“How long are you staying?” Emily asks.
“I’m not sure. Maybe until the winds change.”
She laughs. “Okay, Mary Poppins.”
“You know I don’t make long-term plans anymore. I’ll stay until I’m ready to move on.”
“Just promise me one thing.”
“What’s that?”
“That you’ll still come home for my birthday. No way in hell am I celebrating the first anniversary of turning twenty-nine without you.”
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
“Good.” She flashes me a smile. “I miss you. Miss having my bestie right around the corner.”
“I miss you, too. But I need to do this. Need to have as many adventures while I can.”
“I know,” Emily responds with a long sigh.
She hates when I remind her of this, but it’s the truth. Hell, I’m lucky to even be alive now, and it’s onlybecause someone with my same blood type was thoughtful enough to donate their organs before passing away.
Truthfully, I didn’t expect to wake up from that surgery, not after learning all the risks involved. Even when I did, I expected my body to reject the donor heart, as my doctor warned could happen.
But it didn’t. I survived.
Still, I know the statistics. Most heart transplants only last fifteen years before they start failing. Twenty years if I’m lucky. Thirty years if I’mreallylucky. A follow-up transplantispossible, but there are greater risks. Greater complications.
Greater chance of rejection and ultimately…death.
This is why I quit my job at my father’s law firm and used my savings to buy a van. So I can experience everything this world has to offer before my time is up.
“I think what you’re doing is great,” she adds. “I just worry about you.”
“I’m fine. Promise. I’m taking all my meds every day like I’m supposed to. Plus, I’m nannying for a freaking doctor, for crying out loud.”
“Does he know?”
“I’m not sure that’s a topic of conversation for my first day of work. ‘I know you just hired me, but about a year-and-a-half ago, I was diagnosed with arrhythmogenic right ventricular cardiomyopathy and would have died if I hadn’t received a donor heart. But I’m fine now.’”
“Don’t you think you should tell him? Just in case?”
“You worry too much.” I avert my gaze, picking at apull in the duvet. “Plus, he treats me like there’s nothing wrong with me. Like I’m not on borrowed time.”
“Unlike me,” she exhales.
“You don’t do that. You just…care about me. That’s all.”
“And I always will.” She wipes her eyes. “Enough of this. Tell me about the doctor. Is he hot?”
While this is the last thing I want to talk about, I can sense Emily needs a pick-me-up, so I give her what she wants.
It’s not like I have to lie about it either.
“Let’s just say I don’t know which I like better,” I begin with a mischievous grin. “Him in pajama pants, a suit, or gray sweatpants.”
“Gray sweatpants? He actually wears gray sweatpants?”
