Dear Heart

3. Ollie

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3

Ollie

He watched the Road Runner pull out onto the street, tailpipes rumbling, and go gliding away out of sight, headed back toward Brooklyn.

When it was gone, he closed his eyes and let his forehead rest against the window, the glass still cool to the touch. He took a deep breath, and let it out slowly, counting silently to himself. It was one of the half-effectual calming techniques his therapist had clued him into before he stopped going to his sessions. It had felt like a waste of time, and definitely of money. Dr. Ambrose had urged him not to "terminate their relationship," as he put it. But Ollie hadn't been able to afford it, and good luck getting the VA to foot the bill, and, well...yeah. So he counted and took deep breaths, and that was like taking lightweight sandpaper to the sharp corners of his panic. Better than nothing, but not by much.

God, he was fucking this up. He was fucking it up so badly. The day he'd seen the online story about the art gallery, and seen Wendy's sweet, smiling face in the photo, he'd blacked out. Or something. One second he'd been in his chair, and the next he'd been on his knees on the floor, reeling, gasping for breath, unable to cope with the great bright tangle of emotions spiraling out of control inside him. Wendy. Wendy was here. Wendy was home. Not across oceans, or countries, or cities. Wendy was right here, in Williamsburg.

He'd decided, after a mental pep-talk, and half a bottle of Jim Beam, that he could stuff all his crazy away long enough to go to Wendy's show. He could put on decent clothes – as decent as he owned, anyway – and walk into an art gallery, and ask politely where he could find Wendy Altman. And then he could smile at her, and say, "Oh my God, Wendy, I missed you like air, and I've hated all this distance, every day, every second."

He'd showered, and shaved, and run his hands through his dyed hair with an unhappy frown at his reflection. He'd bleached it because he hadn't looked or felt like himself when he got back, and it had hurt to pretend. But it had seemed like an idiot decision the night of the show. Or maybe just a crazy one.

He'd tossed his nicest black button-up shirt in the dryer and wriggled into tight black jeans. He'd left his hat at home, though he'd itched for the familiar comfort of the tunnel vision it provided.

The walk to the subway nearly took his knees out from under him.

Riding the train actually did. All those people, breathing, shuffling their bags, talking, laughing, listening to music he could hear seeping out of their earbuds. Coughing, sneezing, turning the pages of books. Normal, benign, everyday sounds that had always been a part of the soundtrack of his life, transformed now into an inescapable white noise that might be drowning out the bolt of a rifle, the click of a grenade pin, the approach of footsteps across the sand.

He shut his eyes and curled his hands into fists until his short nails scored his palm. No, he told his traitorous mind. No, no, no, not here, not now, I'm safe, I'm safe.

He'd been in a full-body sweat by the time he had to change trains. The kind of acrid fear sweat he could smell on himself, all his tight clothes clinging to his skin, choking him.

He'd walked like something straight off The Walking Dead, unsteady and shuffling, heart pounding in his throat. People had looked at him like he was strange...because he was.

He'd thought he might die before he reached the gallery, but damn it, he reached it, sucking in autumn air laced with exhaust like it was lifeblood. And then he caught his ghostly reflection in one of the big frosted windows of the place. Saw his haunted eyes with their dark smudges beneath, the way he was breathing through his mouth like an animal, clothes rumpled and sweaty, hair ruined from countless finger rakings on the train.