Chapter 2Aiden
Chapter Two
Aiden
The sterile scent of antiseptic hung in the air, but I enjoyed its sharpness. Besides, I wanted my patients to understand I took cleanliness seriously. I tapped away at my laptop, inputting notes into the electronic charting system that was fully modern despite the quaintness of my small-town practice. Then I looked up to meet the steely hazel eyes across from me.
I tried to mask my trepidation with a confident smile. “Ralph, I appreciate you coming in today. I know it’s not the most fun thing in the world.”
Ralph Porter sat on the exam table, his bare legs dangling over the side like a boy’s, though his frame was anything but boyish. His ruddy cheeks ballooned out, partly from years of indulgence and partly from the exertion of climbing onto the table.
“Sure, Doc,” Ralph grumbled, eyes narrowed under bushy gray brows. “Or maybe that’s too informal for you? Son, I helped you adjust your jock strap, and now you want to tell me I’m fat?” His voice held a gruff edge, a defensive tone that hinted at the complexity of reversing roles from coach to patient. And from hometown boy to physician. It was a tone I’d come to recognize over the past month.
“Things have changed since high school.” I maintained eye contact even as the irony of the situation gnawed at me. “We’re here to talk about your health now, not football stats.”
“Damn straight things have changed,” he muttered, folding his arms across his chest.
I suppressed a sigh, the weight of his skepticism an almost physical thing. Ralph’s sentiment was common around Dove Key, where familiarity bred a strange blend of fondness and resistance to change. And me—well, I was the boy who had left town, then come back years later a doctor. Some folks found it hard to reconcile the two.
As I set the laptop aside, I moved my rolling stool closer to Ralph, hoping proximity would bridge the gap between past and present. “I know it’s weird, seeing me in this role, but I promise you, I take your health seriously.”
“Serious as a heart attack, huh?” He tried to laugh, but it came out strained.
“Let’s aim to avoid those,” I quipped, though my stomach knotted at the mention. Heart attacks were no joke, not here in my exam room, not with the memories of failure shadowing my every decision.
“All right, then,” Ralph conceded, a flicker of trust passing through his eyes. “What’s the verdict?”
I picked up my laptop again, running through the data we’d collected. “Your blood pressure is still elevated, even after Dr. Nelson increased your amlodipine dose. I gather you’d prefer not to add another medication.” I glanced up to catch his firm, exaggerated nod. “Well, let’s start by talking about your diet…”
The conversation unfolded, my rhythms of medical advice interspersed with Ralph’s objections, then reluctant acceptance. As he lumbered off the table, I allowed myself a hint of victory.
“Thanks… Dr. Mitchell,” he said, patting my shoulder on his way out. “I guess I can lay off the beers and burgers at Conch Republic Brewpub a little. Maybe you’ve got some sense after all. ”
“Take care, Coach,” I called after him, the title slipping out with an ease that surprised me. Maybe some things never changed, even if we did.
After Ralph left, the quiet hum of the clinic settled back around me. Drawn by the irresistible scent of coffee, I decided to take fifteen and headed for the staff break room. Susan, one of my receptionists with a penchant for floral muumuus, was sorting patient pamphlets on the countertop as I poured a cup.
“Hey, Dr. Aiden,” she greeted without looking up, her tone casual but friendly. “How are you settling in?”
I leaned against the counter, watching her with a small smile. “Well, I can’t complain about the commute anymore.” The cheery light-green cottage that housed my clinic was only blocks from where I lived. “Every day’s a new adventure. But it feels right, you know? Though Dr. Nelson left some big shoes to fill.”
“Big flip-flops, more like.” As Maria, a medical assistant, walked in, her dark curls bounced with each step. “The man never wore real shoes unless he had to.”
Their laughter was easy and warm, reminding me that despite the occasional old-timer like Ralph who struggled to see me as a doctor rather than the kid who once mowed their lawns, I was welcomed here.
“Speaking of big shoes,” Susan said, turning toward me. “You’ve been doing an amazing job. I hear nothing but praise from patients.”
At least what happened between my patients and I stayed in the exam room. “Thanks, Susan. I’m trying.” I accepted the compliment, a result of trying to find my medical path. A path that had unexpectedly led me back here.
“More than trying,” Maria chimed in, nudging me playfully. “You’ve won over several hard-liners in less than a month. And installed a much better coffee machine. We’re glad to have you here. And who else would put up with our terrible jokes?”
I laughed. “I guess I’d miss the terrible jokes too.”
“See? It’s fate.” Maria grinned, and I was thankful for their presence, for this moment of camaraderie amidst the lingering shadows of my past. Of a residency rotation that had gone terribly wrong and changed the trajectory of my career. Even though that had been over six years ago, and I’d been a successful physician for four years, the failure still haunted me.
We spent a few more minutes chatting, discussing upcoming appointments and community events before we left the staff room for our various parts of my homey clinic. The two women dispersed, returning to their tasks with smiles and easy banter. I leaned against the counter, my heart lighter. While I may not have taken the path I had originally planned, this journey—my practice here in Dove Key—was shaping up to be something pretty fantastic after all.
I settled into the rhythm of the afternoon appointments, and with each diagnosis explained, each listening ear offered, trust was being built. This small town, with its tangled webs of relationships, was starting to accept me not just as the kid who left during his senior year of high school, but as Dr. Aiden Mitchell.
By the time the sun dipped toward the horizon, signaling the end of clinic hours, I had managed to convince Mr. Jenkins to take his diabetes more seriously and Mrs. Henderson to consider physical therapy for her chronic back pain. The sense of accomplishment was a soft glow in my chest as I got in my Tacoma pickup and headed east on Main Street toward home. Salty air drifted through the open driver’s window, increasing in pungency as I neared the marina.
Sailing had always been my escape, the rush of wind and the snap of canvas like a balm to my soul. An escape that I’d had to forgo for many years, but which I had enthusiastically embraced as soon as I moved back. After walking down the wooden dock, I sighed with satisfaction as I boarded my sailboat. Trotting down the stairwell led me into the cabin, where I passed through the galley and dinette into my bedroom. It wasn’t huge but still held a queen-sized bed. I changed out of my slacks and dress shirt, loving the freedom of a T-shirt and cargo shorts. Back on deck, I grabbed a nearby bucket and was transported from the confines of my medical practice to the freedom of the open sea. Well, the potential of open sea. We weren’t quite there yet.
I grabbed a hand sander and attached a fresh sheet of sandpaper before hunkering down on my hands and knees. The hull, once battered by time and neglect, was slowly taking shape under my attentive care. I moved with precision, sanding the rough edges and ensuring every inch of wood became smooth. The work was meticulous, but it gave me purpose—a quiet satisfaction that balanced the demands of my new life.
I paused to run a hand along the smooth grain and could feel the history within the fibers. The boat had seen better days, yet here she was, being restored to her former glory. The stern was so worn that whatever name she’d originally been called was lost to the wind. I needed to christen her, but something as significant as naming a boat took careful consideration. No names had struck me yet, so I was content to wait for inspiration.
Without meaning to, my eyes lifted to study Calypso Key across the narrow channel of water separating the two islands. Every time I came out here, I thought about driving over that bridge and seeing what changes time had brought to Dove Key’s illustrious neighbor.
But I always chickened out. Wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
The marina was calm at this hour. The only sounds were the gentle lapping of water against the docks and the distant call of seabirds. Standing to give my knees a break, I leaned against the mast. Loneliness had been an unexpected companion since moving back to Dove Key. I hadn’t dated anyone in a while, and the quiet nights sometimes weighed on me. My head turned once more to Calypso Key and its sheer bluff on the northeastern edge. Toward all those memories.
Memories of Stella Markham, who had dared me to dream bigger. Her laughter had been the soundtrack of our high school years, her fiery spirit the counterbalance to my cautious nature. Had it really been over fifteen years? She had been my first love—and lover—as I’d been hers. We’d also shared our first heartbreaks when our paths diverged. Which had been my fault. Unresolved feelings for her surged like the tide, unpredictable and powerful.
Where was she now? Did she ever think of me, of us, or was I just a bitter memory? Stella had always been destined for great things. Surely, she had found them. Lowering once more to the deck, my hands returned to their steady pace. Each stroke was an effort to carve out my place here, where my roots ran deeper than I cared to admit.
The western horizon barely held a hint of orange when I set down my tools. The sailboat’s deck creaked gently underfoot, a familiar sound that spoke of progress and patience. After stretching my tight back and giving in to a luxurious groan, I cracked open a cold beer I stored in a nearby cooler. The hiss of escaping bubbles cut through the quiet air. I took a long sip, the chill of the drink a stark contrast to the warmth of the air on my face.
“Here’s to small victories.” I toasted the empty air, my voice blending with the soft lapping of water against the hull. My sailboat was thirty-seven feet long, and the cabin was in pretty decent shape. Too bad the engine didn’t work—I’d had her towed here from where I bought her in Key West. My gaze drifted to the deck panel that covered the engine, where I worked on repairing the motor when sanding and varnishing got to be too tedious.
I leaned against the wheel. It wasn’t just the boat that was being restored. I was too, piece by piece. A part of me wondered if this was all an attempt at rebuilding the life that could have been. The life where I had stayed with Stella.
The thought of her was like a ghostly breeze, cooling yet unsettling. I closed my eyes, picturing her dark hair wild in the wind, eyes bright with mischief. We’d been kids then, fearless and foolish, believing we could conquer the world together.
Vivid memories of her wove through my mind. Her smile, the curve of her lips, the intensity of her dark eyes. They all felt so tangible, as if she might appear if I wished hard enough. But wishes weren’t reality. Reality was this boat, this town, my practice .
I turned to look at the water, imagining a silhouette beside me and sharing in the quiet beauty of the moment. I pictured Stella as she had been—young, vibrant, full of dreams. But we were both thirty-five now. Time had shaped us into adults with lines of experience etched upon our faces.
What might she look like now? Had life been kind to her?
The light faded completely, leaving only the soft illumination of the boat’s cabin and the glow of lights along the marina boardwalk. For a fleeting moment, I had to wonder if Stella was still in the area. My next thought was automatic. If she was, in this small town where everyone knew everyone, might we cross paths again?