Page 13 of Silent Is The Heart

“It doesn’t work like that,” he grumps, typing out a message.

“What? Is your dick on a schedule?”

“No, but apparently yours is.”

Okay. That was fair. One point to Wolf.

My patience is at its limit, though, so I snatch his phone. One of the benefits of being a few inches taller than him.

Rushing out of the office while he grapples with the back of my shirt, I type out a message, informing Melissa that we’re taking her out to dinner and then meeting a potential client at Pulse later. She’s a sucker for promoting her man—she’ll bite.

“Ha!” I laugh when she responds, confirming. “You’re welcome,” I inform Wolf, tossing his phone back to him. “I just saved you from a boring evening of foot rubs and scented oils.”

Reading his text, he heaves out a long-suffering sigh. “Fine, but I’m not drinking.”

Rolling my eyes at him, I throw a salute at Shannon to let her know we’re out for the evening. It’s her turn to close, so she doesn’t act surprised.

“I’m not,” Wolf repeats, close on my heels.

He’s a total lightweight and yet lacks the ability to sayno. I’m not going to be the only one who’s miserable tomorrow. That’s what he gets for disrupting our routine with this festival nonsense.

What’s the point of being self-employed and beholden to no one if you schedule foot rubs and fuckery? We seriously need to have a business meeting one of these days.

CHAPTER 8

Aaron

Staring up at the sign above the doorway of the two-story brick building across the street, the mid-morning sun breaks through the clouds, warming my face. I’ve never been to a tattoo parlor before. I didn’t even consider whether such places were open this early, but there seem to be people inside through the shop window. Do people actually get tattoos right after breakfast? A man steps out of the liquor store behind me, carrying a case of beer. Stranger things have happened than getting a tattoo before noon, I guess.

Adjusting the strap of my messenger bag on my shoulder, I let out a long breath and eye the door. S&H Ink. This is it—the name that was on the business card I snagged off that table at the festival last weekend when I was helping George haul totes of Rachel’s homemade jewelry to their van from her craft booth.

That’s when I saw him—Easton Bennick. Well, not him, his photo, sitting on display at that tattoo booth’s table. Talk about a blast from the past.

He was smiling. Smiling andnotat Hampton Hills. It warmed my heart knowing it means he might have had a good life after he left the facility.

There was another kid in the photo. Apparently, he made a friend when he left. Another tattoo artist—at least, that’s what the woman at the stall said when I asked her about the picture.

I never would have imagined tattooing to be his profession of choice. It’s certainly one medium of art, and he was, without a doubt, talented beyond reason. I’m so glad he did something with his gift.

I still don’t know what I’m doing here, but for the life of me, I can’t bring my feet to move from this sidewalk. That picture has been emblazoned in my brain all week. Easton Bennick. Unbelievable. It seems like a lifetime ago.

Being at Hampton Hills again has brought back memories of that fresh-faced fellowship kid I was, the one who thought he was going to leave a positive impact on the world, even if in small measures. It was life before Jason. Before I moved to Seattle. Before my entire world changed, and I somehow lost my grasp on everything I once held dear. It was back when everything was so much simpler; caring about patients and coming home to a quiet, humble life.

I missthatAaron Manicki. I hadn’t realized how much until I saw that photo of Easton. Some logical part of my brain asks me how I think beinghereis going to get that version of me back.

Swallowing at the thickness in my throat, I shake out the anxious sensation in my hands. Ishouldn’tbe here. I know that. I’m still such a mess, clearly. I’m standing outside the business of one of my former patients, for crying out loud. I should be at home listening to self-help podcasts or possibly finding a second job to dig myself out of debt, not spying on Easton Bennick.

Except I crossed the line before I even got here. Didn’t I?

I… couldn’t help myself.

Maybe it was the appeal of thinking about something else other than my own problems because I gave little conscious thought to protocol while looking through Dr. Norton’s old files. I told myself thatI’min charge now—his files are undermymanagement. Both are true, but I knew well and good that only curiosity sent me rifling through them, not a substantiated medical obligation.

What I discovered turned curiosity into a full-blown obsession. Easton never came back.

He left Hampton Hills about a month after I did. That’s basically where his paper trail ended. There were a few notes about follow-up inquiries, but he failed to respond to any of them. He never returned for any check-ups or any of the continued therapy that was available to him.

Innocently perusing his file was nothing untoward, but now I wish I hadn’t read it. I wish I could find an ethical reason to justify this need I have to know why he cut all ties with his program. It’s been the only occupant of my thoughts the entire week.

---