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“Sure,” Drew said. “In the garage?”
“Yes, go through the side door. The bins are all on a rolling cart. You can just pull the whole thing up and leave the cart.”
“No one will take it?” Aithan asked. The idea of leaving anything that portable by the road was unfathomable. In L.A. it would disappear before he even got back to the house.
“Oh, no one would bother with that rickety thing. The wheels might fall off before you reach the end of the driveway.” She lowered her voice and added, “If they do, throw the whole thing in the garbage so Hob doesn’t piece it togetheragain.”
Aithan and Drew chuckled, then headed out to the garage.
As they carted the bins and trash can up the long, curving driveway, Drew said, “Listen, there’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”
“Okay. Shoot.”
“PTSD.”
Frowning, Aithan squinted at him. “Huh?” They reached the road and wheeled the trash and recycling over to the mailbox. “What about it?”
“I deal with its complex form. I use behavioral therapy, thought stopping techniques, and grounding,lotsof grounding. Used to be on heavy medication, too. The point is, I know the signs.”
“Zel?”
“No, dip-shit. You.”
Aithan was taken aback. Drew thought he had PTSD? Had he gotten that bad? He shook his head. “I’m just frustrated by this slow recovery. I’m not about to come unhinged.”
“Short temper? Trouble sleeping? Impatience? Triggered by things that never bothered you before?”
Aithan folded his arms. “Listen, I appreciate your concern, but I’m good. Already had this talk with my doctor.”
“Huh. Then how come Tobias is worried?”
That actually made his head jerk. “Worried how?”
“Last time he was over, he pulled me aside and said he’s sure you’ve got PTSD and he’s worried you’re gonna takes someone’s head off. Considering he’s your best friend and knows you better than any of us, I figured if he’s concerned, I oughta be, too.” Drew kicked a rock across the road. A car passed them, slowed, and turned into a driveway on the opposite side of the street. “So I started watching you. Like I said, PTSD and I go way back. Maybe you’re holding it off. Maybe you’re not. Either way, you’re fighting something.”
“I’m not—”
“Come off it, man!” Drew stepped toward him, rage on his face.
Anger surged through him and Aithan’s hands balled into fists, his body tensed for a fight.
Drew immediately stepped back and relaxed, all threat gone. “Feeling calm and controlled?”
Aithan closed his eyes and blew out a slow breath. He flexed his fingers, but he’d by lying if he said he wasn’t shaking from the adrenaline. “Glupku, that’s a good way to get your face broken.”
“Yeah, but it’s also a good way to prove my point. You way overreacted to that and you know it.”
“Okay. I hear ya. I’ll talk to my doctor.”
Drew reached out slowly, like he was dealing with a spooked horse. “Good man.” He gripped Aithan’s shoulder. “I know what this shit’s like, so talk to me if you need to. I’ve been there and back again more times than I can count, and did a lot of things I regret before I got help.”
Nodding, Aithan suddenly pulled the guy into a hug. “Thanks, man.” He meant it. Maybe he’d known that’s what was wrong all this time, but he’d needed someone to stick his nose in it, someone who’d been through it, who wasn’t scared of it, and who was all too willing to storm the gates of personal privacy.
Drew returned the hug, completely unashamed by the contact. It was another thing Aithan admired about him. Intimacy didn’t weird him out. “Anytime. Anything. I mean it.”
They turned and headed back toward the house. “I know you do. And I appreciate that, brother.”
“Can’t believe you called me a dumbass.”
