Page 12 of Citius

A video call came through before I reached five.

My best friend was already in a tailspin. “What the fuck?”

Jacobi was in his studiowearing an artfully distressed, paint-splattered linen button-down. He corrected his camera angle, all the better to show off his impish good looks and chocolate brown curls. Color-soaked canvases were visible over his shoulder. His artist’s residency at a national park on the California coast was doing wonders for his creative output.

Too bad I had to ruin his night.

Jacobi paced around his studio. The longer he read the press release, the closer his eyebrows inched toward his hairline. “You don’t have to work with him, do you? No, wait, stupid question. Of course, you do. You’re a team doctor for gymnastics. Fuck and double fuck.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

Jacobi’s initial shock cooled into concern. “Has he… Have you seen him yet?”

“No,” I said, just as Tenny dug his claws into my hip. Wincing, I untangled them from my pants. I must have missed the trim reminder on my calendar again. “But it’s only a matter of time.”

We were both quiet for a moment. Jacobi snapped out of it before I did, continuing with flippant disregard. “So what? Tons of guys fit the dark and handsome mold. Taller men. Men who don’t stink.”

I groaned. “Not this again.”

“Sorry, I know you don’t have a good frame of reference for pheromones—but come on. Didn’t you say he smelled like boxwood hedges? Most boxwoods smell like cat piss. Ergo, Wyatt Redmond smellslike cat piss. No offense to our perfect Ten and young master Kip, of course.” His expression turned puckish. “I bet your pheromone doctor smells delicious.”

Jacobi watched my expression, eager for a reaction that didn’t come. Even if I could speculate about a co-worker’s scent, pheromones did nothing for me. Could do nothing for me. And he knew it—but had never given up hope that my sense of smell would return one day, like my revived tastebuds and ability to read dense medical textbooks.

“Unless you’re finally going to—”

“No. Don’t overthink this.” I ran my fingers through my hair before digging them into the back of my skull. The sting of my fingernails was preferable to the pressure gathering behind my eyes.

“Why not?” The tone of Jacobi’s voice trailed up in challenge. “You’ve been obsessed with his scent for a decade.”

“Yeah, but more for encouragement than anything else. It makes it easier to deal with…all that.” Piles of discarded scent cards. Alternating looks of pity and disdain. Painful intimacy. Lonely, unfulfilling heats. “Even if he wanted to reconnect, what could we possibly talk about? Our shared interests don’t exactly align anymore. I mean, he was at the Olympics while I was relearning how to tie my shoelaces.”

The only thing I hated more than talking about my accident was talking about it with someone who used to know me. Before.

“Don’t, don’t do that.” The uneasy tremor in his gaze shot guilt through me. “I hate when you do that.”

“Sorry, Jacobi, it’s just… I never got to explain—to make him understand. And it’s too late.” I heaved a deep sigh, dislodging my glasses as I dug my palms into my eye sockets. “My fellowship is already hard enough.”

“You should at least consider—”

“Jacobi.” My temper was a slippery, traitorous thing.

He observed me in silence, taking sharp, shallow breaths. If he chose to push me now, even for my own good, he ran the risk of a real explosion. Or he could do the kind thing and let me maintain the illusion of control. Thankfully, my best friend was merciful.

“Is your interview with Ballantyne next week?”

I nodded and rubbed my eyes again before returning my glasses to their proper place. “Yeah, on Tuesday.”

We meandered through safe topics for another half hour—my job hunt, his latest painting, the cats, all the food Kelsey made this week that he didn’t get to eat.

After we hung up, I gathered Tenny against my chest, taking comfortin the rumble of his purrs as I tried to regain control of my unsettled emotions with a grounding exercise.

There was an inky smudge under Tenny’s nose, resembling a half-shaved handlebar mustache. What four other things could I see? The faux monstera cast interesting shadows on the curtains. A strand of sisal on the cat tree was falling off. There was a half-healed cat scratch on my forearm. The fantasy book series my younger brother gave me for my birthday last year was gathering dust on the bottom bookshelf.

The fur along Tenny’s back felt coarse, with a fluffy undercoat like a rabbit. My lips were dry. I liked the touch of the chenille pillow against my right elbow more than the velvet one near my left ankle. My toes were cold.

The cat door hinge creaked, and Kip slunk past, heading toward my bedroom. Clock ticks echoed from my office next door. A siren sounded in the distance.

Smell… The next step was to name two things I could smell. I inhaled, trying my best to get a whiff of anything, even the merest hint of Tenny’s tuna breath or my blighted pheromones—nothing, as usual.

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