“But not how you think.” I pause, chewing on my bottom lip. “I found something when I was cleaning one day.”
“Okay…”
“It was a letter, Em.Myletter.”
“What do you mean? What letter?”
“Theletter.”
I don’t have to embellish for her to know what I’m talking about.
Emily sat with me as I wrote every draft of that letter. Watched me rewrite sentences until my writing was barely legible. You’d think someone who used to write motions and legal briefs could handle a personal letter.
But nothing I’ve ever written felt as heavy as this one.
Asimportant.
“Why would he have—” she begins, but stops short. “His wife.”
“I have her heart.”
It’s the first time I’ve spoken the truth out loud to anyone, and it feels both freeing and suffocating at the same time. Because the person I want to tell doesn’t want to hear them.
“Oh, my god,” Emily whispers, momentarily speechless, a feat for the woman who always knows what to say. “Does he know? Your hottie, single-dad, fuck-buddy boss?”
I laugh, grateful for the break in tension. If there’s anything Emily’s good at, it’s cutting through a difficult situation.
“He has a name. It’s Hayden. And no.”
I fall onto a nearby bench as the wind picks up slightly, rustling dry leaves across the grass.
“He told me he doesn’t want to know who received her organs. Because if something happened to them, it would be like losing her all over again. In his mind, he’d rather enjoy the peace of mind in knowing his wife saved four lives and leave it at that.”
“But doesn’t your situation complicate things?”Emily replies softly. “It’s not like you’re a stranger. You're living in his house. Taking care of his kids. Sleeping with him.”
“I know. And a part of me wants to tell him,” I admit as Groucho sprints back toward me with the ball in his mouth. “But I also want to respect his wishes. He’s been stuck living in the past for so long, but is now becoming more present. I don’t want to do anything to pull him back, ya know? Plus, I won’t be here forever. Soon, the wind will change, and I’ll fly away to my next destination.”
I expect her to laugh at my Marry Poppins reference.
She doesn’t.
“But you like being there. Like being withhim.”
“We agreed,” I tell her. “We’re simply enjoying ourselves whenever the mood strikes. No future.”
“What happens if you want more with him? If you want a future? Or if he does?”
“He won’t. He?—”
“You can’t control what he feels or thinks,” she interjects.
She’s right. I can’t. But Icancontrol what I feel and think.
“I can’t think about a future with him.Won’tthink about a future with him. He’s already lost his wife. I’m not selfish enough to make him get attached to me, only for him to lose me, too. Because hewilllose me.”
“You don’t know that. You could defy the odds and outlive us all.”
I smile at her optimism. Normally, I’d hold on to thesame hope. But I’m more than aware that a heart transplant isn’t a fairy tale. It’s a borrowed miracle with a timer no one can see.
