Damaged Hearts. Jan St. Marcus

could change in a heartbeat. You know, a wildfire has just as much chance of fizzling out as it does of turning into a raging inferno. No way to tell. This story could fizzle out in another day or two. If Justin Bieber farts in public, this will be gone so fast nobody will remember it.” He laughs.

      “Yeah, or one of the Kardashians could post a nude selfie.”

      “So you get the picture?”

      “Got it. What’s the good news?” I ask.

      “No red flags on him crashing with you. He’s pretty clean. Not pristine, but like I said, no red flags.”

      “That doesn’t seem that complicated. What gives?” I’m confused.

      “You know how you don’t like me digging into people you know and telling you all their shit?”

      “Yeah,” I offer slowly. “What does that have to do with Bran?”

      “Well, there’s some pretty interesting stuff that I think you’d want to know, but you made your wishes pretty clear. So if you want to know it, you’ve got to be really clear with me about it.”

      “Seriously, Devon. With that kind of lead-up, how can I not want to know?”

      He laughs. “I warned you it was complicated.”

      I’m silent for a long moment. Then I feel trapped. Then I start to grow even more curious. When I first learned that NSA thought I was so important I needed some sort of security apparatus, I was pretty unnerved. I mean, what the hell was I doing that warranted all that trouble? It’s not like I was a spy doing international espionage or anything. I just developed some algorithms, tested them with datasets NSA supplied, and shared some results. Shit. I guess I realize that some of the stuff they were sending me might be actual operational files or real-world applications and data, but did that really put me in danger? Hell if I knew. After I got over the initial shock, I never really thought too much about it. But I didn’t want to know too much shit about people I was friends with or might become friends with. It always seemed like I was cheating at life. If I knew the secrets of the people around me, I would feel dirty. Especially since I couldn’t even tell anyone what I really did for a living—or for whom. So while I accepted them doing background checks on people I would be interacting with, I never wanted to know their secrets. Hell, I’m already socially awkward. There’s no way I want to add this on top of everything else I’m struggling to deal with. I laugh when I realize that I barely have any friends as it is.

      “You really think I would want to know?” I ask softly.

      “Yeah, I kind of do.”

      “Shit. Let me have it,” I say, hearing the resignation in my own voice.

      “You sure?”

      “No I’m not. But I’m trusting the heck out of you. I’m socially awkward as it is. Knowing shit about him is going to make it all the more difficult.” I hear a muffled laugh on the other end of the phone. “I know, it’s funny.”

      “It’s not that,” Devon offers. “It’s just that you are so direct and honest. It’s refreshing. I’m surrounded by these slick, secretive, duplicitous bastards all day and you just say whatever honest shit comes into your head. You’re not wrong, of course.” Now he laughs. “You are kind of . . . what’s the word you used? Awkward?”

      “Yeah.”

      “What you said. Anyway, your friend Bran is an honest-to-God war hero.”

      “Wait! What?”

      “I know, right? Short story is that when he was in Afghanistan, his squad was ambushed. His sergeant got hit in the noggin by a sniper right in front of him and they were pinned down, taking heavy fire from three sides, but Brandon pulled a superhero cape out of his ass and saved almost everyone. He was singlehandedly drawing enemy fire so his squad could get the wounded out of danger, then he slipped into the sniper’s nest, killed that son of a bitch and used the guy’s scoped AK to take out most of the other bad guys. Reading the commendation, I’m shocked he only got a Silver Star out of it. It was some really crazy, heroic shit. A couple of guys on his team said they thought he was trying to get himself killed. No matter how you look at it, it was insane.”

      My brain is spinning in my head. None of that made any sense. “What the hell?” I mutter, still in shock.

      “Like I said, he’s an honest-to-God war hero. When he got back, he out-processed from Camp Pendleton and disappeared. He didn’t even stay long enough to collect his medal. Just up and disappeared.”

      “What am I supposed to do with that?”

      Devon sighs again. “I don’t know, man. I can’t tell you what to do. But I have to tell you, when I watched that video after learning all this, I was really glad you were there and did what you did.” We are both silent for another long beat. “If it ever does get out who he is, I wouldn’t want to be any of those other guys. That’s for damn sure.”

      “Thanks, Devon. I gotta go. And I’m sure you have more important shit to worry about than my awkward ass.”

      Devon laughs. “Don’t worry about this. I got your back if anything starts bubbling over. You’re a good guy, Michelangelo. And you did a good thing. Take care.”

      Devon disconnects the call and I sit there at my desk. Mind blown.

      ***

      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.