Читать книгу Damaged Hearts - Jan St. Marcus - Страница 18

I’m disoriented. I haven’t had a good night’s sleep in . . . I don’t know how long. I mean, I’ve slept, but not well. It’s been six months. I haven’t slept since . . . since Leo died. So why now? Bran. It has to be. There’s no other explanation. Now I know the what, but I don’t understand the why. What the hell is it about this kid that has me tied up in knots? That’s the question. I look up at the ceiling and my clock is projecting 8:30 a.m. Just then, my alarm clock begins its steady chirping. Time to get up.

I’m not tired. Another first. I stretch and hit Sparky. Doesn’t he usually wake up before I do? Well, he’s awake now. He jumps up on my chest and begins licking my face. “Good morning to you too, Sparky.”

I roll my legs off the side of the bed, look around, and then stand up and walk to the bathroom. I look at myself in the mirror. I look the same. But I don’t feel the same. Something has changed. But I can’t figure out what it is. No matter how many times I turn it over in my mind, the answer is always the same: Bran. It has been two days, and he’s changed me.

I take my shower, get dressed, and make my way to the kitchen. When I round the corner, Bran is standing there in his dark-blue jeans and his light-blue shirt. It’s the combo I remember from the GAP. Yes, he looks like a college student. But there’s something else. He’s made breakfast. I don’t know why I didn’t smell it, but I didn’t. Bacon, eggs, and biscuits. I smile. “Wow. Looks good.”

“I did my best,” Bran says with a smile. “I don’t know if it will be as good as yours. But time will tell.”

I move to the counter and sit down. He has set up the place settings exactly the way I did that first night. He learns fast. I smile again.

Bran carries a bowl full of scrambled eggs and a plate with the bacon and sets them on the counter in front of me. Then he opens the silverware drawer and pulls out a large spoon for the eggs and tongs for the bacon. He sets it in front of me and says, “Dig in.”

I pick up the spoon and put a helping of eggs on my plate. Then I pluck three pieces of bacon and grab a biscuit. My first bite of eggs is perfect. “Nice job, my friend. The eggs are great.”

“It wasn’t that hard. I don’t know why people make such a big deal about scrambled eggs.” He sits down next to me.

“Don’t sell yourself short, Bran. Cooking is never as easy as it looks. You must be hiding some experience.” I look at Bran and catch his eyes. He looks away, smiling shyly.

He just sits there smiling at me while he spoons some eggs onto his plate, grabs some bacon and a biscuit, and digs in. We eat in silence for a while. It’s a comfortable silence. Like the silence between two friends who don’t feel the need to fill in empty space with meaningless chatter. I like it.

As I finish my first helping of eggs, Sparky paws at my bare feet. Shit. I was so excited about the breakfast that I completely forgot about my best friend, Sparky. “Go get your leash.” Sparky runs off towards the door and returns a few seconds later, dropping his harness and leash at my feet.

“I have to run Sparky out. But don’t worry, I’ll be back for seconds.”

“I don’t know, dude. I hope there’s some left when you return.” Bran flashes me a smile and takes another bite of his eggs.

“Well, a boy can hope right?”

“Yes, you can,” Bran says through a mouth full of eggs. I put on Sparky’s leash and head for the garage.

As he usually does when there is uneaten food in the house, Sparky makes quick work of his morning business and pulls me back to the house. When we get back to the kitchen, I am pleasantly surprised to see my plate full, with a second helping of bacon, eggs, and a biscuit. There is no sign of Bran.

I find myself not caring because this breakfast is really good. I eat through my smile, enjoying every bite. A few minutes later I’m walking my dishes to the sink and Bran appears behind me.

“I think you’re going to want to see this.” Bran approaches me with his iPad, touches the screen, and shows it to me. My heart skips a beat as I watch our video again. For a fleeting moment, my trepidation leaves me as I realize I’m thinking about this as “our” video. Like it’s “our” song or something. This strikes me as pretty funny, and I smile. But just for a moment. I see the comments. It has now generated over two million hits. In the comments there are numerous references to the Bad Ass Samaritan. As if that were not bad enough, most of the commenters are trying to track down the identities of the three frat boys. In typical lynch-mob fashion, the internet wants to find them, and make them pay. This story has now taken on a life of its own. This is not good.

“So much for my keeping a low profile,” I say softly. Even I can hear the fear and nervousness in my voice.

“I am so sorry, Michelangelo,” Bran says, reaching up and squeezing my shoulder. “I had no idea I was going to turn your life upside down.”

I look down at him and notice his hand on my shoulder. He sees me and pulls his hand away. “It’s not your fault,” I tell him. “There’s no possible way you could’ve known.”

Bran hangs his head and walks back to the counter. He turns around and looks up at me. Our eyes meet. His eyes, which only moments ago were sparkling and dancing with light, are now the same dull shade of green that I saw two nights ago. My heart breaks. “Fuck my life,” he whispers as he hangs his head.

“Don’t say that!” I close the distance between us, put my index finger under his chin, and raise his head so our eyes meet again. “This is not your fault. Don’t you dare take this on. It’s not your fault.”

He forces his chin back down and pulls away from my hand. “Everything I touch turns to shit.” And then he pushes his way past me and walks to his bedroom.

I take a series of deep breaths and try to calm my brain. I can feel my legs itching to follow him. I have to fix this. But what? How? What could I possibly say? What do I need to do? I run another series of my breathing exercises to stave off the impending panic attack. I can feel it there, just beneath the surface, begging to take over. I hate this feeling. I force my brain to quiet itself. I go into mathematician mode.

Most people don’t realize that the two hemispheres of our brains are very different. In right-handed people, the left hemisphere of the brain controls most cognitive functions. Things like logic, time, and language are all controlled by the left brain. The right brain in these people deals with spatial relationships, feelings, and other, more fuzzy functions. Only one hemisphere of the brain can operate at a time in most people. If, for example, you were doing a math problem and are right handed, your left brain is fully engaged. If you are looking at or creating a piece of art, your right brain would be in control. These are the generalities that govern our brain activity in most instances. The emotions I am feeling right now—the heartbreak, the shared pain, the desire to make everything all right—are all functions of my right brain. But the right brain has no problem-solving abilities. And this—whatever it is between Bran and me—is a problem. I need to solve it.

I run a series of advanced mathematical equations in my head. This always helps me deal with emotional situations. I turn them into problems and get them out of my right brain and into my left brain so I can solve them. Running equations in my head is like doing a hard reboot on your phone or computer. After a minute or so, I am calm. Now I can work on solving this problem. At least that’s what I tell myself. The first logical thought I have is that Bran is emotional and no matter how logical or well-reasoned I am, he’s not going to be in a place where he can understand. So I’m wasting my time, right? My next logical thought is that my first instincts were correct—I need to go talk to him. I head to his room.

I knock on the open door, but I don’t see him. “Bran? Are you okay?” No answer. I walk in and see that he’s taking his clothes down from the closet and throwing them into his duffel bag. “What are you doing?” I ask, feeling the panic rising in my voice.

“I’m leaving,” he mumbles. “Everything I touch turns to shit, and you don’t deserve that. You’re a really nice guy, and I appreciate the last couple of days, but I have to go.” He turns to look at me and immediately averts his eyes as he throws the last of his things into the bag.

“Wait. Please? Can we just talk, please?” I hope I don’t sound too pathetic begging him to stay. But then I realize that I don’t care. “I don’t want you to go.”

“It’s for the best,” he says, his voice choking. He picks up his bag and starts to move towards me.

I stand my ground. “Just listen,” I say. “Just listen for a minute. Don’t you at least owe me that much?”

“I knew it!” he sneers. “I knew this was too good to be true. You’re just like all the others.”

“Don’t do that,” I bark. “That’s not fair and you know it. Now calm the hell down and let me talk to you for a minute!”

He looks up at me, his face reddening. He plops down on the bed, looking up at me defiantly. “Don’t do what?”

“Don’t try to turn this into something ugly to give yourself an excuse to blame it on me.”

“Is that what I’m doing?”

“Yeah. All that shit about how I’m just like everyone else. That’s bullshit and you know it.”

“Whatever,” he says, looking away.

“Here’s the thing. If you want to leave, fine. I can’t make you stay. But that video is not your fault. Look around. Does this look like the house of a guy whose life is turning to shit? No way. Not even close. Is the press hounding me and sticking cameras in my face? No—”

“Not yet,” he sneers.

“Yeah. Not yet. And maybe never. And maybe they will descend on us like a plague of locusts, we just don’t know. So why do you think you have to leave. Just tell me that?”

“Because if it hasn’t turned to shit already, it will. It always does with me. Don’t you understand? You don’t know me. You don’t know what happens to everyone I’ve ever cared about.” He gives me a quick glance, and then turns away again. “I like you. I don’t want you to get caught up in my bullshit. You don’t deserve this. Me. All my shit. You deserve better …” He trails off and hangs his head again. His feet kick at the carpet.

“Look at me,” I say. “Look at me, Bran. Please.” He looks up. “I need you to be clear on something—crystal clear. Are you listening?” He nods. “I don’t want you to leave. Not over this shit. I like you. Maybe I’m crazy. Maybe I’m lonely. Maybe I don’t know what the hell I want or what the hell I’m doing. I’ll give you that. But for whatever reason, I like you and—” I stop as I feel myself getting emotional.

“But I know this shit is going to ruin your life,” he spits.

I take a deep breath and stare into his eyes. “All I know is that it’ll break my heart if you leave like this. That’s what I know.” I look down as I hear my words reflecting back to my ears. Did I really say that to him? Hell, yeah I did. I look back up and catch his eyes again. I speak very slowly and clearly as I stare at his eyes. “It will break my fucking heart.” Now it’s my turn to avert my eyes. I wipe my face and leave.

I walk straight to my room, grab my bag, and head to the garage. There’s nothing more I can say or do. As I open the garage door, I glance down the hall and see Sparky looking at me with a puzzled expression. My thoughts exactly. My heart is beating fast as I power up the GT3 and open the garage door. I pull out into the alley and pause. Before I realize what I’m doing, I click off the stability management program so I can spin the wheels. I’m going to peel out and leave a fifty-yard-long strip of rubber on the pavement. I rev the engine and the moment my foot starts to stab at the accelerator, my left-brain takes over control, and I gently pull away. Probably a good thing, since my eyes are blurred with tears.