Bryson finally appears, and all the self-convincing I’d worked on for six days now disappears like powder in a storm. He doesn’t look at me or for me, though I know he must have seen my truck here. Instead, he goes straight to the back door and swings it open. Charlie’s waiting for him in the doorway, and Bryson obviously doesn’t like what he’s being told because he backs up and lets the screen slam shut. He turns, shoves his hands into his pockets, and finally makes the eye contact I’ve been waiting for. Though, once it comes, I question my desire for it. Bryson’s eyes are dull, emotionless, and the black he wears today seems to strangle all other color from his face.
Louie sneaks forward, barks, and jumps back. He can sense our tension, which isn’t good.
“Do you want to help me with a little experiment?” I call out, ignoring the way my stomach flips at the idea of his being closer. Bryson walks toward me, reluctantly, and Louie barks again. “Easy, boy. He’s not going to hurt you.”
Bryson pauses a few feet from us. “What did you have in mind?” His tone is flat, heartbreakingly absent of the tender affection his voice usually holds. I search his face for even a tiny hint of feeling but nothing’s there but complete indifference.
Whereas I have to clamp my fingers not to reach out and touch him. “Louie is working on trust, and he’s done great with Charlie and me, but it’d be nice to see how he responds to you.”
Bryson eyes me suspiciously, and I can’t help but smile. “Don’t worry, he won’t bite you. Just start slow. Maybe try to touch his head.”
He reaches out while I encourage Louie the whole time. Both boys are hesitant and nervous, but as soon as Bryson makes contact, they both seem to exhale. Louie steps into the touch while Bryson’s mouth twitches just slightly upward. “He seems to like it.”
Louie leans his 160-pound body against me, nearly knocking me over. “Yes, he’s very affectionate . . . and very heavy.” I push him off, hopeful that maybe this exercise will do more than bond man and beast, but also maybe ease the discomfort between the two of us.
Bryson pulls his hand away and shoves it back in his pocket. “Looks like you’ve made a lot of progress.”
“I have, and not just with Louie.” I command the big guy to lie down, and he quickly does, stretching out again on our blanket. “Let me show you how well Penny’s doing.” I can tell Bryson doesn’t really want to follow me, but he does anyway. “After our . . . um, incident, Charlie put chicken wire all around Bentley’s old cage so there was no way she could get out during training. But then it hit me that I’ve spent all this time trying to fix the symptoms, all the while ignoring the root of her aggression. She hates the crate. It’s a cage to her. A cage she is constantly stuck in.” Our eyes meet for a brief second, and I quickly look away. “So we started putting her out here in the morning and leaving her until bedtime without any demands or training, and overnight she transformed.” I stop at the fencing and lean my forearms on the metal. “Yesterday, she put the tennis balls in the bucket all on her own.” I watch as Penny trots along the wide space, toys all around for her to choose from. “All this time, she knew what she was supposed to do; she just wanted to do it on her terms.”
Bryson slides in next to me, but it feels unnatural. Like every step he takes is carefully constructed to hide whatever he might really be thinking. “Does that mean Charlie’s going to let her go to the adoption fair?”
I swallow down my rising emotion. “Yep, this weekend, finally. I just have to disclose the bite, and we both agreed she can’t be placed in a home with other dogs.” Bryson glances at my hand, and I roll it forward and backward. I’m down to just a small Band-Aid now. “Mostly healed.”
“Good.” There’s a hard punctuation, like he’s trying his best to end the conversation.
I ignore the effort. “Are you nervous about the concert tomorrow?”
“Nope. It’s just one more stage and one more performance.”
I wish that were all it was, but we both know it could very well be the last concert they play as an unsigned band. “And things have been . . . okay?”
Bryson turns and his gaze chills me. He’s still angry, but I welcome it. It’s the first real emotion he’s shown since walking up to me.
I brace myself for whatever fiery remark he decides to throw, but Charlie appears before he gets the chance.
“Hey, Darcy, you ready for more lessons?” He winks at me like he has no idea Bryson and I broke up, which I know for a fact he does. “I can’t in good conscience let you finish out the summer without hitting a target.”
I glance at Bryson, who used Charlie’s arrival to steadily ease away from me. He doesn’t outright uninvite me, but his body language certainly wants to. “Maybe later. I still have some exercises I want to run Louie through.”
“Yeah, that’s probably a good call.” Bryson rolls his shoulders, struggling to relax. I give him credit for trying. The old Bryson would have ignored me completely. This one is at least attempting civility.
Charlie passes by us in a hurry but stops when Louie stands, excited to see him. “Hey there, you crazy giant.” He rubs Louie’s face like they’ve been touching forever and not just for a few days now. “You want to walk with me to get the Gator?”
“I can get it,” Bryson offers, his eagerness to get away from me more than apparent.
“Nah. You guys chat.” Charlie’s brows lift, and we both know it’s more an order than a suggestion. “I’m going to get my workout in for today. Oh, and, Darcy, remind me to talk to you later about a phone call I got this morning.”
“Okay? We can talk about it now.”
“Nope, this is a sit-down kind of conversation.” He pats his thigh. “Come on, Louie. Let’s leave these two knuckleheads alone.” They walk away, Charlie in old mud boots and a hunting vest. Louie leaping as they trot, because he’s just now learning that there’s more to life than hiding in a ten-by-ten-foot cage.
“Do you know anything about the phone call?”
“Nope.” Bryson leans his back against Penny’s kennel, annoyance written all over the set of his shoulders. He looks as though he’s trapped here with me, and I hate that he might feel this way. Sure, we have some things to overcome, but that doesn’t erase all we’ve shared together.
“I went to see my dad this past weekend,” I throw out, desperate for something to break past his shell. “It was hard, really hard to see him, but I’m glad—”
“Don’t,” he snaps, stone still, his jaw clenched tight.
I heave a deliberate sigh. He’s being impossible. “Don’t what? Try and talk to you?”
He pushes off the kennel and pulls on his neck. “This isn’t talking. This is sharing, and I’m not doing that with you anymore.”
My eyes sting, and I feel the loss of him so severely, I want to rip my hair out. “So we can’t even be friends?”
“No, Darcy. We can’t. That’s not how I work.” A frustrated breath hisses through his teeth. “There’s only one person who gets to know me intimately, the person I plan to be with forever. I thought maybe that could be you, but now that’s not going to happen. So no. We can’t be friends, because unlike you, I don’t see a line. I look at you and it’s still all there, so honestly, being around you sucks for me. But that’s life, and I’ll deal with it. But do me a favor and stop, okay? Stop trying to create something new between us, because—” His voice breaks and he curses, turning toward the pasture. “Why won’t that blasted dog stop barking?”
The sound comes slowly, my mind so wrapped up in Bryson’s words that I’d shut out the world around us. Louie’s bark isn’t just loud and continuous; it’s manic and higher pitched than I’ve ever heard from him. “Something’s wrong.” I listen closer, the hair on my arms rising. “Louie’s panicked.”
The frantic dog runs toward us and then rushes back to the same spot, his head leaning down, his eyes fixated on something in the grass. His barking grows louder and louder. “What is he looking at?”
&
nbsp; “It could be a snake. Where’s Charlie?” Bryson looks around, but he’s nowhere to be seen.
We take a hesitant step closer, then another, until we both see a color that makes the world stop moving. Shock rips through me, and right on its heels, gutting fear. “Charlie!” I scream, his bright orange hunter’s vest barely visible through the long grass. Bryson takes off in a full sprint, sliding to the ground the second he gets to Charlie’s motionless body. Bryson jumps right into CPR, pressing on Charlie’s chest in quick, rhythmic movements.
“Don’t you do this!” I hear him yell. “Don’t you leave me, too.”
Sobs rack my chest, yet I fight them off. I have to think. . . . 911. I have to call 911. Though my entire body’s trembling, I somehow find a way to function and take off running. Sweat pours down my forehead, my eyes stinging as I stumble across the path to my truck. I tug open the door, grab my phone so quickly it falls from my hand. I drop to the ground, retrieve it, and somehow punch in the number.
“911. What’s your emergency?”
“My friend is unconscious. I don’t know how long, minutes or seconds.” I rattle off Charlie’s address as fear crawls up my throat. We’re in the middle of nowhere. Miles from any hospital. “Please, please hurry.”
“We’ve contacted a volunteer fire department in Venus. They aren’t far. Maybe five or ten minutes.” Her words give some relief, but even that short amount of time could be fatal.
I stay on the line and run to the road, listening for sirens, my hands shaking as I watch each minute tick away on my phone. A lifetime passes before there’s a distant echo. Flashes of red appear, and I wave my arms frantically so they don’t waste any time finding us.
Two trucks barrel down the highway in a line, one big, one small, and slow when they see me. I take off running again after they turn, follow the kicked-up dust, and start down the long driveway.
“He’s in the back field,” I gasp when they exit the vehicles. “CPR. My friend. Is doing CPR. I don’t know if it worked. He was unconscious.” I lean over with my hands on my knees, not sure if my winded state is from exertion or shock. Pull yourself together, I scream inside my head. You have to keep moving.
I fight for control as the firefighters grab the medical supplies they need and follow me around the house. My heart pounds with every step we take, Bryson and Louie getting closer and closer, but with each clearer image, my hope turns into panic.
Bryson’s hands pump frantically, his body ready to collapse from exhaustion. Sweat drips from his hair, his black shirt soaked completely through, and his hands are stark white as if they’ve lost all feeling. Maybe they have because the firemen have to fight to pull him off Charlie. As soon as they pry Bryson away, he lunges forward, trying to finish what he started.
I block his path, pushing my hands against his shoulders in opposite momentum. “Stop. They’re EMTs. They’re his only chance.”
Bryson looks down at me, his eyes wild, his chest heaving, gasping for breath. And then he collapses to his knees, my arms barely making it around him to try to break the fall. “He can’t die. He can’t.” His breath is labored, his words short. I see the terror in his eyes and my throat turns thick and achy.
“He’s going be okay.” I rub Bryson’s arms, trying to get his shivering under control while the firemen pump oxygen into the mask around Charlie’s nose and mouth and lift him from the ground onto a stretcher.
“I’m going!” Bryson yells, shoving me off him. “Don’t try to stop me.”
“I’m not. I promise. Just let me help you.” I wrap my arm around his waist and pull him to his feet. He teeters, blinks through the haze of shock, but manages to take a step. Then another until he’s strong enough to walk on his own. We reach the truck just as they lift Charlie inside.
“Can he ride with him?” I all but beg the older fireman who seems to be in command.
He attaches a radio to his belt and stands face to face with Bryson. A flashlight appears and it only takes two swipes across Bryson’s eyes for the man to nod. “Yeah. He probably needs to.”
The man helps Bryson into the back, his legs so shaky that he nearly falls out of the truck twice. When he’s safely inside, I rush to the driver’s side window. “Which hospital?”
“Baylor, Scott in Waxahachie.”
I back away and watch the trucks leave, holding two of the most important people in my life. Sobs fight to come again, but I can’t let them. I have to be strong right now. I have to get Louie put up, Macey brought to Sheila’s, and I have to be there for Bryson.
Yet with each step, my legs grow weaker and weaker, until I find myself on my knees, the gravel crushing into my bare legs. My entire life I’ve been taught to pray. Pray when you’re sad, pray when you’re scared. Pray when all seems lost.
I did, for months, when my parents split up. Did it even more the first two days after my trip got canceled. And then my prayers became shouts until I stopped altogether because it felt like a lie. Nothing changed. Nothing went back to how it was supposed to be. Like Louie, I’ve been yelling and yelling, trying to get God to see how disappointed I am with this life He forced on me. How afraid I am to trust Him again. And He’s been patiently waiting, pushing me past boundaries, asking me to be vulnerable, testing me with new challenges, all to help me see that His way is better and perfect and it’s okay that it doesn’t always make sense.
My chin lowers as my clenched hands rise to my forehead. “Save him, please,” I cry, letting the tears come in long streams. “But if your will is not his life, then I beg you, give me strength I don’t have. I can’t do this anymore without you.”
I find Bryson in a small waiting room on the cardiac floor after asking at least five nurses where to go. He’s hunched over in his chair, elbows on his knees, head down. In the corner sits an older lady with a long string she methodically crochets into a scarf, but other than her, the area is eerily empty.
As I get closer, I can see the fallout from Bryson’s quick response. There’s a rip in his pants at his left knee, and his shirt has multiple white salt lines running across the back. The sweat has dried in his hair, leaving it in wild curls around his ears.
I ease down quietly into the chair next to his, and though he must see me or at least hear me, he doesn’t move, doesn’t nod, doesn’t say anything. “How is he?” I ask tentatively. The nurses wouldn’t give me any details, but considering we’re in a surgical waiting room, I’m almost certain Charlie didn’t die on the way here.
Bryson blows out a long, harrowing breath, and it feels like the first time he’s breathed since I walked in. “It was a massive heart attack.” The words come out stiff and robotic. “They took him straight to the OR and told me to wait here.”
I rest my hand on his back, unable to listen to the hurt in his voice and not touch him. The cotton feels coarse against my palm and is still slightly damp. “Charlie is going to be okay.” I rub in a large circle, offering whatever small measure of comfort I can. “He’s far too stubborn not to be.”
Bryson doesn’t move except to get rigid under my touch. I don’t care. He can hate it, fight it, resent me for it, but I know he needs this right now. I continue to rub his back, across his neck, down his arm until I’m practically hugging him. I feel his heartbeat, his breaths, his worries, his brokenness.
“I can’t lose him.” He trembles beneath my hand and I move in closer, squeezing him against me in an attempt to give him any strength I might have left.
“You won’t.” I don’t know if that’s true, but it’s what I’m choosing to believe right now. And if the worst happens, I’ll find better words to say then. But for now, he needs to believe in a miracle as much as I do.
We stay that way for long enough that my arm gets a cramp, and not once does Bryson look at me or at anything for that matter. Not until a nurse steps near his chair and looks down at her paperwork.
“Mr. Katsaros?”
I cringe at how she butchers the pronunciation, but Bryso
n couldn’t care less.
“Right here,” he says immediately and rises to his feet, forcing me to let go of my grip around him. “Is Charlie okay?”
“He’s still in surgery,” she says slightly apologetically. I glance at the stack of papers in her hands and realize she’s not here to deliver news. “I have you down as Mr. Honza’s emergency contact?”
“Yes, I am,” he says confidently enough that it’s obvious this news isn’t a surprise to him like it is to me. I knew he and Charlie were close, but typically that kind of designation is for children or at least immediate family.
“If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to go over some information with you.” She glances at me. “It won’t take long.” A nice way to say I can’t go with them, but that’s fine.
“No problem.” I take Bryson’s hand and squeeze it. His fingers are ice cold, and he makes no effort to return my hold. “I’ll be here when you get back.”
Bryson glances down at my hand around his, then back at the nurse. “Can you give us one second?” She nods and heads to the exit to wait for him. When she’s clearly out of hearing range, Bryson eases his hand from mine. “Thank you for coming,” he says gently, but not in a way that implies he wants me to stay. “I’ll text you the minute I hear anything.”
The words slice my already fractured heart. “Bryson, I’m not going anywhere. I want to be here for you. For Charlie.”
He kneads his eyes with his fist as if he’s reached the limit of what he can handle. “I know you do. And that’s what makes you . . . you.” He swallows, and for the first time since he walked the path to Charlie’s backyard, I see the man I fell for. The soft, vulnerable, loving man who needs me right now.
“I can pick up your truck. Bring you some clean clothes.” They’re all small things, but in a crisis, it’s the little things that become significant.
Love and the Silver Lining Page 28