The Flawed Heart Series

by Wade, Ellie

  “What’s that?” Kate asks.

  “You’ve seriously never heard of Friends?” I shoot her a look with wide eyes of shock.

  “Um, no. Should I have?”

  “Yes! It’s only the best show of all time,” I squeal. “It’s a sitcom from the nineties.”

  Kate laughs. “Well, growing up, I wasn’t allowed to watch TV. I watched my first TV show with my college roommate. It was Grey’s Anatomy. I was pretty traumatized after it though.” She chuckles. “I usually watch documentaries or movies, not a lot of TV.”

  “Oh my gosh…this is, like…” I think for a moment. “Amazing! We have to do an entire marathon, all ten seasons. You must experience it from the beginning,” I say, trying not to shout at Kate with excitement.

  “It’s that good?” she asks with a smile as she starts to plate our dinner.

  “It’s the best show ever, Kate. Seriously. We were meant to be roommates. I can’t believe you’ve lived your life without knowing Friends. This is going to be so much fun.” I clap my hands together. “I’m going to go set up the series premiere.”

  I can’t wait to tell Paige this. Not only is she not going to believe it, but she’s also going to be jealous that I get to see it through the eyes of someone who’s watching it for the first time.

  For the first time in a long time, I feel genuinely happy. I know this initial giddiness is covering up my deep longing for Loïc—it never goes away, not even for a second—but I’ll take it.

  For the next several weeks, I’m going to be so busy with work and then a Friends marathon that my heart isn’t going to have time to ache. I might be able to stretch the show out for over a month. Ten seasons is a lot when only watching it after work.

  This is the best.

  I know it’s silly, and it’s just a Band-Aid for my problems. Yet let’s be real. How many times does a parent put a Band-Aid on a child because they physically need it? Sometimes, yes. But, much of the time, especially with the younger kids, it’s mental. A Band-Aid makes a boo-boo feel better. Friends is my bandage. When the show’s over, I know I’ll have to rip it off, only to discover that all the hurt and pain are still right where I left them.

  But, for now, I’m happy. And, as Rachel walks into that coffee shop in her rain-soaked wedding dress, I’m going to laugh alongside Kate and pretend that I’m healed.

  Loïc

  “I’m being dragged down by demons that I can’t even pretend to know how to fight.”

  —Loïc Berkeley

  “Why did Mommy and Daddy choose your name?”

  “You named me Loïc because it means warrior, and warriors are strong,” I repeat what they’ve told me many times.

  “Not only are they strong, but they’re also very brave, the bravest. No matter what happens in your life, Loïc, you’ll be strong enough and brave enough to conquer it all. You were already more courageous than Daddy when you were one day old. Strength isn’t measured by how many muscles you have or what you are or are not afraid of. Strength comes from within. It comes from your heart. It will give you courage to face things, even when you’re afraid.”

  “I’m so afraid,” I answer honestly.

  I reach my hand out, and Daddy takes it in his. His is so much bigger than mine.

  “Be brave, Loïc.”

  “I can’t.” I feel my lip tremble and try hard not to cry.

  “You already are.” Daddy leans down and gives me a kiss. “You, my little warrior, have the biggest heart I know, and that makes you the bravest.”

  Then, Daddy’s gone. It’s all black and so scary.

  “Daddy!” I cry into the darkness.

  “Loïc, dear, why the tears?” Nan walks into my room, bringing light with her.

  “Nan, Daddy left!” I scream out.

  “Oh, love. No, he didn’t. Where did I tell you that magic lives?”

  “In here.” I touch a finger to my head. “And in here.” I place my hand over my heart.

  She nods, her gentle smile on her face. “That’s right.” Her eyes go wide with happiness, like they always do when she’s telling me something exciting. “Guess where the ones we love live forever?”

  She expectantly looks at me as I think about her question.

  “In here.” I touch a finger to my head. “And in here.” I place my hand over my heart.

  “That’s right.” She nods her head, pleased. “The ones you love never leave you. You can always find them in your mind and heart. Just be still and listen. Now, I’m going to tell you something I told your daddy when he was your age, and I want you to really listen, okay?”

  I nod my head.

  “Life is one big adventure. You only get one life, so you have to make it count. You can’t sit around on your bum, waiting for joy to find you. We’re all born with the capacity to live incredible lives, but the trick is…you have to work for it. A magical life is within everyone’s grasp, but you have to make it happen for yourself. Everything that is worth having requires effort. Happiness will always be there for you, but it’s not free. Do you understand?”

  I’m quiet for a moment before saying, “I think so.”

  “You will, Loïc, love. Just remember…make your life count, and please be happy. Promise me,” she urges, her blue eyes filling with tears.

  “I promise, Nan. I promise.”

  “That’s my boy.”

  I bolt up with a start, forcing my eyes to blink, and the room comes into focus. The dim light of the alarm clock saturates the space with a soft glow, allowing me to figure out where I am.

  In my room.

  The voices of my grandma and my dad still echo through my mind, clearer than they have been in years.

  Jesus.

  I run my fingers through my damp hair.

  “Hello?” I whisper into the night. A foreboding sense that I’m not alone weighs heavily on me. “Sarah?” I say softly.

  But there’s no response.

  No one’s here.

  My stare finds my door closed, exactly as it should be.

  Be brave.

  Be happy.

  Be strong.

  The voices are so loud. They pound through my mind, demanding to be heard. Pressing the palms of my hands against my ears, I try to block them out.

  I feel so…

  Wait.

  I feel.

  Moving my hands down to my chest, I press them against my heart, the epicenter of the current anguish that’s moving through my body like a raging fire, an inferno of pain.

  The ache doesn’t solely consist of hurt. There’s love, remorse, sorrow, and longing. But what resonates with me the most is the fact that I can feel it all. The gravity of these emotions has overpowered the vast numbness that I’ve been living under for so long.

  And then it happens.

  My chest heaves, my muscles constrict, and my shoulders shake as I cry.

  After all this time, I motherfucking cry.

  The warm tears course down my face in streams. I can taste the saltiness as they cascade over my mouth.

  I welcome it all, despite the acute pain it brings. I need it to remember what it’s like to feel again.

  The only thing worse than experiencing this amount of anguish is not feeling anything at all. The black hole of emptiness is worse than all the emotions put together. I’ve been so empty, a mere shell of myself, barely a man. I was fading into oblivion, and I didn’t care, not one bit.

  Every thought, face, and memory tears through my brain, spreading hope and a burning ache in my chest. But maybe that’s the way it goes. I have to hold on to my greatest memories to give me strength to live again even though they all—every last one—bring an enormous amount of agony.

  I think of my parents and grandparents and how very much I loved them and how much they loved me. Even now, almost twenty years later, their love is saving me when I need it the most.

  I think of Cooper, my best friend, my brother. He loved me when I was unlovable. He saw something in
me that I couldn’t see in myself. He didn’t give up until I let him in. He was my family since the moment we’d become friends. He protected me more times in my adult life than I can count—or even recognize, for that matter. Let’s face it; without Cooper, who knows where I’d be? He came into my life when I needed the support of another person more than anything. He was saving me up until the very end.

  He saved me.

  Finally, I think of London, the enigma that she is—as feisty as she is beautiful. She wiggled her way into my heart with the tenacity of a lion, and she loved me fiercely. The time I spent with London was the happiest I’ve ever been in my entire life.

  I feel a lot of things, but what I feel that I never thought I’d feel again is hope.

  My sobs continue as months—no, make that years of pain escape. I cry for all those I have lost, and most importantly, I finally cry for myself. I realize that the only way to heal is to acknowledge the grief. I will never be able to move on if I don’t allow my pain to surface. I need to feel it, accept it, own it, and then I need to let it go.

  Can I?

  Am I brave enough?

  Hell yes. I’m a fighter.

  I always have been, and I always will be. But I know I can’t do it on my own.

  Sarah rushes into my room, her hair a tangled mess and her face tired from sleep. “Loïc!” she shrieks, worry etched into her features. “What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  She rushes to my bed and sits beside me. Wrapping her arms around me, she holds me tight. I rest my face against her shoulder as a few errant tears continue to fall.

  “Shh…” She runs her fingers through my hair. “It’s okay. Everything will be fine. Whatever it is, we can figure it out. I love you, Loïc. You’re going to be okay.” She continues to repeat soothing words as she absentmindedly rocks me against her, like a mother would her child.

  I hold her tight, allowing her presence to calm me. I’m suddenly hit by an immense feeling of gratitude for Lieutenant Dixon for insisting that I allow one person in because, right now, I’m so grateful to have her.

  “I need help, Sarah,” I choke out.

  “Okay, tell me what to do,” she says reassuringly.

  “I need professional help. I can’t do it on my own. There’s too much darkness,” I admit out loud.

  It’s now that I realize that the helplessness, gloom, and despair that have been plaguing my daily thoughts are more than grief. I’m being dragged down by demons that I can’t even pretend to know how to fight.

  “Absolutely. Let’s get dressed and go to the VA. We’ll get you help. It’s going to be okay. I love you, Loïc.” She kisses me on the forehead and stands.

  “But it’s early,” I say.

  “It’s fine. We’ll stop and eat a good breakfast beforehand. Plus, the ER area is open twenty-four hours a day.” She gives me a warm smile.

  “How do you know they have an ER area?”

  “I’ve done some research. I’ve actually been there to make sure I knew where all the departments were and what the procedures would be for when you wanted to go,” she says with a shrug of her shoulders.

  “Really?” I ask in disbelief.

  “Of course. I’m your person, Loïc. I’m going to do everything I can to make sure you’re okay. I knew you’d be ready to go in on your own time.”

  “Oh.” I swing my leg over the side of the bed. “Should we call to make an appointment or something?” I reach for my prosthetic.

  “Nope. We just show up. They have a policy that they won’t turn away any veteran. You will be seen today. They will talk to you, look at your records, and develop your treatment plan, including medications and therapy sessions. If you feel like you’re a danger to yourself or others, they’ll admit you.”

  “I’m not going to hurt anyone, including myself.”

  “I know, but it’s not uncommon, Loïc. If you felt like you might, it would be okay. No one would judge you.”

  “I’m not suicidal,” I state clearly as I pull the plastic sleeve of my prosthetic leg over my stump.

  “Okay.” She smiles, placing her hand on my shoulder and supplying a gentle squeeze. “I’m going to throw my hair up and get dressed. Then, I’ll be out in the living room when you’re ready to go.”

  I nod once, and she exits my room.

  I don’t know exactly what to expect out of today, but this is the most hopeful I’ve felt in a while.

  Everything that my therapists told me when I was recovering both in Germany and Washington, DC, is coming back now. For whatever reason, possibly my own stubborn nature or perhaps due to the amount of darkness that had already grabbed hold of me, I couldn’t hear their words then. I couldn’t listen.

  Now, I’m ready. I’ve found the strength to fight for myself. I’m a damaged man, no doubt. Maybe I’ll never be the person I was before this last tour in Afghanistan, but I have to try.

  I have to put in the work to heal my mind so that I can function. Not a day goes by when I don’t wish that Cooper were here and not me. But that’s simply not the reality of it. He’s gone, and for some reason, I’m not.

  And, though it will be difficult, I need to learn how to show up and be present.

  It’s time I fight to live.

  London

  “It’s not the kiss I crave but the soul connected to it.”

  —London Wright

  A miscalculated flick of my paintbrush against the wall sends a firestorm of gray droplets toward my face. “Kate!” I whine to my roommate.

  She takes one look at my speckled face and bursts into laughter.

  “It’s not funny. This’d better come out of my hair,” I grumble.

  “Oh, bless your heart.” She shakes her head from side to side, a giant smile on her face.

  “Um, isn’t that the equivalent of saying, Fuck you, or something in the South?” I ask, quirking up an eyebrow in question.

  “It can be. Just depends on the manner in which it’s said. I didn’t mean it that way, of course. I meant it literally because you, London, are just the cutest. I’ve never met someone quite like you.” She chuckles to herself and continues painting.

  “I really think that we should’ve paid someone to do this. I’ve never painted a thing in my life.” I set my brush in the bucket and walk over to the kitchen to grab a paper towel.

  “Exactly. You came to LA for a new life, for new experiences. It’s time you step out of your comfort zone and try new things,” Kate says.

  After quickly running the paper towel under the water, I drag the damp paper across my paint-splattered face. “But I am getting lots of new experiences in. I don’t think that painting an entire apartment needs to be one of them.”

  “You said that you wanted to be independent. Independent people paint their own walls, London.”

  “I don’t necessarily agree with that. Why are there so many painters then?” I don’t wait for Kate to respond, so I continue, “Because tons of people hire them to paint; that’s why. I wasn’t going to use my trust fund. I was going to use the money I’ve made on my own. That’s being grown-up. There is nothing wrong with hiring someone to help with things that I know I’m not good at. Plus, it’s good for the economy. How are painters supposed to feed their families if everyone does their own painting?” I send Kate a pointed look.

  “You can argue your case; I’ll give ya that. But you told me to help you be independent, and that is what I’m doing. You should have to paint your own place at least once. Consider it a rite of passage. Plus, we’re on the last room. At this point, you just need to suck it up, buttercup.”

  “Huh,” I huff as I grab my paintbrush from the can of paint. I continue painting over the bright yellow walls of the living room. “Who lived here before you anyway? A circus clown?”

  “I don’t know, but whoever it was sure had interesting taste.” Kate giggles.

  “Part of me thought it would be funny to leave it the way it was for Paige to see. But I think I’m more
excited for her to see the finished look.”

  Paige is coming to visit next weekend, and Kate and I have been getting our apartment ready for company, decorating it to our tastes. Kate took me on an adventure known as thrift-store shopping. I’ve never purchased anything from a secondhand store, but last weekend’s shopping extravaganza was so much fun. It’s amazing what one can find at those places. We found treasures, like a ceramic elephant playing the clarinet and a coatrack shaped like a naked woman—both of which, we did not buy. We did buy a gorgeous aqua blown-glass vase and an antique apothecary table though.

  We decided to go with an ocean chic décor. After we finish this last room, our apartment will be painted in all earthy cream and gray hues with blue and teal accent items throughout.

  It’s looking awesome. I have to admit, as much as I complain, it’s pretty gratifying to complete a project from start to finish and have it turn out so great. The cherry on top is that it’s kept my mind busy, which is always a good thing.

  I’ve been in LA now for a little over two months. August in Cali has been pretty much like August in Michigan—hot. Next weekend is Labor Day weekend, and I can’t wait to spend three days with Paige. It would be even better if Georgia could be here with us, but besides a proof-of-life text every few days, I haven’t gotten to speak with her much this summer. She’s busy with saving the world, one tree at a time.

  “So, what’s the deal with you and Brad anyway?” Kate asks, pulling me from my thoughts.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Come on. The entire floor has been talking about it. Everyone thinks something is going on between you two. As your roommate, I’ve been waiting for you to spill the beans, but since you haven’t, I figured I’d just ask you.”

  After finishing the edging on my portion of the wall, I grab the paint roller to finish the rest. “Nothing is going on between us.”

  “London…” Kate lowers her voice, like my mother always does when she’s trying to get us to come clean with a lie.

  “Kate…” I imitate her.

  “If you want it to be a secret, I won’t tell anyone. You know you can trust me.”