You’re counting?”

“It’s nine now, and”—he shrugged—“I always count. You should know that by now.”

“Don’t you think you should finish the night with an even ten?”