Pushing the thought from my head, I sit in the teal-green faux-leather chair with wooden arms. I caress his hand until his eyes flutter open. The smallest grin appears. “Hey.”
“Hey. Don’t talk. Just rest.”
“I…”
“Shh… let me talk. The doctor said it went swimmingly. He was cocky.”
Matt murmurs, “I… like… that.”
“I knew you would. That’s why you picked him, right?” His head moves minutely up and down.
“Greyson and his family just left, and he wanted me to tell you he loves you.” Matt grins again.
“In fact, everyone was here. Even Witt. Parker said something about getting a tutor who he hates. The girls want to plan a baby shower. And your sister told me that you always kept her feet warm and that you’re a secret nerd who loves sci-fi.” Another grin.
Is he still drugged? No comebacks?
“Are you in pain?”
“Not yet. Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. You just had a transplant. Don’t worry about me.”
“Worrying about you is my job. A job I want. I applied for it, remember?” he asks, his voice weak and frail.
“When you became my coach?”
“Yeah, and then I fell in love with a girl who sits on the counter and swings her feet, who loves milkshakes and deviled eggs.” He laughs and yelps in pain.
“No joking right now. I’m not sure how many stitches you have, but for now, you just lie there.”
“I love you, Butterfly.”
“I love you, Coach.” I lean down and kiss his forehead through the paper mask. “Your sister is champing at the bit to see you, so I’m going to let her come in before the nurse kicks me out.”
FORTY-ONE
MATT
The couch creaks when I shift, and for a second, I’m back there again—flat on my back, the bed tipped just enough to keep me still, pillows wedged under my knees like they were afraid I’d break myself if I moved wrong. I remember the way the incision pulled every time I breathed too deep, the weight of my own body feeling foreign, fragile, like I was being held together by instructions and IV lines. Five days in that room. Nurses in and out, numbers on screens, someone always reminding me not to twist, not to sit up too fast, not to rush what couldn’t be rushed.
I’m home, cleared from the hospital but not free. No lifting. No driving. Pills lined up like soldiers, alarms telling me when my body needs help staying alive. Recovery isn’t dramatic—it’s slow and quiet and measured in small wins.
Standing without bracing my hand against the counter.
Falling asleep without feeling like I’m guarding something fragile inside me.
The kidney is working. I’m healing. But everything still feels careful, like one wrong move could send me right backto that bed, staring at the ceiling, learning how to trust my body again.
A month after surgery, I walk a mile every morning.
Not fast. Not like I used to. Just steady laps around the park’s walking trail while the sun is just coming up, when there are fewer people around. I have to be careful, and so does everyone around me. The doctor said walking is encouraged, if I listen to my body. I’ve become very good at listening. This time, I’m older and listening.
I can shower on my own now. That felt like a victory I didn’t know I’d crave so badly until I had it back. No baths yet. No soaking. Just warm water and careful movements, one hand braced against the wall while I wash around the incision instead of over it.
Independence comes back in pieces.
I still can’t lift more than ten pounds.
