Читать книгу Damaged Hearts - Jan St. Marcus - Страница 20

I drive home slowly, trying desperately to process what I’ve just learned about Bran. How is he homeless with a war record like his? Can the military be so messed up that they let their war heroes suffer like Bran has been suffering? I read about stuff like this happening to vets, but this really hits me the wrong way. Is that why I’m drawn to him? Is that what’s behind those eyes? Is it humility? I don’t know. I don’t get it. I don’t get him, and I don’t get me being drawn to him. Is there something between us? Something deeper? Nah. Can’t be.

I am by myself in the car and there’s nobody around to convince that my lies are true. I know I’m lying to myself. How pathetic is that? I can tell myself that nothing’s going on between us all I want, but that won’t make it true. There IS something going on between us. The fact that I have no idea what it is doesn’t make it go away. There is something going on between us. That “something” is why I didn’t hesitate to leave a strange homeless dude in my house when I left. I didn’t even think about it. That “something” is why my palms are sweating the closer I get to my garage. It’s why even now I can feel my heartbeat speeding up and my breathing getting shallow. I am scared. I am scared that when I get home, there will just be Sparky in the house to greet me. Not that Sparky doesn’t matter to me. I’ll still be happy to see him. But if Bran is not there, I will be . . . heart-broken? I told him that, didn’t I? Before I left this morning, I told Bran that, right? But I didn’t mean it. Not really. It was just something to say to get him to stay, right? Right? I feel a full-blown panic attack coming on. I try to breathe through it. But I can now hear my heart pounding in my chest as I pull into the garage. My breath is coming fast and shallow, and I can feel myself getting light-headed from lack of oxygen. I practically vault out of the car, forgetting my bag on the passenger seat, and race to the door. I need to be in the house. I need to see Bran’s green eyes, shining brightly because he’s there, happy to see me, happy to be my . . . friend. When I see his eyes, I’ll be fine. Everything will be fine.

I throw open the door, and Sparky practically tackles me as I rush past him into the kitchen. Bran’s not there. I brace myself on the refrigerator, grab my chest, and try to force my lungs to work harder. I stumble from the kitchen towards Bran’s room. The door’s open. I flail my arms against the doorjamb to steady myself as I look around the empty room. “Bran?” I yelp. I stumble back out and trip over Sparky, who has been following me, trying to get my attention. I fall onto the floor between Bran’s room and the living room. I can’t breathe. “Bran?” I cough. Oh my God! I’m dying. I can’t feel my heartbeat. Stars are dancing in front of my eyes as Sparky starts barking and nudging my hands with his snout—he knows something is wrong. “Bran?” I say, my voice sounding feeble and weak. I’m done. I feel tears streaming from my eyes as I fight to stay conscious. I’m done . . . Sparky licks the tears from my eyes as I begin to fall into unconsciousness. The licking stops, and I’m vaguely aware of the clickety-clack of his nails as he runs down the hall. He barks several times, and then I hear them making their way back to me. I can’t see. This isn’t so bad, I think. I thought dying would hurt more. All in all, this isn’t a horrible way to go. The realization calms me as I accept my fate. I had a pretty good life. But now . . . I’m . . . done …