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Aithan leaned back and crossed his arms. “Tell the cops. Tell Zelda. Get back to work.”
Tristan nodded. “Yeah, man. Thanks.” He stood up, went to the door, but paused before opening it. “I really am sorry.”
“I know.”
After Tristan left, Aithan propped his elbows on his desk and rested his lips against his clasped fingers, thinking. His chest ached, but a lot of the shock had eased.
“Kurwa.”
Tristan believed his story, but it didn’t make sense. Why would two old friends — guys he’d stopped hanging out with several years ago — drive down to Seattle, scope out the gym, and risk arrest for attempted murder after one drunken phone call? “Either he doesn’t have his story straight or he’s wrong about them,” Aithan muttered. He didn’t think Tristan was lying. Why bring the matter up just to lie about it? That made no sense either.
The alarm on his phone startled him from his thoughts. Time to go. Aithan grabbed his keys, wallet, and phone and left the office. All this mess with Tristan’s buddies would have to wait.
* * *
“Deep breath.” Dr. Porter listened and repositioned his stethoscope as Aithan slowly inhaled and exhaled. Finally, the doctor straightened and hung the device around his neck. “Well, it’s a definite improvement from the last time I saw you.”
“But?”
Dr. Rubin Porter had been Aithan’s general practitioner for as long as he’d lived in Seattle. “But your breathing test and the x-ray show that lung still hasn’t recovered completely. You’re, hmm,” he peered through his reading glasses at Aithan’s chart on his computer, “three weeks post-injury, and Thanksgiving comes in two weeks?” He nodded to himself then took off his glasses. “I know you want to go down to L.A., but I can’t clear you to fly. I’m sorry. Not until that lung is one hundred percent healed.”
Aithan grunted. He’d expected as much. “Alright. Maybe by the end of December?”
The doctor nodded. “I expect that’ll be fine, but I want to see you again in three weeks.”
“Sounds good.”
Dr. Porter sat back and considered him. “How about your mental health? Any trouble sleeping? Impatience or mood swings?”
Aithan shrugged and winced, regretting the habitual movement. “It’s hard to get comfortable, so I’m not sleeping well, but I don’t think that’s unusual. And, yeah, I’m tired of my body’s slow healing, so I guess that makes me grouchy.”
The doctor nodded. “Well, if those things worsen, come see me. I can recommend a therapist and some medication. You took a psychological hit, as well as a physical one, Aithan. That’s a recipe for post-traumatic stress disorder.”
“Gotcha.”
“There’s nothing wrong with admitting you need help. PTSD can sneak up on you.”
Aithan nodded. “Okay. Thanks. I think I’m good.”
Dr. Porter scanned his computer screen. “Looks like your STD tests all came back negative, so you can cross that off your worry list.”
Aithan looked up. “That’s good news. Thanks.”
“Were you concerned?”
“Nah, but my new girlfriend insisted on testing.”
The doctor printed out a summary of the appointment and passed it to Aithan. “Smart lady.”
“Very.” Aithan stood as Dr. Porter did. They shook hands, and the doctor left the room with a reminder for him to schedule a follow-up appointment.
Aithan scanned the paperwork and a slow smile spread across his face. Zel would be excited about the STD tests. She’d made clear what was in store for him once his jibblies received a clean bill of health. Drew wasn’t prone to locker talk, thankfully, but he’d gotten his tests first and said Zel had a magic mouth. Admittedly, that made Aithan jealous as hell.
Seattle rush hour traffic delayed his drive and it was five-thirty when Aithan parked in front of the townhouse garage. The R hanging on the front door warned him to tread lightly. He left his shoes in the foyer and crept upstairs.
Drew was sprawled on the sofa, headphones on and head nodding to the music. His fingers flew across the keyboard of his laptop. He looked up. “Hey, man, Brick still recording?” he asked quietly.
Aithan nodded. The house smelled great, like apples and cinnamon. A covered dish sat on the breakfast bar and he peeked under the lid. The applesauce brownies she’d promised.
