Talia strokes my hair. “It’s a gift, Liv. Whoever she is, whatever happened to her, you can’t change it. But youcanchoose what you do with this gift.”
I know she’s right. But I can’t shut off the visceral reaction that makes my body shake, my stomach twisting into knots of nausea.
“I’ll try,” I say again.
Talia, who has given up her entire senior year to sit by my side in this dismal hospital room, suddenly grins. “I know! While we wait for your mom to get here, we’re going to make a list.”
“A list,” I repeat, dubious.
“Yes, a list. Of everything you want to do now that you’re getting a second chance at life.” She hurries to where she dumped her backpack on the floor a few hours ago and rummages for a notebook and pen. “We’ll call it your ‘New Life Bucket List.’ And forevermore, April 1 will no longer be April Fool’s Day; it will be your New Life Day. The day we celebrate yoursecondbirth—your new heart day.”
It’s impossible not to smile back at her. “The list is a good idea. But I hate to point out that since it’s already seven o’clock and the heart isn’t even here yet, Imightnot get my new lease on life until April 2. We could be stuck with April Fool’s Day.”
Talia rolls her eyes and uncaps her pen. “Number one on the list: Stop being so sarcastic.”
I gasp and put my hand to my chest, over the tubes that I still can’t believe will be gone by tomorrow. “No more sarcasm? Then what would even be the point of living?”
“Nowthere’sa girl who deserves a new heart.”
And despite myself, I grin at my best friend through my tears.
2.
Liv, 25
One more set,” Talia says, eliciting a groan from me.
“But ithurts,” I grumble.
“That’s kind of the idea.” She has the audacity tolaughwhile barely straining to lift twenty-pound hand weights. I’m using twelves, and the thought of doing ten more bicep curls on each arm is turning me into a three-year-old refusing to rip off a Band-Aid. “You’ve got this,” Talia adds. “Then we can go stretch and be done.”
“Ugh.Fine.” I inhale deeply and immediately feel at least 3percent buffer, thanks to the grit-inducing, sacred gym blend of body odor, disinfectant, and plastic mats—like Eau de Fitness, with a musky top note of cologne and insecurity. With a level of grunting and forehead-vein-popping that makes me grateful I have no desire to date any of the men in a twenty-foot radius of me right now, I manage to finish the ten reps.
After we rerack our weights, Talia and I grab mats and lay them out side by side to stretch together.
“Don’t you feel amazing after pushing yourself like that?”
“No.” I lie flat on my back on the mat, staring up at the fluorescent lights above us. “I feel like I’m not going to beable to lift my arms for days. And I’m supposed to bring in the flour shipment this morning for the bakery.”
“I can swing by and do it,” Talia offers, the arm workout clearly not fazing her one bit. I’m concerned about my ability to put on a hoodie or open a door, and she’s volunteering to lift fifty-pound bags of flour.
“Thanks.” I’d protest, if I weren’t legitimately nervous that lifting the flour might be too much after this workout.
Besides, Talia has to take it easier than she normally does when I come with her to the gym. Dr. Thorup has made it clear that I have to maintain a strict balance of working out enough to ensure my health without pushing myself too hard and increasing my heart rate too high for too long. Talia is basically an expert at all things gym and well-being, having made it her mission in life to keep us both as healthy as possible after my transplant, so she plans my workouts for me. I merely follow her around and do what she does—or rather, whine as I do what she tells me to do.
In fact, my previously noodle arms are finally showing a bit of shape, thanks to her efforts since she moved back a year ago. She claims she got a better offer than the fancy tech job she took after graduating. Somehow, I think it had more to do with my health scare last year, because I highly doubt she’s making more money in Scottsdale than she was in San Francisco. But I don’t dare question her on it, too afraid I’m right and that I have, once again, messed up her life, even though I never would have asked her to quit her job and move back.
“If I’m going to stop by the bakery before work, we better head out.” Talia pulls one of her arms across her chest, and I imitate her. “Promise me you’ll do more stretching later today?”
“Just text me what to do, and I’ll do it.”
We rush through the rest of our regular stretching routine and stand up. Talia grabs my arm and clicks my Apple Watch to turn on the screen. After inspecting my HR, she nods. “Looking good,” she pronounces, and I manage not to roll my eyes. I know how to track my own health, but it gives her a sense of security—maybe even control over the unknown—to do it.
“Yep, feeling good,” I confirm, gently tugging my arm back. “I’m going to run home and change. See you at the bakery?”
Talia nods, distracted by a text on her phone.
“Something up?” I ask.
