Page 34 of Hearts to Mend

“Yeah, sure. Help you with what?”

I glance over at Rico, who’s trying to sit up in his bed but struggles to get upright. To Drew, I say, “Rico is having a stroke.”

CHAPTER 14

RICO

* * *

“What?” I frown at Dee. Did she say stroke? I… That wouldn’t…doesn’t…no sense.

I blink again, trying to focus my eyes. Everything is blurry, like before I got LASIK, when I’d take my contacts out. But unlike then, blinking and rubbing my eyes doesn’t help.

And my head. The pain. It started as a dull ache. Now it’s sharp, electric, zapping around. It hits my skull, moving from one side to the other, pierces my forehead, slices down my neck. I hold my hands to my eyes, my temples, like applying pressure will help. It doesn’t.

Trying to sit up, I fail. My left arm isn’t doing its job; it moves like it’s asleep, heavy and uncoordinated, a weight at my side. Like my hand isn’t attached to my brain anymore. It’s not receiving the command for what to do, and so it’s not doing it. Close fingers, I think to my left hand. My fingers twitch a little, move slightly, but don’t close. My right hand does better; I close those fingers. Still a struggle though.

Dee rushes over to me. She’s dressed now. When did that happen? She pushes me onto my back and slides a pair of my athletic shorts up my legs. Where did she find them? The drawer or the hamper? Am I clean or dirty? She pulls the condom off my dick and tosses it into the trash can under my old desk.

Dirty. Definitely dirty.

There’s banging, a knocking noise from somewhere. Dee vanishes. Closing my eyes, I pinch the bridge of my nose to try and relieve the new pain that’s landed there.

“—experiencing head pain, blurred vision, and aphasia,” Dee says as she returns to the room.

I open my eyes as Drew walks through my bedroom doorway, and I quickly look down to check that Dee tucked my cock away. Shorts are on. Yep. When I open my mouth to say something to Drew and Dee, the words that come out are, “What’s aphasia?”

They ignore my question, and Drew kneels beside the bed so we’re eye level. “Hey, man. I’m gonna check a couple things. Can you sit up?”

I try. Can’t. Drew helps, and I’m upright, sort of slumped against the wall, staring at him but not really seeing him. He flashes a light in my eyes, and I flinch. He puts a cuff around my arm that gets tighter and tighter, like it’s going to cut off my arm above the elbow before the pressure finally lets up.

“Swallow for me,” Drew instructs.

Odd request, but I do it. He nods.

“Okay, let’s get you to the hospital,” Drew says as he slots himself under one of my arms. Dee gets under the other.

I try to point out that she’s in a cast and shouldn’t be putting my weight on her bum ankle, but my words don’t work, and she seems to be managing okay. With their help, I barely have to walk, which is good because my feet aren’t responding correctly to my commands. And it feels like my toes are tangled in the carpet. Even though… Wait… I look down at the tile floor. Mamá doesn’t have carpet in the hallway. What am I tangled in?

Outside, they lead me past my car and Dee’s car to a big, black truck parked in the drive. The engine is running, its headlights shine in our eyes as we approach, and the driver’s side door hangs wide open, like Drew just threw it in park and ran to the house.

They work efficiently together, getting me into the back seat like I’m the patient on one of their emergency calls. Except Dee slides into the back seat beside me and slips her hand into mine, lacing our fingers together. That’s probably not standard operating procedure. And I like it. I fixate on it. Until Drew slams a door shut and jolts me out of my thoughts.

Suddenly, we’re moving. Too fast. Too much motion. Too much…everything. Headlights of oncoming cars spike through the windshield. I flinch as panic rushes through me, certain the cars are about to hit us head on. But impact never comes as they harmlessly pass us by. I avert my eyes from the windshield to the dashboard, where the yellow hazard-lights indicator is blinking. It’s too-perfect rhythm taps against my forehead. I close my eyes, but that makes me feel nauseated. So I look down at my lap, staring at Dee’s hand in mine, and focus on breathing.

Dee’s voice sounds from my side. Too loud. Too sharp. Too much. While normally I love the sound of her voice, right now it hurts, like she’s yelling into my ear. “Janis, we have a Level 1 STROKE ALERT en route. ETA is—”

“Three minutes,” Drew hollers from the driver’s seat. His voice hurts too.

“Three minutes,” Dee repeats into the phone. “Patient’s name is Ricardo Rodriguez, Hispanic male, age twenty-nine, weight—” She glances at me, like she’s expecting me to fill in the blank.

I know my weight, I see the numbers in my mind, but I can’t grab them with my mouth to spit them out.

Dee frowns at me and looks away, continuing, “About one hundred eighty-five pounds, suffering from confusion with aphasia, partial numbness left side, visual complaints, and severe headache.”

I don’t listen to much more of what Dee says; my attention is fixed back on the road and the way Drew drives it. It’s like we’re hurdling through space, too fast. He doesn’t stop at red lights, only pauses before speeding forward. I flinch and flinch again. I want to tell him to slow down, but I can’t get to those words.

It’s like there’s a deep gorge in my brain, and the words I need are on the other side, and the rope bridge connecting the two sides is falling apart and unstable—

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