“My boyfriend’s dead sister’s heart,” I gasp. (Though I should probably start insertingexbeforeboyfriend.)
The nurse bustles back in with a syringe that she screws onto the port of my IV. “Here you go, hon.”
As the medicine hits my veins, a blessed calm sweeps over me, repressing my panic into submission. I sigh with relief as the waves of anguish ebb away, leaving me drained but pleasantly sleepy.
“This should help her calm down and maybe get some rest. We’re going to transport her up to the cardiac floor here in a minute.”
I barely even hear the nurse’s words through the lovely quiet of the diazepam. It even soothes away the pain in my chest. My eyes close, and I let myself drift off into the release of a dreamless sleep.
31.
The diazepam does its job. I doze for about an hour while I’m transferred and settled into my room, and then after another dose, I am able to eat half of my dinner before drifting off again. I haven’t slept much since the disastrous party, so the naps are tiny miracles to me.
Plus, it saves me from having to make conversation with anyone. Which makes me sound awful, but I’m exhausted in every way possible, including mentally. There is nothing moretosay. I don’t have the energy or capacity to keep rehashing the same information.
I have my boyfriend’s dead sister’s heart.
There’s nothing anyone can say or do that will make that sentence—or the reality it signifies—any better.
By nine, everyone except my mom has left. I want to tell her she should go home, but she’s dozed off in the recliner in the corner of my room, and I hate to wake her.
My recent labs have shown an improvement, my telemetry reports are getting better every hour, and I’m not having as much chest pain anymore, which could be from those improvements or the diazepam. Either way, things are going the right direction.Thankfully.
The hospital outside my room is bright and always in motion. I can see the strip of light beneath my door and hear thevoices passing by as nurses and doctors rush from patient to patient.
But in here, the lights are off, and the rain still falls, dripping down the darkened square of my window. I lie in my bed and desperately try not tothink, to focus on the rivulets of water and keep my mind blank.
There’s a soft knock at the door, and I blink in the sudden burst of fluorescent light when it opens. It takes two beats of my beleaguered heart for my brain to catch up to my eyes.
Hunter stands in the doorway.
My mom rouses at the interruption, peeling her eyes open groggily. When she sees him standing there, framed by the hallway lights, his powerful shoulders hunched forward, his hands shoved into his jean pockets, she jumps to her feet. “I—I, uh, need to go call the other hospital. I forgot to earlier, and I need an update on Farmor, and I never ...” She trails off and rushes out of the room, slipping past Hunter.
I can’t tear my eyes away, drinking in the sight of him in my hospital room. But I don’t dare speak. He stares at the monitors behind me, not meeting my gaze. The silence builds, stretching out.
Then, finally, he says, “I don’t know what to do.” His eyes meet mine, luminous, even in the darkness. “I don’t know how to handle feeling so guilty that she died because of me ... and so grateful that you’re alive because of her death.”
My beleaguered heart lurches. “I’m sorry, Hunter. I’m so,sosorry I’m here because your sister died.” My voice quavers.
Suddenly, he strides across the room, sits on the side of my bed, and scoops me forward, his arms coming around me. “Don’teverapologize for being alive,” he whispers, the words choked.
I sink into his body, hardly able to believe he’s here—that he’s holding me—that I’m not having a diazepam-induced hallucination.
But then he breaks down into sobs, and I know this is real. He’s here. He’s holding me.
And he’s wrecked.
There’s nothing that can be said that will ever fix it. There’s no way for us to move forward without compounding heartbreak with more heartbreak. I know what I have to do, but I can’t bring myself to do it—yet. I wantthis—the comfort of his touch—for one last night.
Finally, the tears slow and eventually stop. But still, we cling to each other. My head rests on his shoulder, his arms wrap around me, and I’m halfway pulled into his lap. I feel wrung out. Everything is raw and painful.
“I’m sorry about the last few days.” His words are low in my ear. “This has all been ...overwhelming. But when I saw you on that gurney ... your lips so blue and your face so pale. It made me realize ... I will never be able to let go of the guilt and pain of Lyla’s death, but if losing her meant savingyourlife—” Hunter’s voice is hoarse. There’s a weighted pause where I both fear and hope what he’ll say next. The last thing I expect is: “I’m moving out.”
A rush of anxiety rises from my stomach to my throat. I guess there’s no waiting for tomorrow; it’s happening now. He’s here to tell me goodbye. Even though I know I need to end things for good anyway, therealityof losing him forever is a knife to the lungs; it’s suddenly hard to draw air.
“I understand.” I make my voice stay steady, refusing to start crying again.
“I got a place with another guy at work,” he continues. “You can move home.”
