“Imade the promise, and I’m not breaking it.” Hunter’s voice brooks no arguments. I’m still baffled why he agreed to it in the first place—or why he’s adamant onkeepingthe promise.
“Fine,” Lou acquiesces. “But you better keep acloseeye on her. I can’t go through that again, Livvy. I’ve never been that scared inmy life.” I don’t know if she realizes she’s gripping the bottom edge of her tank top.
“What in the worldhappenedlast year?” Hunter glances between us, his brow furrowing.
“It wasn’t that big of a—”
“I came home to find Liv lying on the kitchen floor, barely conscious, her lips blue, struggling to breathe,” Lou cuts me off. “Her heart rate was over 150.”
Hunter’s alarmed gaze swings to me. “That’s your idea of ‘not that big of a deal’?”
I have to look away. “I hate that it happened,” I admit, quiet and defeated. “I hate that kind of fear. If I let myself go to worst-case scenario ... I don’t know how to keep going. I have to tell myself it’s not a big deal—or how else would I even get out of bed?”
Lou’s expression softens—sympathy, maybe even grief. But Hunter’s color has drained, his skin grafts suddenly bone-white. He doesn’t say a word. Just stares, his expression carved from stone.
I lie back and put the washcloth over my forehead so I have an excuse to close my eyes.
“Liv,” Lou finally says, “that heart you got is a super heart. She’s going to keep beating for decades. Mark my words.”
I nod, squeezing my eyes tight against a sudden burning.
“What do you meandecades?” Hunter’s voice is low, meant for Lou alone—but I still catch the words.
I have to lock my jaw against a swell of despair when she answers just as quietly, “If she makes it twenty years posttransplant without needing another heart, she’ll have beat the odds.”
“Anotherheart?” he repeats, soft and stunned andsad. I can’t bear to hear it—not from him.
“I’m really tired. I need to rest,” I cut in, forcing my voice to be firm—in control.
“Of course.” Hunter’s response is so fast; the tone of his voice sodifferent—and Ihateit. I hate that now he’s worried, pitying. The same as so many others.
After Lou walks upstairs and Hunter heads into the kitchen, I roll onto my side toward the couch cushions and will myself to fall back asleep. One coping mechanism I’ve gained from all the months on end in hospitals, being poked, prodded, and tested at all hours of the day and night, is the ability to fall asleep quickly, even when I’m upset.
Unfortunately, today it takes longer than usual; I’m still awake when Hunter comes back and sneaks over to check on me. I keep my body loose, my breathing even, pretending to be lost to sleep, but my lungs constrict when he drapes a blanket over me. His touch is halting but gentle as he tucks the blanket carefully around my shoulders.
Finally, he goes, quietly shutting the front door behind him, leaving me lying on the couch, cocooned in the blanket and the ghost of his touch. My heart doesn’t race from his thoughtfulness—itaches.
I know better than to allow anything more than cautious gratitude when it comes to Hunter. Neighborly kindness doesn’t really mean anything.
It doesn’t.
Itcan’t.
Because I can’t handle any more loss in my life, even if it’s merely the loss of hope I never should have let myself give in to in the first place.
13.
Iwake up groggy and disoriented to theclack clack clackof keys being tapped on a laptop. I crack an eye open and see Hunter in the armchair. He’s showered, his hair damp and disheveled, as though he’s run his hands through it multiple times, wearing a fitted black T-shirt and jeans. I can smell a hint of soap and shampoo on him, and I’m not sure if the flush I feel is from his proximity and (unfairly amazing) scent, or if I actuallyamgetting a fever. Sunlight streams through the windows behind me, so I’ve clearly slept for at least a couple of hours.
I take the chance to observe him unnoticed through lowered lashes. When he isn’t aware that he’s being watched, his shoulders are relaxed, his face softer—the tension that constantly hovers around him gone. He has a surprising brush of freckles across his cheeks and nose beneath his tan, and a small grouping of tiny moles along his strong jawline, near the curve of his throat. He’s clean-shaven, but he missed a spot next to his Adam’s apple. I nearly smile to see that tiny patch of hair—it makes me think he was in such a rush hedidn’t notice the little bit of scruff. I can only see the right side of his face, so his scars aren’t visible.
As if he finally senses my attention, he glances up, the green in his hazel eyes standing out starkly in the bright sunlight.
“You’re awake.” He snaps his computer shut and jumps to his feet.
I yawn, trying to act like I wasn’t watching him for at least a minute or two like a creeper.
“What can I get you? Do you need more Tylenol? Another compress? Are you hungry?”
