The 7 Symptoms of a Broken Heart

ISBN: 1986900967

ISBN-13: 978-1986900966

When someone uses the term, “car accident,” it tends to conjure an image of chaos and disarray. The clash of metal against metal, the shatter of fractured windows, the snap of human bones—all nothing more than side effects of a very dangerous mess.

Imagine for a moment that you could slow down the whole ordeal and see the accident detail for detail. Not a crack moves through the windshield without your noticing every twist and curve it makes.

Personally, I think it’d be fascinating to see it all. It would start with the hood collapsing into itself like a Chinese lantern. Then there’s those windshield cracks—hundreds of crystalline fractures webbing across the glass and forming a lethal mosaic. Shards of glass dislodge from their places, spinning like diamonds suspended in space. The back of the car rises subtly on its axles before it all comes to a completely stunning, devastating stop.

Then there’s a whole other collision that people really seem to like talking about: the human collision. Bodies are still moving at dozens of miles an hour in an object that has come to a complete standstill. Chests strain against seat belts and faces slam against airbags as precious cargo is jostled around. Orbs of warm, red blood quiver in mid-air amongst the shrapnel, painting rich patterns on the interior as frail skin begins to break.

The next phase is a little harder to see, which I guess is a good thing. Though the bodies have stopped moving, any organs inside them are still smashing, splitting, and rupturing against each other like eggs in a bag. It’s the internal collision that usually causes the most serious damage. Or it just kills you.

Eventually, all the glass finds a stationary place on the ground. Pieces of plastic, rubber, and metal have finally stopped their flight across the asphalt. No emergency personnel are aware of the accident yet and passengers are likely too shocked to even flex a muscle.

Okay, so maybe “fascinating” isn’t quite the right word for it once you get into the more morbid parts. I dunno. I was definitely not a super mind; I didn’t see how the front fender bent into itself like it was made of clay, or the look in the eyes of my companion as his brain was thrust about his skull. I remember it that way, though. By the time I could regain consciousness, all I really noticed was the melting snow clearing most of the blood away.

I could just die here, I remember thinking. And it wouldn’t even hurt.

The boy next to me was unmoving—just a limp body strewn across a wet street. Through the delusion that clouded my mind, I tried to wish him to life—to will animation back into his limbs—but nothing happened. Not even the faintest of breaths.

I gave in to the relentless haze hovering around me and was soon subdued to nothing but short slivers of awareness. It seemed like the whole world had stopped when our car did, only moving where the blood dribbled down my friend’s forehead.

All the while, the snow kept falling.

I’d like to start by saying congratulations. Not many people know this story like you’re about to. Every nitty-gritty detail of my account is now resting in your hands.

As long as we’re spending so much time together, I should probably introduce myself.

My name’s Dusty Jones, and I had it all under control. At least, I thought I did. “Put-together” was how I liked to say it...completely bulletproof.

Okay, so my thinking was a little erroneous. I mean, I was eighteen, so I think I deserve a little slack. Little did I know that my put-together-ness was about to be dismantled, and it would all start with my mom’s favorite word.

“Please.”

“Please, Dusty!”

Ashley stared at me through the storm door with her arms folded resolutely across her chest, her face partially shaded by the giant honeysuckle plant scaling the side of my porch. I shifted my weight uncomfortably under her pleading stare and searched for a convincing rebuttal. The only words I could find were, “I don’t know. I’m kind of tired.”

“Dusty, it’s just a dance!” Ashley exclaimed, tilting her head as she spoke. “It’s fun, it’s free, and you never know who’s going to be there. Just come.”

She was talking about the Parking Lot Parties her church held every month about five minutes away from my house. They were always free, but ‘fun’ seemed like a bit of a stretch. You see, nothing exceptional ever happened at those dances for unexceptional girls like me. I’d usually just stand around in the same old circles with the same old people, do my best to dance to the same old music, and just pray that some decent boy would find me when the slow songs started. Needless to say, the dances got old pretty fast.

Unless, of course, you were Ashley-Mary Fratelli. If there was ever a dance, she was there, and she was determined to drag me with her each and every time.

“Ashley, please. I went to the last four with you,” I pointed out. She just stood there and continued to stare at me, all wide-eyes and no words.

“Anyways,” I added, anxiously filling the silence, “it’s a church thing… you know I don’t like church things.”

“Dusty, we both know it’s not a church thing,” Ashley countered. “It’s not like you have to make God a part of your life just to show up. Remember when Jeffrey came with us a couple months ago? He got in, and he thinks God takes the form of a giant lizard.”

I shrugged, shaking my head and staring back at the ground.

“Ashley, I’m sorry. I just don’t want to do this right now.”

We both stood there silently for a few moments, Ashley preparing her next attack while I quietly wished I was back on the couch in my living room.

“All right, fine,” she finally sighed, her shoulders slumping. “Just tell me one thing Dusty. What else would you do tonight?”

I paused, peering up at the ceiling as I contemplated the question. Behind me, the noise of the television set was drifting softly from the hallway, touting its weekend specials to all the other girls with no lives on a Friday night. I pictured myself sitting in front of it, then tried to swap the image with one of Ashley and I at the dance. Back to the TV. Back to the dance.

TV won.

“Sorry Ashley.”

She left the front step disappointed. I began the short walk back to the threadbare sofa, passing the kitchen on the way. An empty glass bottle stood on the corner of our scarred countertop, catching my eye from where it stood precarious on the edge. I glanced at its label, recognizing it from my last late-night run to the liquor store. I couldn’t tell if the rotten stench of alcohol and sweat breezing passed my face was real or imagined as I stared at the glossy highlights on the glass.

Somewhere upstairs a floorboard creaked. He was getting out of bed.

I dashed for the front door, flinging it open to shout Ashley’s name across the front lawn. It caught her attention moments before her car door closed.

“Wait, Ashley!” I yelled. “I’m coming with!”

She grinned and pumped the air with her fist while I shut the door behind me and hastened to her passenger seat.

“What changed your mind?” Ashley asked as she pulled away from the curb.

I shrugged. “Just thought I’d have more fun at the dance, I guess.”

She smiled blithely, offering a nod.

“Oh, I guarantee it.”

You know? She was right. The dance started like any other, and I instantly started to wonder if coming here was any better than staying home. There was a lot I didn’t know, though. I didn’t know that someone would actually ask for my company during the first slow dance. I definitely didn’t know how beautifully blue his eyes would be, or how satisfying his voice would sound in my ears. I didn’t know he’d call me back the next day and take me out to dinner, and breakfast the morning after that. I didn’t know how pleasant his name—Tanner Malone—would feel rolling off my tongue. I certainly didn’t know that either of us were going to spend the month of June falling in love with each other.

And I didn’t know that by November, Tanner would have fallen out of it again.

Fall found me sitting in my first period class trying not to look in Tanner’s direction, because heaven knows he wasn’t looking in mine.

Silence hung in the air like smog, and I was having a hard time concentrating on the assignment. All I could think of was the stupid blonde boy in the stupid chair five stupid feet away, still holding my stupid heart and not even knowing it.

The bell rang, and Tanner made a beeline for the door before I even had a chance to get out of my seat.

It was all so...stupid.

The day pressed forward, as days usually do. I went through the motions as always, giving the proper output for every input just like a calculator. Someone tells a joke: laugh. Someone waves in the hall: smile. Someone asks how you’re doing: say “good.” If you’re not feeling all that great, don’t rock the boat by telling them the truth.

As school neared its close and I entered my final and favorite classroom, I felt as if the daily weight was beginning to lift. The mingling smells of paints and clays quickly greeted me, but not nearly as quickly as a familiar voice near the window.

“Dusty!”

Lance motioned for me to sit next to him, grinning over an empty sheet of paper he’d been staring at for the past three days.

“Hey!” he said as I took the seat next to him and slid up close. “What’s up?”

“Oh, same old same old,” I replied with a shrug. “How about you? Think of anything for that paper of yours?”

He shook his head slowly, staring at the empty page as if it were matted in complicated mathematical formulas. I looked around the room, where everyone was working feverishly on their own projects. The teacher was staring in Lance’s direction, surely noticing the still-blank sheet Lance dutifully retrieved from his cubby at the beginning of each period just to return to his cubby equally blank by class’s end. The two had an understanding: the teacher wouldn’t rush Lance, and in return, Lance would somehow create a stunning masterpiece at the very last minute.

Lance was one of my favorite people. We’d spent inordinate amounts of time together, him teaching me about art and punk-rock while I taught him about girls. It was a pretty sweet deal. It wasn’t unusual when he wrapped an arm around me and gave me a tight squeeze as he asked, “How’s your project coming?”

Introducing Symptom #1 of a broken heart: a stunted muse. I couldn’t write, draw, paint, carve, weld, saw, or sculpt anything without Tanner in mind; which, as it turns out, is a bit of a drag on my creativity.

I mirrored Lance’s contagious smile and shook my head. “What project?” I replied. “I can’t think of a thing.”

“Whoa,” Lance said, dropping his pencil to the table with a tiny clatter. “Dusty Jay Jones can’t think of an idea for an art project? I think I read about this in the bible somewhere… something about the apocalypse…”

I smiled and shrugged.

“Just drawing a blank, I guess.”

Lance frowned, propping his chin on a closed fist.

“How about this,” he finally replied, “Recreate whatever’s on your mind right this very moment.”

“Why don’t you do that? You’ve been staring at the same page for days!”

He chuckled, raising his shoulders and shaking his head.

“I guess there’s not much on my mind.”

We shared a laugh before returning to our empty stares at empty pages. It wasn’t long, however, before his advice stirred an idea in my head. Soon the rough outline of a heart was stenciled across my paper.

I began to slip into my zone, and hardly noticed Lance standing to retrieve a pallet of colors and a paintbrush. When the school’s final bell rang we remained in our seats, working fastidiously on the papers before us. Finally, I cast a curious glance at Lance’s sheet.

“Hmmm,” I mused.

“What?”

“Hmmm.”

Lance laughed.

“Have something to say, Dusty?”

The both of us stared over his forming project, looking down at a paper completely covered in earthy-colored splashes of paint. It was still as pointless as ever, but this time a touch more haphazard. His projects usually showed some kind of meaning by now, but this…this was in a whole new level of meaningless.

“Well,” I said, putting my supplies down and pulling up a stool, “either you’re an artistic genius or you’re insane.”

“Something I learned in art history,” Lance said with a knowing smile, “is that those are pretty much the same thing.”

He returned to his piece, and I began to add some color to my heart. After a stretch of silence, thirst got the better of me.

“Be right back,” I said, standing up from my seat. “I need a drink.”

The halls were completely empty, and all was quiet except for the sound of my footsteps echoing off the old brick walls. I calmly swung a ring of keys around my finger, watching the small, jingling circles it made in the air.

Somewhere in the hallway I’d just came from, the echo of familiar laughter bounced across the corridor. The keys fell limp as I paused to listen to a sound I could recognize anywhere: the voice of Tanner Malone. The person he was talking to, however, was a bit more of a challenge. His voice had a peculiar rhythm to it; while some words dropped off his tongue like a brick, others bloomed into something nothing less than musical.

Is that an Irish accent?

The image of an impish little leprechaun instantly popped into my mind as the voices drew closer. Tanner’s words were the first I could really pick out, unusually upbeat as he said, “You know, any time you need more help figuring things out here, just give me a call! I would even show you the sights... if there were any.”

A laugh rang down the hallway, followed by that chipper Irish voice.

“Sounds like a plan. Thanks for your help. I’m terrible with navigation… probably couldn’t even find a drinking fountain if my life depended on it.”

I frowned at the fountain next to me.

I need to get out of here.

I turned around and began a slow walk back to art class, strangely irritated at the sound of Tanner’s voice. It would seem that strangers got more talking privilege to the guy than I did, and it made me itch inside. For reasons I couldn’t explain, I’d lost all interest in water.

As I approached the first corner, it occurred to me that the footsteps I heard were quickly getting louder, headed straight in my direction. It must be Tanner.

My heart began to beat a little faster as I realized that in a matter of seconds, I’d be alone in a hallway with the only person that had occupied my mind for over four months. What if he said something to me, and I gave him a stupid reply? Or worse… what if he said nothing at all?

It was then that a lean young man paced into view, just inches away from my nose. He didn’t realize I was standing there until it was too late, and before I knew it my keys were flying through the air while the rest of me was falling to the ground. I hit the floor with a violent thunk, and as the air fled my lungs, I started to get the vague impression I’d been hit by a huge, walking cinder block. An Irish accent proved me otherwise.

“I’m so sorry! Are you okay?”

I tried to say “no,” but ended up choking on the word as I struggled to find my breath again. Massive, calloused hands took mine, helped me to my feet, and steadied me against the cold wall next to us.

“It’s you,” I croaked, staring up at my offender. He was far from the little leprechaun I had pictured, being at least a full head taller than me with brown, tousled hair that scarcely touched his eyebrows. Pale green eyes stared at me from behind the faintest of freckles, and a worried frown traced a mouth that was a little too wide for his face.

“Are you okay?” he repeated, putting a steady hand on my shoulder. I just glared at him through my eyelashes, still battling for one redemptive breath.

“Oh, I’m fine,” I said as calmly as I could after composing myself. “That just hurt like crazy, no big deal.”

Broken Heart symptom #2: mood swings. Heavy on the anger.

Oh, come on Dusty. Take it easy on him; he didn’t do anything wrong.

“Why don’t you watch where you’re going?” I snapped.

Wow. Way to keep it under control.

The boy held his hands up defensively, taking a step back.

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely, “I…um…I’m just having a bit of an off day.” He shook his head softly and chuckled, a reaction I wasn’t expecting. He looked tired, and weary eyes met mine as he said, “This is my first day here. I’m not really on my game.”

His honesty surprised me. I sighed, feeling deflated and a little ashamed for snapping at someone who probably felt so lost. It was Sam however, who extended a friendly hand and apologized a third time.

“I’m sorry,” he said, “I promise I’ll watch where I’m going.”

I hesitated for just a short second before taking his hand and shaking it.

“No, I’m sorry,” I admitted. “My name’s Dusty, by the way.”

“Dusty,” Sam repeated.

I liked the way it sounded out of his mouth, and a smile crept across my lips.

The last thing he said before walking away was, “I like that name. Dusty.”

I stood alone in the hallway for a moment after he’d disappeared, feeling my heart resume its normal pace. I listened to myself breathe. Shook my head. Began the walk back to class. Before I arrived, my phone buzzed.

It was my dad.

Lance was perplexed when I returned to the classroom and busily began to pack my things.

“What’s the rush? You got a hot date?” he asked, looking at me curiously as I feigned a smile.

“I wish.”

He helped me gather some pencils and brushes but was far from fooled by my pretended nonchalance. After the supplies were gathered, he paused me with a hand on my shoulder.

“Dusty,” he began slowly, “please tell me this isn’t what I think it is.”

“Well, that depends on what you think it is.”

Lance’s nearly perpetual grin was softening into oblivion.

“He wants you to run another one of his errands, doesn’t he?”

It wasn’t so much a question as it was a vaguely directed accusation. I replied with a shrug as his face grew warmer with a blush of frustration.

“Please, Dusty.” He sounded concerned, and shook his head as his voice drifted. “You know this isn’t right.”

I answered with yet another shrug, making for the door to avoid any further pleas.

“You’re right, Lance,” I began just before slipping out of sight. “It’s very wrong.”

A sudden exhaustion was sweeping over me, and I silently wished for sleep.

“But what choice do I have?”

Four Months Earlier

“Dusty!”

Tanner called for me and began to jog across his yard as soon as I stepped out of the truck. His arms were wrapped around my waist before I could even slide the keys into my pocket.

“It’s been too long,” he said, kissing my forehead.

“Tanner, it’s been only been two...”

My voice trailed. He was right; forty-eight hours was way too long. I reached my arms around his neck and fiddled with his hair as I said, “You know, I think you’re onto something.”

He nodded and laughed, pulling me a little closer and a little tighter before saying, “Now, I’ve thought forever about this. I don’t have any money, or talent, or even creativity...and I had no idea what to do for your birthday. I finally came up with a really stupid idea though. It was the best I could do.”

I beamed in excitement as I assured, “It’s probably perfect.”

He asked me to close my eyes and keep them shut at all costs. I nervously obeyed. With that, we started walking. And stumbling. And laughing. The entire time he led me through that brief journey of twists, turns, and busy roads, his hand was fastened to mine. Finally, after two near-death experiences and one almost-broken nose, Tanner told me I could sit down.

“Where on earth do I do that?” I asked, feeling ineffectually with my free hand for a seat. He answered my question by easing me into something cold and stiff before sitting down beside me.

“Okay,” he said, “you can open now.”

I did. In front of me was a massive pond, tainted with the strange greenish shade of unadjusted eyes. Beyond all the grass and water was a line of trees, where headlights from a nearby highway shimmered through gaps in the leaves. My eyes lingered on the scene for a moment before wandering to the distant mountains, whose jagged peaks were backed with an endless canvas of warm tangerine. My breath escaped me as I gazed at that blazing sky, practically on fire with the light of the setting sun. The huge, glowing orb seemed just a hair’s distance from the tip of the mountain.

To say it was beautiful would be an enormous understatement. I leaned my head against Tanner’s shoulder and quietly whispered, “This is amazing. Thank you.”

“This place has become really special to me,” he answered, voice hushed.

By now my vision had adjusted, and I forced my eyes away from the sky to look around. This wasn’t just any old bench we were sitting on, or any old field we were facing. This was North Park, where we first told each other how we felt as we watched the very same mountain we were looking at now.

“Tanner, I… I don’t even know what to say. I’m so lucky to—”

“Hey,” Tanner interjected, “I’m the lucky one here. Don’t you forget it.”

We sat there until the sun had completely dipped behind the mountains and there was nothing left in the sky but a scarlet afterglow. The park had fallen silent, with nothing but the hum of the distant highway to accompany the sound of our quiet voices. Soon we were both walking away from the park bench with our fingers intertwined, and our heads in the clouds.

The walk was too short, and curfew too close. It all began to wrap up when Tanner and I found ourselves in front of his large home once again, standing together under the huge maple tree in his yard. He held me in his warm arms and danced me in circles under the leaves, our feet moving to our own silent rhythm.

I thought I’d never feel so light as I did that night, staring up at his familiar face and feeling his body move as we both talked and laughed together. I felt that if I picked my feet off the ground, I would simply float.

There was a moment where we looked at each other’s eyes, and for the first time I can remember, we were both out of words.

He leaned forward. This time, I didn’t hide.

Slowly, gently, and silhouetted by the light of the moon, Tanner Malone kissed me.

Dear Reader,

I believe we’ve just had a flash back together. Feel a little perplexed? Perhaps you’re slightly dazed? Maybe you’d rather hear my story in a more linear fashion?

Trust me... so would I.

Broken Heart Symptom #3: Flashbacks. Just a phrase, song, or even a simple feeling will send you whirling back to the past, regardless of how much you’d like to stay in the present.

Long story short, you may want to prepare for more flashbacks.

Thud.

I was crossing the school parking lot when a hard shoulder clipped mine. The book I was reading fluttered to the ground, and my whole body jerked to the side.

This time when I looked up at the person that hit me, I was prepared to apologize. When I saw his face, however, my breath caught in my throat before even a single syllable could leave my lips.

Tanner stared back, looking helplessly out of words.

“Sorry Dusty,” he finally muttered, hardly looking at me. Just two words, cold and limp, before he strode away without another sound.

I found myself alone in the parking lot. My chest felt empty as he walked further in the distance, leaving me with nothing but a dull pain in my arm and a freshly torn book.

Four short months ago, Tanner would have apologized for five minutes before giving me a parting hug. When did it change to five seconds with hardly so much as a parting word?

As the questions went through my head, it was all I could do to keep from giving in to the fourth symptom—instantaneous tears—right there in the parking lot. After all, I still had an errand to run, and it was hard to see the road with symptom #4 all caught up in your eyes.