Page 36 of PSYCHOlogical

Chapter Twelve

Doctor Rhoades

Idrummed my fingers against the steering wheel and stared at the traffic light. Vincent hadn’t stopped by my office as he had promised. I wondered if he regretted the kiss. The same kiss that left me smiling from Sunday evening until Monday’s workday was over.

The light turned green. I stomped the gas pedal to the floor. As my Toyota Camry crept away from the intersection, I wished I would have purchased something a little sportier. Something that allowed me to use it as a tool of decompression.

When I turned onto my block, I was surprised to see Vincent’s big black truck sitting in my driveway. I parked behind him and waited, fully expecting him to get out of his truck, come to my window, and explain his disappearance.

He opened the door and all but fell into the driveway. As he started to topple over, he slapped his hand against the side of the truck to steady himself. With eyes as thin as slits, he gazed through my windshield.

I got out and walked to his side. “Oh wow. You’re trashed, aren’t you?” I asked, not expecting a response.

He put his arm around me. “That’s…affirmative.”

I helped him into the house. The entire way, he muttered illogical nonsense about Shephard, Wallace, Pike, Somalia, and the sacrifices Marines must be ready to make. His speech was slurred, his sentences were incomplete, and none of what he said made sense.

I guided him to the couch. Assuming the worst, I asked the inevitable as he slumped into place.

“Did you get reassigned?”

He pressed his index finger against his lips and rolled onto his side. “Shhh.”

I needed to know. I forced a sigh. “Did you?”

He lowered his finger. “Nega-tive.”

Curious as to what might have prompted him to get drunk, I went to the kitchen and started a pot of coffee. When I returned to the living room with a fresh cup, he was passed out. After making him as comfortable as possible, I covered him with a light blanket and began cooking dinner.

My dinnertime attempts to wake him were an exercise in futility. I ate, cleaned up the mess, and watched three episodes of Criminal Minds before he so much as stirred. While he slept I took frequent glances at him, wondering what a mind with his experiences dreamed about. I couldn’t bring myself to think his missions would be anything he’d ever hope to relive, even if it was in a dream.

Upon waking, he looked around the living room as if it were the first time he’d ever been there. Eventually, his eyes met mine. He seemed embarrassed.

He pressed his palms against his cheeks. “Holy. Shit.”

“Good morning,” I said.

He lowered his hands and blinked a few times in disbelief. “Is it morning?”

“I was joking,” I said. “It’s a little after eight. Rough day?”

He rubbed his eyes. “I started drinking at 0800.”

“You were pretty bad. I all but carried you in.”

He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. “I didn’t do anything dumb, did I?”

I considered making up a lengthy lie about him doing something utterly ridiculous but decided not to. He looked incapable of processing a joke.

“No,” I responded. “Other than drive here drunk, you didn’t do anything dumb.”

“I had no business driving, that’s for sure,” he admitted. “Did I say anything that didn’t make sense?”

“Not really. You mumbled some stuff about Shephard and Somalia, but nothing that made sense?”

“Nothing whatsoever?”

“No. It was just rambling,” I said. “Are you hungry? I made enchiladas and rice.”