“It’s okay,” I say, still short of breath. “You don’t need to apologize.”
“I want you to know you can trust me,” he insists. “That I respect you and your wishes. And honestly, I should take it slow for my sake too. We’ve both been through a lot.”
I nod, even though a part of me—the part still throbbing with need—wishes I’d never asked him to go slow. But I know it’s the right thing to do, for both of us. “I do trust you,” I assure him.
We stare at each other, both fighting the urge to close the gap once more.
“I should go,” Hunter says. “You’ve got work to do, and we can’tbothbe slacking today.”
I sigh. “You’re probably right.”
But he doesn’t leave yet. “I want to take you out again tonight, but we have a client dinner I can’t get out of ... since they’re my clients.”
I lift one brow. “That would be a problem if you didn’t show up. Congrats on getting clients!”
“Thanks.” He shrugs nonchalantly, but excitement dances in his eyes. “Maybe Wednesday?”
“Wednesday? Not tomorrow?” I sound needy, and I know it, and I can’t even bring myself to care.
“Well, I would offer tomorrow, but first of all, it’s April Fool’s Day—and I hate April Fool’s Day. And second, Lou said there’s some kind of party at the duplex that I can’t miss.”
“Right.” I groan. “So, Wednesday it is, then.”
“At least we live next to each other, so it’s not like we won’t see each other until then,” Hunter points out with a smirk. “In fact, if I recall, I got a nice glimpse of you in some cute pajama shorts and a tank top this morning.”
A blush burns up my neck to my cheeks. “Awesome. That means you also saw my bed head.”
“Your bed head is one of my favorite parts of having to use your condo for almost everything.” Hunter grins.
The timer on the oven goes off, and I startle, reminded that I really do have to get back to work.
“Okay, I’m going—for real this time. But first ...” Hunter strides back over and wraps his arms around me, pulling me in tight. He holds me for a few seconds, long enough for me to melt into his embrace. Then he gently lets go. “Thanks for the hug,” he says, his gaze on mine, making my breath catch.
“Anytime,” I murmur, lost in the green flecks of his eyes. When he turns to go, I manage to tear my gaze from his and groan. “Oh,crap, your clothes. There really is flour all over you now.”
Hunter glances down and shrugs. “Worth it,” is all he says and starts brushing it off as he heads out of the kitchen. “Have a good afternoon, Liv.”
“Good luck focusing!”
His laughter is still one of the most amazing sounds I’ve ever heard. But I don’t have time to dwell on it—or on the heat that still courses over my skin from his touch. I grab my oven mitts and resolve to get back to work. I have to finish the day’s order so we can stay in business.
27.
Iwake up before my alarm the next morning. My room is encompassed in shadow, the sky outside my window is pitch black. It’s April Fool’s Day—also known as my New Life Day. I ended up having my surgery on April 1 at eleven thirty at night. I lie here now, staring up at the ceiling, memories of being eighteen and bedridden on an LVAD machine in the hospital swimming through my mind. I can’t believe it’s been seven years since the day Dr. Nielsen came into my room and told me it was no joke that I was getting a heart.
Lou and I are supposed to meet Talia at the gym this morning for a “celebration of having a healthy heart and body” workout together. I woke up so early that I still have forty-five minutes before we leave, but there’s no way I can go back to sleep.
Instead, I get out of bed and walk over to my dresser, studying my pale reflection in the mirror. Even in the darkness, I can easily see the red, puckered skin of the scar bisecting my rib cage. I trace it with my finger. Seven years ago tonight, I was lying on a table, my chest cracked open, my heart literally getting cut out of my body. It’s unfathomable. There are times I honestly don’t know how to wrap my head around the fact that I don’t have my own heart.
“You are a miracle. You are alive, and that is worth celebrating,” I whisper to my reflection.
Looking away from the mirror, I take my immunosuppressants, put on my workout clothes, and turn on my light. Then I pull out a sheet of paper from the stack I keep on the top shelf of my closet—the same ones I used for my original letter to the donor family. I picked a plain white paper with gold angel wings embossed in the left top corner, representing their angel who gave me the ultimate gift.
I have a tradition on this day that’s only for me. Every year, I write a letter to the donor family, telling them I’m still healthy and expressing my gratitude for the gift of their loved one’s heart and my sorrow for their loss. But I don’t know who to send them to since it was a closed transplant—the donor family didn’t want to know who I am or have any contact with the recipient of the heart. I was allowed to send one letter that the transplant coordinator forwarded to the family shortly after my surgery, but I wasn’t allowed to sign it. The fact that they didn’t even want to know my first name is more proof to me that the donor family was completely devastated by their loss. I carry that guilt and sorrow around with me everywhere I go, along with the heart they gave me.
I write these letters every year, sign my name because I know they’ll never see them, and then fold them up, put them in an envelope, and stack them on my top closet shelf.
By the time I finish writing this one, I have tears streaming down my cheeks—a few drip off my chin and splat on the paper, soaking the ink so it spreads like a black bloodstain.
