Page 94

“I just want to see the stars again,” I blurt out.

It’s stupid. It’s romantic-comedy, made-for-TV, crap dialogue. So of course it totally works. Angela’s eyes soften a little, the wrinkles around her mouth relaxing a smidge.

“There’s no reason to think you won’t make it,” she says.

“Yeah, but . . .” I let tears pool in my eyes. “What if I don’t?”

I reach for her hand and squeeze it. It doesn’t hurt that five Oxy make an exchange along with the pretense of affection.

She glances down and slides the pills in her pocket. “Five minutes.”

“Thanks,” I say, slipping out the door and gliding down the dim hallway to the side exit. I zip my jacket closed and jam my hands into the pockets, breath crystallizing in front of me.

It’s cold outside, a place I haven’t been in weeks. The air hits my lungs in painful bursts, my toes curling against the snow that edges over the tips of my flip-flops. I take my coat off anyway, hanging it on a nearby tree branch so that Angela will see the sleeve at the edge of the door, dumbly believing that a dying girl who just wants to see the stars again would do so right next to a sodium light.

I head out across the snow, feet punching through drifts. I lose my left flip-flop in the first thirty seconds, the right one staying in place a little farther, only giving up after I fall forward, hands planted in a snowbank up to my elbows.

A little noise comes out of me, a mix of pain and annoyance. I haven’t hit numbness yet, but I won’t wait on it either. This is nothing compared to what’s coming, I tell myself, gritting my teeth as I find a spot I like beneath a cluster of birches. Their bark is as white as the snow, the limbs as thin as my arms, which are now shaking, my skin not even warm enough to melt the snowflakes that land on me.

I hear his bike before I see it, the sound sending a jarring mix of chemicals through Shanna’s dying heart. He’s looking at his phone as he gets off, kicking the stand in place casually, a second nature that looks oh so sexy on him and he doesn’t even realize it. I know that he’ll run his hands through his hair twice, shaking out the snow. I know that he’ll hold his phone in his left hand even though he’s right-handed. I know all these things because I know him.

And I hate that.

I glance back at the cardiac center, gauging the movements of shadows behind the blinds. No one is panicking yet. That’s good.

“Isaac,” I whisper-yell at him, and he glances up, spotting my waving arms.

“Hey, what . . .” He comes to me, leaving the circle of light he parked his bike under. “What the hell are you doing? Jesus Christ, you’re going to freeze out here.”

He’s taking off his coat, and I kind of hate that too because in the end he’s a good guy, maybe even a great guy, and I can’t accept that.

“Listen to me, Isaac,” I say. “I got a heart.”

“You did?” He stops, one shoulder free of his coat, the empty sleeve dragging in the snow. “Holy shit!” he yells. “Holy shit, lady!”

Isaac grabs me, pulling me completely into him, our hearts smashed together. I feel my LVAD protesting the tight space, my lungs crushed by his enthusiasm. I pull away, my feet numb and the coldness working its way up to my knees.

“That’s awesome,” he says, hands still on my shoulders, eyes brighter than anything I see around me.

“Not for Shanna,” I say, my head down, the words falling out like small stones that barely ripple in a pond. But even those ripples reach the far shore, and I feel his hands tighten on me.

“What do you mean? I thought you said that was all bullshit?”

I shake my head, unable to hold his eyes. Because I’m a good girl and I lied to him. Lied to him about ignoring his texts. Lied to him that my heart was his. Lied to get him here, right now.

There are two warm spots on my cheeks, a small trickle of tears that will freeze before they hit the ground. I raise my head. The least I can do is look at him.

“She’s always been here, Isaac. And she loves you so much. The way she feels . . . it’s . . . I can’t even begin to tell you. Her heart swells. I always thought that was a stupid thing they just said in romance novels, but it’s real. It’s real and she feels it.”

I take his hand, now hanging limply at his side, and place it on my chest, right near the scar that peeks out of my tank top.

“She’s so in love with you,” I say, holding his gaze.

“Right,” he says, his voice colder than the air around us. “She is. Not you.”

He tries to reclaim his hand, but I keep it pressed against my skin. “It’s a compliment, Isaac,” I try to explain.

He jerks away as I hear the first raised voice from the cardiac center. Words can’t be made out, but I recognize the hint of controlled panic.