After the Fall

melted out of my shoulders.
    “Hey,” I said. “What’s up?”
    “This isn’t a bad time, is it?”
    “No, you’re fine. Long as I’m getting stuff done, the boss man’s easy on me.”
    “Good, good. I’ll keep it short anyway. I just realized I still don’t have the address where you work so I can come by tonight.”
    “Oh, shit, you’re right. I’m sorry. I completely forgot to text you.” I gave him the address and added, “Come down the main drag in the Light District, and look for the sign for Ink Springs. The acupuncture clinic is right across the street.”
    “Sounds good. Five o’clock, right?”
    “Five o’clock.”
    “I’ll be there.”

    He was right on time.
    As he got out of the truck, I stole a glance at him and caught myself wondering if he wore a leather jacket when the weather was colder. He sure seemed like the type with those beat-up boots, the jeans with threadbare knees, and a Led Zeppelin T-shirt that was probably as old as he was. He had a little scruff on his jaw, a dusting of five-o’clock shadow, which of course looked great on him. What didn’t?
    He pulled open the clinic door and smiled as he took off his sunglasses. “Hey. How are you doing?”
    “Not bad.” I closed the chart I’d been working on. “Made it through the day.”
    “That’s a plus.” He scanned the waiting area, probably taking in the Chinese artwork, acupuncture diagrams, and some of the odd trinkets Mike had picked up when he’d visited China while he’d been studying.
    Ryan’s nose twitched like most people’s did the first time they came in here. I’d long ago gotten used to the pungent herbal smell of the clinic, but a newcomer’s reaction to it always reminded my senses that the scent was there.
    I chuckled. “You get used to the smell.”
    “What is it?” he asked.
    “Herbs and stuff. If you think they smell bad, try drinking them.” I made a face.
    He laughed. “I’ll pass, but thanks.”
    “I don’t blame you,” I said in a stage whisper. “Okay, I think I’m about ready to go. Let me make sure the boss is—”
    “The boss wants you to get out of here and take it easy.” Mike came around the corner. “And if you need another day off, just say so, all right?”
    “Okay, okay.”
    Mike extended his hand to Ryan. “I’m Dr. Whitman. You are . . .?”
    “Ryan.” He shook Mike’s hand. “I, uh, kind of broke your receptionist.”
    Mike’s eyebrows shot upward. “I beg your pardon?”
    “He was the one on the motorcycle.” I gingerly pushed myself up and put the crutch under my arm. “So he’s riding Tsarina for me.”
    “He . . .” Mike glanced back and forth between us. Then he shrugged. “Okay. That sounds like an interesting arrangement.”
    “I’m not sure it makes us even.” Ryan smiled sheepishly. “But if I can help keep Tsarina exercised and learn how to ride as part of the deal, I won’t complain.”
    “It makes us even enough.” I took a step and winced when pain reverberated up through my good leg. I’d been sitting most of the day, with occasional trips up and down the hallway to stretch and keep everything from seizing up. Still, after this morning’s stairway-to-hell debacle and overdoing it last night, every goddamned joint hurt. The thought of getting from the clinic to Ryan’s truck made my eyes water, and imagining myself getting from the truck to Tsarina’s stall or to the bleachers was enough to nauseate me. Maybe I should have taken Mike up on his treatment offer after all.
    “Hey.” Mike put a gentle hand on my arm. “You all right?”
    “I’m fine.”
    “You sure?” Ryan asked. “You seem a little pale.”
    “Yeah. Uh, listen.” I sighed. “I hate to do this, but do you mind if we skip the lesson tonight?” I gestured at my leg. “This is the most I’ve been up and around, and—”
    “Absolutely.”
    “Thanks. I’m sorry to have you come all the way out here for nothing.”
    He gave me an odd look. Part puzzled, part amused. But then he shrugged. “Well, as long as I’m out here, do you want to get something to eat, or a cup of coffee or something?”
    “That actually sounds really good. I’ll buy.”
    “Don’t worry about it.” He smiled. “We’ll go Dutch.”
    “Dutch works.”
    He didn’t need to know I had zero intention of letting him pick up his part of the bill.

We found a restaurant down by the river. It was one of those generic “family” joints with a little bit of