Dr. Wei discusses aftercare instructions, medication schedules, and follow-up appointments. I find myself instinctively taking mental notes, falling into my professional habit of cataloging medical information, while Alder is surprisingly attentive to every detail.
Just as Dr. Wei finishes, the waiting room door opens to reveal a lanky Black teenager with a backpack slung over one shoulder.
"What's good, A-Stag? How's my man Gordie?"
"LeMarcus." Alder's relief is palpable as he clasps the boy's hand in a complicated handshake. "Thanks for coming. Gordie just got out of surgery. He's going to be fine."
"That's what's up." LeMarcus nods, then turns curious eyes to me. "You must be the dentist. My ma said you moved in.”
I feel the heat creep into my cheeks. "Lena Sinclair. Nice to meet you."
"LeMarcus Washington, dog-whisperer." He grins, revealing a set of perfectly aligned teeth. "Braces," he explains, catching my professional assessment.
"I can tell," I say. "Beautiful occlusion."
LeMarcus laughs. "Yo, A-Stag, she really is a dentist. I thought maybe that was some kind of code."
Alder rolls his eyes. "Why would I need a code for her profession?"
"I dunno, man. You hockey dudes are weird."
While we wait to see Gordie, Alder goes over the plan with LeMarcus, who listens with surprising attentiveness for a college-aged kid. I observe their easy rapport, the wayLeMarcus teases Alder without hesitation, and the obvious affection beneath their banter.
"So, I'll stay here with G-man til he’s released and then drive him home in your Escalade,” LeMarcus says, ticking points off on his fingers. "You two go to the wedding, get your fancy on, and I'll text updates so you don't stress the whole time."
“Message me Gordie pics every hour," Alder says seriously, and LeMarcus snorts.
"Every hour? Nah, that's excessive. How about every twenty minutes?"
They burst into laughter, and I smile despite my exhaustion. There's something deeply endearing about seeing this side of Alder—the one who inspires such loyalty from his young neighbor, who worries about his rescue dog, and who notices when I'm uncomfortable at parties or self-conscious about fitting into a kayak.
When they finally walk us back to see Gordie—groggy, with a cone of shame and stitches in his gum—Alder kneels beside the crate, whispering to him through the grate. The tenderness in his expression makes my throat tight. For just a moment, I allow myself to indulge in the dangerous thought that Alder Stag might be someone I could actually fall for if circumstances were different.
If we weren't conspiring for revenge on our exes.
If he weren't technically my patient.
If I weren't planning to move out.
"We're going to make it,” I say, glancing at the dashboard clock as Alder drives us back to the townhouse in my Honda.
Alder clenches his jaw and weaves through traffic with the confident precision of someone who's spent a lifetime navigating Pittsburgh's labyrinthine roads. Still, his white knuckles on the steering wheel suggest he’s feeling anxious. “I feel like no matter what I do today, I’m letting someone down.” He doesn’t look at me as he says this, swerving onto the 9thStreet bridge and veering toward our…his townhouse complex.
“Hey,” I try to sound soothing. “You are keeping Gordie safe. You responded immediately when you knew something was wrong. And you said your brother’s wedding is casual. We’ll pound some coffee, throw on our fancy clothes, and zoom back across the river.”
My words seem to calm him a bit, even as anxiety blooms in my chest at the thought of facing Alder's entire family—plus his teammates and coaches—after our emotionally charged night.
As if reading my mind, Alder says, "We should probably keep our hands to ourselves at the wedding. Uncle Tim will be watching, and he's already suspicious about the fraternization policy."
"That won't be a problem," I assure him, staring out the window at passing houses. "Coach and half the team will be there. I'll be on my best professional behavior."
"Right." Something in his tone makes me glance over, but his expression is unreadable as he navigates a turn. "Professional."
We lapse into silence, the unspoken implications of our conversation hovering between us. What are we, exactly? Roommates who shared a bed last night because of a crisis? Something more complicated that neither of us can define?
By the time we arrive at the townhouse, it's nearly 1:30, giving us just over two hours before the ceremony. We part awkwardly in the hallway, each heading to separate bathrooms to shower away the hospital smell and exhaustion.
"I, uh, put fresh towels in the guest bath yesterday," Alder says, running a hand through his hair. "And I peeked at your shampoo brand and stocked up when I was at the store.”
