SL: How about this one?
RH: You lower those sweatpants any more, we’re going to be in dick pic territory.
SL: I’d never.
RH: You could. I would not mind. Yours is pretty.
SL: Pretty??? No.
Really?
RH: Really. I’d delete it after, promise.
SL:
RH: That, my friend. Is a beautiful dick pic. Nicely lit, just a hint of flesh at the base of the shaft, outlined in your sweats. Your hand is positioned artfully, holding the dick. 14/10 for solicited dick pics. Actually, you have a beautiful hand. I could do with some hand pics too.
SL:
RH: It pains me to delete this photo.
SL: Please delete it. I did.
RH: Haha, okay. Now make sure you delete it from the cloud.
SL: The cloud? Oh fuck.
RH: I’ll help you with that when I see you tomorrow.
SL: The cloud or the . . . subject of the pic?
RH: Both if you’re lucky.
Friday 11:30 a.m.
RH: Thai food AND massages?!
SL: You have a road trip ahead of you. I imagine you’re exhausted. You need to be in top shape.
RH: Thank you.
See you soon.
SL:
Chapter Nineteen
SAMSON FINISHED pumping his gas and waved to the owner of the station, visible through the little window of the building. He knew the guy well, as well as he knew the Mexican American family who owned the tiny unassuming deli annexed to the left of the building. They made the best fish tacos and ceviche he’d had in his life.
He got into his car and buckled his seat belt. It was freeing, being back in his hometown after a while away. He didn’t have to keep a constant smile on his face now or be on guard against anyone calling him the Curse. He wasn’t a dynasty in Cayucos.
As comfortable as it was, he’d had trouble sleeping last night, after he drove up to the little town. The sound of the waves should have been soothing, but it was almost too familiar. His apartment in L.A. didn’t belong to him, but he missed the traffic and noise and bright lights like it was home.
He missed Rhiannon. Like she was home.
That dopamine hit sparked his brain awake when his phone pinged from where it was mounted on his dashboard. He smiled when he checked the text.
On my way and stuck behind a car accident. You should send more pics.
He rubbed his finger over his lip, trying and failing not to smile.
Samson had wondered if he should tell Rhi about the fake Matchmaker date he’d had a couple nights ago. The girl had been lovely and charming, and they’d spent a nice ninety minutes together.
Since all he’d wanted to do for those ninety minutes was check his phone to see if Rhi had texted, he’d ultimately decided against it. That had been business. This was personal. No need to mix the two.
He took a picture of his hand and sent it to Rhi.
The phone rang before she could reply. He frowned at the unfamiliar Boston-based number. “Hello?”
“Samson, this is Barry Kamau from Concussion Research Alliance.”
“Dr. Kamau. How are you?” Dr. Kamau was their contact at CRA. He had, in fact, been the one to diagnose CTE in Aleki all those years ago.
Dr. Kamau’s gruff voice gentled. “I wanted to call you personally with our findings, son.”
Samson placed his wrist on the steering wheel, his lungs growing tight. “You told me it could take up to six months.”
“Yes, but we’re working on streamlining our process. Is this a good time?”
No. “Yes.”
The doctor cleared his throat. “We found an excessive buildup of tau proteins in—”
Samson didn’t need to hear any more. He’d already been through this once. He tipped his head back and closed his eyes, waiting until the other man was finished speaking. “Are you going to issue a press release?” was his first question. His uncle had given them permission to publicize the research.
“We are, but it’ll be a week or two at least. If you need more time, I can delay. We are more than willing to work with you, in case you’d like to release a statement first.”
His first instinct was to decline, but then he thought of Aunt Belle. “Let me speak to my uncle’s partner.”
“Of course. Please feel free to text or call me over the weekend. I am so sorry for your loss. I know how traumatic this can be.”
Samson didn’t know how long he sat there, but he stirred when the owner of the gas station came out of the building, his creased brown face concerned. Probably wondering why Samson was loitering at the pump for so long.
He pulled away and drove through the small downtown, past the cookie company storefront and the café and the pizza place Uncle Joe had liked best. With his windows open, the crash of the ocean on sand overpowered the muted sounds of traffic. It was windy today, and still too cold for tourists.
He pulled into his aunt’s driveway. Her mansion stood tall and imposing, blocking the view of the beach from the street. Directly to the left, not too far down, was the house Rhi had rented That Night. Around the curve was his childhood home.
Aunt Belle’s place was giant, a compound compared to the relatively cozy three-bedroom home he’d grown up in. Aunt Belle and his parents had bought their lots around the same time, back when beachfront property in this area hadn’t cost the equivalent of a small country, but they’d built very different homes.
He nodded to Aunt Belle’s housekeeper as he made his way through the house, though the older woman barely glanced at him. Aunt Belle’s staff had been thrown into a tizzy in preparation for their impending houseguests. It had been so long since Annabelle had entertained.
Samson hesitated with his hand raised to knock on Aunt Belle’s office door. He didn’t want to be the bearer of this particular news, especially now, right before she engaged with an important potential business deal.
Before he could decide, the door opened, and he and Tina both reared back. “Oh, hey.”
“Hey.”
She gave him a distracted smile and spoke over her shoulder as she scooted around him. “I’ll get this handled, Belle. The first guests will be arriving soon, you may wish to get ready.”
He stepped inside the cluttered office. This room was Aunt Belle’s favorite, smaller than one might expect from a woman as wealthy as his aunt, and crammed full of books and papers and pens. Annabelle loved pens.
He closed the door behind him and inhaled the familiar woodsy scent of the room. His aunt looked up from the computer, eyebrows raised above her reading glasses. “Oh Samson. I’m a little busy.”
“I’m sure you are.” He braced his hands on the back of a chair. “Can you spare me a minute?”
“For you, of course.” She clasped her hands in front of her on the cluttered desk. “What’s on your mind?”
“I was out, getting gas, and I got a phone call.” He resettled his weight, doing his best to look her in the eyes. The words were easy enough to draft in his brain, but when he opened his mouth, nothing came out. The call was from CRA. They got the results on Uncle Joe back. Do you want to write a statement?
She studied him as the silence stretched, then sighed. “Oh dear. You found out, didn’t you?”
Oh. That sounded like she already knew. “Yes. I did. Did he . . . did he call you first?”