without another word,” was the last thing Brendan said before a nurse pushed the needle into my arm.
Forty minutes later, I walked out of the blood bank at a private clinic in La Jolla, my legs weak, a cotton ball taped to my arm, convinced I had just done something heroic for the man I loved.
According to his friends, Brendan had been in a catastrophic car crash while testing a sports car on a private track near Bakersfield. They called me in the middle of the night, insisting
