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“That’s to be expected, but definitely call if your symptoms worsen or increase in frequency.” Her shrewd eyes focused on him. “How about your synesthesia and musical abilities?”
“I haven’t noticed any improvement.”
He leaned forward and lifted a framed photo of a sour-looking dark gray cat from the desk. Wolfie, he presumed. He exchanged the frame for another; this one of a much younger Jana in a floral dress, perched sideways on the lap of a handsome man in a wheelchair. She’d smiled at the camera, but the man had not—his eyes were reverent and on her. She didn’t comment as he put the frame back.
“And you’ve been doing the scent therapy?”
“Twice a day. Exactly as instructed.” More than twice a day, in all honesty.
“Any other symptoms? Mood changes?”
“No.” Alek scanned the floor-to-ceiling bookshelf. There were rows of thick medical tomes, anatomical encyclopedias, leaning stacks of glossy scientific journals, scattered plastic brains in varying levels of dissection.
“I’m not going to waste any more of our time,” she said.
Alek jerked his attention back to her.
“I’ve been in contact with Ian. He’s worried about you.I’mworried about you.”
What the fuck?
Everything was lies. As far as Alek was concerned, the deal was off. Ian couldn’t expect him to be honest when all he ever did was lie.
Alek clenched his good hand around the arm of his chair and kept his eyes on the doctor even as he felt Ian’s burning gaze like flames.
“I’m sorry. Is this some sort of medical coup?” Alek strived for amused, but sounded cold and sneering instead.
“Think of it as an intervention,” the doctor said, steepling her fingertips. “Ian, would you like to speak first?”
Alek held up his palm. “If Ian wanted to talk, he wouldn’t have recruited you to do his dirty work.”
“The suggestion to approach you together was mine,” she said.
Ian said, “Alek, I’m sorry?—”
“Dr. Modorovic, what exactly is your medical concern?”
She unfolded her hands and raised a finger to tick off each of Alek’s supposed maladies. “Irritability. Insomnia. You’ve been withdrawn. Difficult to arouse?—“
Alek scoffed. “I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“I apologize. It means that it’s been difficult to get your attention. Bouts of mania?—”
“Mania? I wish.”
“Ian mentioned you’ve purchased fifteen different wisteria cuttings over the internet—spent hundreds of dollars on them…”
Alek’s stomach tightened with betrayal. Ian might have sighed as he lifted each cutting from atop the piano lid when he dusted, but he hadn’t given any indication that he disapproved.
“I’m trying to get my music back,” he told the doctor. “Our wisteria is a stump, but it’s blooming in other climates.” He brought his hand to his chin and pushed his lips into a thoughtful pout. “Sidebar: you know what’s manic? Chopping down a house-sized vine and burning it in the same day.”
“This isn’t a personal attack, Alek,” Ian said.
“How many hours do you spend playing the piano each day?” Dr. Modorovic interjected before Alek could sling a retort back.
“I don’t know. Maybe four? Six?”
Ian’s mouth turned down. “Alek, I’ve been keeping track. You practice twelve to sixteen hours every day, and that’s what I’ve witnessed.” He looked at Dr. Modorovic. “Sometimes I wake up and he’s already at the piano.”
