Damaged Hearts. Jan St. Marcus

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?”