Page 102 of Silent Heart

At the building’s door, Harley paused.

My heart skipped.

When she turned, gaze sweeping the area and landing on me, the organ in my chest began to patter wildly. I was calmer with her around; my beast sated. While the rational part of my mind protested vehemently that she was in danger by staying with me, there were two arguments to that. First, she was already exposed. Fate or Divine Providence already put her back in the path of external danger. It would be safer for her now to be with me and have what protection I could offer—for her, I would destroy any threat that dared approach her. But there was the second argument that still held ground in my mind.

I lifted my hand and returned her wave. The smile she flashed me brightened the inside of my truck in a way nothing else, no other light, ever could.

That’s because you’re so dark and damaged—nearly broken.

As long as Harley was with me, she would be in danger from me.

But as she slipped out of my sight, I let out a ragged breath. Danger from me was the biggest risk we took by continuing this relationship. Needing to sort through the chaos in my mind, I began to ramble to myself, my voice filling the truck cab.

“But I’m not losing you,” I rasped, grip tightening on the wheel.

It was settled. Final. Done. Carved onto my fucking heart.

“So now we deal with the reality that I’m a broken mess,” I asserted as I pulled away from campus. “We take each day at a time, and we do little things to make sure I never—”

Images of Harley hurt by my hands filled my mind. Bruised and battered. Bleeding and suffering—dead.

I pulled onto the curb, dropped my head into my hands, and drew in breath after breath. There was no escaping the facts that I’d harmed my brothers-in-arms, good men who’d done me no wrong, in that altered state of consciousness. Harley was at risk coming to me.

Panic gripped my chest. The vise-like squeeze made it impossible to draw a proper breath.

From far away, a rat-tap-tap sounded.

“Hey, man! You okay?” a worried voice called out.

“He’s not! Call the police,” another urged.

Swimming from the hellscape of my mind, I squinted through the side window. Worried faces peered back at me through the tinted glass.

Somehow I managed to find the button and roll the damn thing down.

“Dude, you’re having a panic attack, you need me to call the EMTs?” the student asked, beanie askew on his floppy mess of hair.

I shook my head, or tried to. The movement was jerky and incomplete.

“There’s no shame asking for help,” he said kindly. “You’re pretty bad. You took out a shrub with this monster truck.”

“No cops,” I rasped.

“Then breathe with me,” the second student insisted.

“Yeah, just do some box breathing. We’ll be cool. No cops, but you need to breathe.” The first one began a series of deep, rhythmic breaths.

By the second set, I followed along.

Minutes passed and the fear ebbed.

“There, that’s better. You got some water to drink?” the hatless one asked.

I nodded. “Yes.”

“We can hang with you if you need. But you’ve got to move the truck before campus security gives you a fine,” the beany guy said with a wince.

“No, but thank you,” I rasped. “Get to class.”

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