1
EMMA
Why did I wear these damn jeans?
Shifting in my seat, I try to unstick the denim from my inner thighs and undo the button at my waist, letting my organs fall back to their natural positioning.
You could never catch me in jeans on any other given day. My usual uniform consists of very-fashionable-and-not-at-all-raggedy painting overalls or black leggings, an oversized band tee, and dirty converse. So tell me why I thought tight ass denim jeans were a good fashion choice on an eight hour train ride from Manhattan to middle-of-nowhere Vermont.
Morning Emma clearly lacked the foresight of Afternoon Emma, as I am now fighting for my life in this seat.
I will admit, they make my ass look really good. I was impressed as I checked myself out one last time in the floor-length mirror before leaving the apartment. But now, instead of enjoying the changing scenery outside the train window or thinking about anything profound, all Icanthink about is the denim squeezing me like a boa constrictor—making this wholelife-altering train ride back to the small town I swore I would never return tothing that much more uncomfortable.
The phone buzzes in my lap with a text from Dallas, interrupting my inner monologue of self-pity. By now, I know she is fully regretting letting me leave without staging a complete intervention before I boarded the train twenty minutes ago.
Dallas
Ya know, it’s not too late to turn that train around.
I snort out a laugh loud enough to earn a death glare from the old lady sitting across the aisle. Flashing her my best disarming smile, I quickly snap a photo of the city skyline fading into the distance. She continues giving me a judging look as I hit send on the picture to Dallas.
Tough crowd.
(Photo of train window with NYC skyline in the distance) Pretty sure trains don’t do U-turns.
Dallas
Fine. But seriously, keep me updated, okay? Small-town gossip, weird neighbors, mysterious bad-boys. I need new ideas for my next book. This writer’s block is going to send me into psychosis.
Well, I give you permission, in advance, to write about my sad excuse for a life. I’ll call soon!
Dallas
How dramatic.
Safe travels, Em! Love you!
I chuckle softly this time, feeling a bit lighter despite the weight of impending doom in my chest.
Dallas and I have been through everything together: breakups, job rejections, late night Taco Bell runs, and the kind of drunken karaoke that could haunt a person for life.
She’smy person.
We met in the dorms during freshman year of college. The housing office slapped us together as roommates, most likely because we both checked “messy” on our living habits questionnaire.
Dallas stormed into our tiny shared space with a duffle bag in one hand, a coffee in the other, and an air of supreme confidence that was almost as intimidating as it was magnetic. Within ten minutes, she had rearranged the furniture, declared her side of the room as “the fun side” and introduced herself by saying, “I’m Dallas. Yes, like the city. No, I’ve never been there. And yes, I fully expect us to hate each other by midterms.”
We didn’t end up hating each other—quite the opposite, actually. I was skeptical at first, but it was impossible not to get caught up in the whirlwind that is Dallas Martínez. She is bold where I am cautious, brash where I am reserved. She is redheaded and vibrant, while I am brunette and quiet. Total opposites. And somehow, over the years, that contrast balanced out into the kind of friendship that feels like family.
Dallas is also the only other person, besides my brothers, that knows the full truth about why I’m on this train.
On a Tuesday afternoon just like any other, my whole world came crashing down.
It didn’t seem real, even as Dr. Flores talked about new medications, “treatment” plans and the possibility of needing a transplant in the near future. His tone was calm and balanced, like he had given the same speech a thousand times and it had become routine for him at this point. Like he was discussing the weather or how to prepare a bowl of cereal, not telling a twenty-eight-year-old girl that her heart is continuing to give up on her.
I was diagnosed with dilated cardiomyopathy at the tender age of five years old, meaning that the muscles in my heart are stretched, therefore making the entire thing enlarged. This causes it to lose the ability to pump blood effectively throughout my body. The grocery list of effects on my daily life are dizziness, shortness of breath, fatigue, palpitations, and the occasional fainting or collapsing completely. There is no cure and it’s pretty much expected that, if you live long enough, you will eventually need a heart transplant. Nearly 40% of children with DCM, without a transplant early in life, don’t make it to their third birthday.
I was, and still am, consideredlucky.
