Pure Hearts

by Jeannine Allison

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  Other Books

  Excerpt from Unveiling the Sky

  Chapter One

  Pure Hearts

  Copyright © 2017 Jeannine Allison

  Edited By: Stephanie Parent

  Cover Design by Hang Le Designs

  Formatting by Champagne Formats

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations for a book review.

  This novel is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-One

  Twenty-Two

  Twenty-Three

  Twenty-Four

  Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  Extended Epilogue

  Playlist

  Acknowledgments

  About The Author

  Other Books

  Excerpt from Unveiling the Sky

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  To my dad, and all the other pure hearts in this world.

  Thank you for making life a little brighter.

  Twenty years ago…

  I stood in the doorway of our closet—scratch that, my closet—and took in the state of it. The only things my soon to be ex-husband, Tyson, left behind were his “World’s Greatest Dad” T-shirt and a ceramic mug Nicky made him a couple years ago. The mug was lopsided and painted an unfortunate color combination of brown and green (brown for his dad’s favorite color and green for his). Nicky had been so proud of it, even more so when Tyson told him it was the best gift he’d ever received.

  A tear slipped out of the corner of my eye and ran down my cheek. I didn’t wipe it away, nor did I try to stop the ones that followed. It was pointless given the circumstances.

  My husband no longer loved me. But becoming a twenty-five-year-old divorcée wasn’t what caused the ache in my chest. It wasn’t even the fact that I’d be raising our son alone.

  No. Any and all grief I felt was for my little boy in bed across the hall. Because what Tyson failed to mention before he left was that I wasn’t the only one he didn’t love anymore.

  He was a coward. When he left he told Nicky he still loved him, that he’d only fallen out of love with me. Tyson made promises he knew he wouldn’t be keeping right before he walked out our front door, leaving me to break our son’s heart.

  I could understand him leaving me. We weren’t in love and didn’t have any business being married. Tyson and I had married for Nicky’s sake when I was only seventeen. As we grew up, we realized we wanted different things out of life. We struggled for money and always had to watch our spending. I didn’t mind. I didn’t need much. I was okay with a small life and big love. Tyson seemed to want the exact opposite.

  Nicholas was my big love, and because of that he never felt like a responsibility. It felt like a privilege to be his mother. But Tyson grew dissatisfied with our quiet life. He wanted more money, a flashier job, less responsibilities…

  Our son was, apparently, the biggest one of all.

  How would I explain that to an eight-year-old? How would this fit into Nicky’s perception of himself, and the world?

  I’d get over it. My worth wasn’t tied to Tyson’s presence in my life. Like with any change, I’d miss him, but I definitely wouldn’t mourn him.

  With a sigh and a quick swipe to rid my face of any tears, I turned off the closet light and walked out of my bedroom toward Nicky’s room. He was lying in bed, his spacesuit pajamas on and hands relaxing behind his head.

  “Hey buddy.” I walked in and sat down on the edge of the bed before pushing some of the hair out of his eyes.

  “Hey,” he whispered, giving me a sad smile.

  I stayed quiet for almost a minute. “I want to talk about your dad.”

  “He’s not coming back, is he?”

  I jerked, taken aback by his response. I needed to tread carefully. This discussion felt like a minefield. “Why do you think that?”

  Nicky shrugged, his eyes meeting the ceiling. “Paul said when his dad left he never came back either.”

  “I see… and did Paul say anything else?”

  My son paused, his jaw tensing. “He said it’s because Dad doesn’t want me anymore. Is that true?” Nicky murmured, shattering my heart into more pieces than I thought imaginable.

  “It’s complicated,” I said slowly, the lie feeling like ash in my mouth.

  Nicky looked at me, and his little eyebrows worked, trying to understand. “How? He either loves me or he doesn’t, right?”

  I didn’t know what to say. For all their naivety, children got one thing right. Love. My sweet boy was right—love wasn’t complicated. Everything else was, and unfortunately everything else bled into love, giving the illusion of complexity. But no matter what other troubles my ex was going through, if he truly loved Nicky, he’d be here right now.

  I must have stayed quiet too long because he nodded and refocused on the glow in the dark stars affixed above him. I had nothing to correct him with anyway.

  How could a child possibly understand abandonment? How did a son reconcile the fact that his hero no longer wanted to be his father?

  I didn’t get angry often, but right now I was furious. I wouldn’t lie to my son, and sadly telling him his father loved him felt like a lie. So I offered the only truth I could.

  “It’s not your fault, Nicky.”

  Another shrug.

  “How could it be? I’m still here,” I said, putting my hand over my heart. “If it was your fault, wouldn’t I leave too?” His gaze collided with mine, and before he could speculate, I added, “And that will never happen, Nicholas. The only way I’m leaving you is if God decides it’s my time, and even then I’ll go kicking and screaming.”

  I felt victorious when he gave me a smile, complete with the wide gap between his two front teeth.

  “I guess it’s okay. He wasn’t here much anyway.” Another flash of fury moved through me. I looked down and saw his tiny fist relaxing as he spread out his fingers. “You make better
pancakes than Dad anyway.”

  Grinning, I grabbed his hand. “How ’bout I make some special ones tomorrow morning? Chocolate chip?”

  Instead of smiling wider like I expected, his lips dipped down and his attention moved to something behind me.

  “Baseball tryouts are tomorrow,” he whispered. “Dad was gonna take me.”

  “I’ll drive you. Pancakes first and then—”

  He shook his head, dropped my hand, and climbed out of bed. “That’s okay.” My shattered heart broke even further when he grabbed his sports bag—too heavy for him to carry—and dragged it across the room toward his closet. “Maybe I’ll try out next year.”

  Nicky closed the door but didn’t turn around. I waited for a sniffle or the shake of his shoulders—anything to indicate he was crying and needed me. It never came.

  A few minutes later he turned around, his expression blank as he got back into bed.

  “Chocolate pancakes sound real good,” he said before giving me a hug. I held on tight, waiting until he was ready to let go. Nicky giggled when I held on even after his arms had dropped to the side.

  Falling back against his bed, he smiled up at me. Tyson was a fool if he thought he’d find something better.

  “Night, Ma.”

  I grabbed the covers and pulled them to his chin before bending down and kissing his forehead. “Night, dear. I love you.”

  “Love you, too,” he mumbled. His eyes were closed by the time I made it to the threshold. I turned off the lights and closed the door until only a sliver of space remained.

  I quickly walked into my room, my back hitting the door as soon as I shut it, before I collapsed, tears flooding my eyes.

  I didn’t want him to hate his father. I didn’t want to turn him against Tyson, just in case Tyson ever did want to be back in his son’s life. But my primary job was to protect Nicky, and how could I do that if I wasn’t honest about the kind of man his father was?

  Sleep never came. I sat there all night, thinking of what I was going to say the next time we talked about Tyson.

  Turns out, it didn’t matter.

  Nicky never asked about his father again.

  He never talked about trying out for baseball again.

  And he never fully trusted another person again.

  It was true.

  Your life flashed before your eyes when you died. And what a shitty life it had been, filled with broken promises and betrayals.

  My whole childhood, my ma and I struggled to get by…

  Four years ago, I came home to my girlfriend setting the dining room table, boasting a wonderful surprise…

  Twenty years ago, I watched my father walk out the door, promising his love and time…

  That memory was particularly brutal, even if I didn’t always acknowledge it. It was the first time I truly understood disappointment. I was only eight, but my father taught me an invaluable lesson. He showed me that a person’s first and foremost loyalty was to himself. Not even blood mattered.

  The memories were fewer and further between as I slowly regained consciousness.

  My head was pounding, and my stomach felt like it was being ripped out of me. There was a light shining my way. I lifted my head toward it, immediately regretting the decision when the brightness caused another throbbing sensation to shoot through my brain.

  Next came the screams.

  Then pain. Everywhere.

  “Hello? Sir? Are you okay?” The voice was high-pitched and frantic, but definitely a man’s. “Sir?”

  What’s going on?

  More screams.

  More pain.

  I wanted to open my mouth. I wanted to let him know… I wasn’t even close to okay. When I tried, I was cut off by another bloodcurdling scream.

  God, her screams. The pain sounded excruciating as I struggled to remember what happened.

  “Lily, I don’t…” The man sounded torn. The ache in my head was intensifying.

  “We’re gonna… oh God, we’re gonna lose her—” she started before letting out a horrifying scream.

  “I don’t…” The man trailed off and I heard his pounding footsteps fading as he ran away from me. A moment later the sound returned, and this time his voice carried toward me like a death sentence. “I’m sorry! I have to go… I can’t…” he shouted, his voice sure and filled with purpose.

  And then he was running away again, providing me with another memory of a person doing something unforgivable.

  I heard the car drive away, leaving me here alone.

  To die…

  It’s a girl!

  Grinning like a fool, I walked down the hospital corridor toward the maternity ward, remembering the words my mom had screamed in my ear when I answered the phone this morning. My smile faltered slightly when I thought of my sister’s troubles, but I shook it off. I needed to focus on the positives. My beautiful nineteen-inch, six-pound-and-nine-ounce niece, Mirielle, was doing better. I heard the relief in my mother’s voice when she relayed how my sister was beside herself with joy when she held her daughter for the first time.

  I looked down at the four balloons wrapped around my wrist—three pink and one yellow—before squeezing the giant teddy bear in my other arm closer to my chest. I couldn’t think of anyone who deserved to be a parent more than my big sister.

  Calla was five years older than me, but she never treated me like the annoying little sister. Not when Mom made her pick me up at a friend’s house. Not when she had to miss parties to babysit me. Not even when I raided the makeup on her vanity and broke her favorite bottle of perfume.

  I never felt unwanted around her. She was like a mother to me, not because ours was lacking—our mother was wonderful. Calla just had that way about her. She was born to be somebody’s mother. Mirielle was one lucky baby.

  My smile widened with each person I passed, and I couldn’t help but pick up my pace. I had just turned a corner when I came to an abrupt stop. A man and woman stood in the middle of the hallway about fifteen feet away. He was clearly a doctor—dressed in maroon scrubs and a black cap, with a mouth mask pulled down around his neck—and she must have been a patient’s family member based on how exhausted she looked, apparent even from here.

  He only stood about half a foot above her and was filled out like he took care of himself, which made sense since he was a doctor. I’d be in excellent shape too if I knew all that could go wrong. I quickly glanced down at my slight pooch, something my solo Taco Tuesday parties were most certainly responsible for.

  Shaking my head, I lifted my gaze back to them. The woman looked like she took care of her body too, but somehow she seemed especially frail and tiny in comparison to the doctor. Her black pants and gray sweatshirt appeared slept in and the brown knot of hair on her head had definitely been pulled at a few times.

  “He’s my baby boy!” she wailed, clutching her chest as it heaved with sorrow. My lips immediately dipped down into a frown and my eyes quickly filled with sympathetic tears. The doctor tried to keep his face impassive and professional, but I could see a crack in his demeanor, a break in his heart. There was no way to watch this grieving mother without feeling something.

  “I’m sorry, ma’am. Your son has experienced extensive renal trauma, and our only option right now is dialysis. He’ll eventually need a new kidney, without one—”

  “He’ll die? My son will die?”

  The doctor placed a hand on her shoulder; all pretenses of impartiality were gone as he lowered his face toward hers. And even though I knew it was wrong, I inched forward.

  “Ma’am, there is plenty of time, and there are a few different options. Some patients live on dialysis for years. The important thing to focus on right now is that he’s stable and all his other injuries will heal. He should be waking up shortly.” He offered her a soft smile.

  I looked on with blurry vision at this mother so desperate to save her son. Glancing down at the stuff in my hands, I felt my expression morph into a glare, like some
how the cheerful presents were responsible for this woman’s suffering.

  I lifted my head in time to see her eyes widen, her stare moving past the doctor. “Oh God… I’m—I’m not going to be a mother anymore.”

  The doctor didn’t offer her any more words. He simply wrapped his arms around her and let her cry on his shoulder, her face aimed my way.

  My heart broke into a thousand pieces.

  I recognized the look in her eyes. Fear. Complete and soul-consuming fear.

  The doctor may have told her that her son had time, but that wasn’t what she heard. When you were going through a trauma, when you were so distraught you could barely stand—like how she was leaning on the doc—you only heard fragments of what someone was telling you. You only listened to the bits that reconfirmed your fears, justifying your reactions. Everything else was lost.

  Fear, and a deep love like that, could lead to desperation. I’d seen it. I’d lived it.

  “Paging Dr. Moore,” a voice announced over the PA system. The doctor seemed torn as he gazed down at the broken woman in his arms before glaring at the speaker in the corner. After his name was called once more, he regretfully pulled away and told her he had to leave.

  “Okay,” she whispered. He gave her shoulders one more squeeze before walking away. A waft of air hit me as he passed by and I stared after him. Dr. Moore hesitated at the end of the hall, only a couple of feet away from me, unable to stop looking at the woman. When his eyes caught mine, he gave me a brisk nod and hurried away.

  My gaze moved back to her. She was stumbling away, blindly slapping the wall as she walked in the opposite direction. I wasn’t sure what compelled me forward, but I followed her.

  Thankfully I was wearing my Keds instead of something impractical and noisy, although I was pretty sure a bomb could explode and she wouldn’t hear it. Grief did that—it dulled all the other horrible things. Her own personal bomb had detonated and nothing could compare.

  She paused in front of a door, her hand on the knob and her head bent, like she was gathering strength to go inside. I skirted back around the corner. It felt wrong to spy on this woman, but I wanted to make sure she was okay.