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“No, you idiot, she needs a heart transplant,” Layla says.

“Heath, meet Layla,” I say. “Layla, Heath.”

“Hi.” He nods at her, and she nods back.

“So what are your odds on getting one?” he asks, and while others might find it insensitive, it’s a huge relief for me.

This is Heath and me, facts and figures, streams of data. We rely on the concrete and let the impulsive evaporate, which explains a lot about why we were together so long, an investment of our time we weren’t willing to bail on yet.

“It’s complicated,” I tell him. “We don’t really know the actual algorithm they use, but when a heart becomes available it’s determined by blood type, greatest need, and proximity of the recipient.”

“Oh.” Heath’s face falls a little bit. He knows I’m O neg because we coordinated the local blood drive for the past three years, the Red Cross volunteers’ faces lighting up when they saw my paperwork.

O is the universal donor, but O neg can only receive from other O negs, which make up about 7 percent of the world’s population. So they’d treat me like a queen and pump me dry. Getting that attention seemed cool then. Now it’s a death sentence.

“How’s Lilly?” I ask, and he has the grace to blush.

“She’s good.”

“Is she?” I say, and Layla makes a noise in her throat. “Well, thanks for bringing my clarinet.”

“Sasha, listen. I . . .” Heath looks around the room. “Can we go somewhere and talk?”

“I have to meditate in like five minutes.”

Heath’s jaw tightens, something I’m familiar with. “Then give me the five minutes.”

I get up and he sees the LVAD battery pack at my side. “What’s that?”

“Life support.” I slip past him and he follows me to my room, where I close the door behind us. We stand, awkwardly facing each other.

“So Brooke told me about . . . him.” He can’t say it, and I’m not helping him. I stare blankly.

“About who?”

“Seriously, Sash? C’mon. This isn’t easy for me either, you know.”

I’m about to tell him that it isn’t my job to make it easier, but whatever there was between us, no matter how thin the string, it pulls taut in the moment that I see tears standing in his eyes. Somewhere, my heart responds. But I can barely feel it.

“About Isaac?” I provide.

“Yeah,” he says. “I didn’t think you were the cheating type.”

I’ll be sending Brooke a text later. But right now Heath is the one in front of me, and the rational part of me knows he deserves an explanation.

“Do you want to sit down?” I ask him.

He shakes his head. “You said five minutes.”

“This will take longer than that,” I say, and motion him toward the bed. He sits and I remain standing, eyes closed, hoping that somehow not looking at him will make this easier.

“I don’t know if this will help at all, but I think it explains a lot,” I say, pushing the chair in front of me and spinning it with my hands while I speak.

“What do you mean?”

“You know how I passed out at school?”

“Yeah, it was your heart.”