This Heart of Mine

by C. C. Hunter

  Matt sits there, taking it all in. “Why would she call the police?”

  “I don’t have a freaking clue.”

  Lady does another adjustment and almost falls off Leah’s lap. Leah catches her but lets go of Matt’s hand.

  He closes his palm, missing her touch.

  “I guess the police could have been there for a different reason.” She exhales. “Shit! Now that I think about it, I’m sure I overreacted. There’s no way the cop could have gotten there that fast.” She stares out at the woods. “The cop couldn’t have been there for me.”

  She lets out an apologetic sigh. “See, I was being silly.”

  “No.” Matt leans back in the bench. “You were feeling Eric’s emotions again.”

  She nods as if unsure. “I could have just imagined it.”

  He stares at her and sees disbelief. He doesn’t like it. He knows she’s just trying to be logical. Something he can’t seem to be right now. Not when someone killed his brother.

  He inhales and tries holding his breath a second the way Leah did, hoping to regroup his thoughts. “Either way, I still want to know why a cop is showing up there.”

  “Maybe the investigation isn’t over.” She shifts. “That detective you mentioned, maybe he’s still looking into it.”

  Matt nods. “He’s a detective. I don’t think he drives a police car.”

  “He could have sent another cop to ask questions.”

  “I don’t know.” But he plans to find out. Which means he has to see Detective Henderson again, even if it means he’ll tell his mom again.

  Lady lifts her head and barks as if she hears something, and Leah sits her down on the ground.

  Rubbing her right palm up and down her leg as if nervous, Leah says, “I had another dream last night.”

  “What happened?” he asks.

  “About … the same thing.” Her voice grows tenser, tighter. “I wrote it all down, but I forgot to bring the notebook.” She bites on her bottom lip again.

  Her lip is wet and … it makes him want to kiss her. Realizing he’s staring, he glances away.

  “Did you have a dream?” she asks.

  “No, but…” He faces her. “I had kind of the feeling-thing before you got here. Of him running.” Yeah, he’s kind of lying, but he doesn’t want to tell her about seeing the gun drop and possibly firing. She’s already doubting. And right now her believing in him, just being here, is helping him hold his shit together. He doesn’t want to lose that.

  “Make sure you write it down,” she says.

  “I will.” He pauses. “Do you want to call Cassie or … if it makes you nervous, I’ll do it.”

  “No. I’ll do it. I’ll call her tonight.”

  “Okay.” He remembers the pale, scared expression she wore when she walked up. “But only if you aren’t freaked about it.”

  “I’m not,” she says. “I want to help … you.”

  That pause with the added word yanks at his emotions. He feels less alone than he has since that first night he woke up to find Eric’s bed empty. “You are helping.” More than you know.

  “Do you have her number? I’ll put it in my contacts.”

  They lift up to pull out their phones from their back pockets at the same time. When they resettle on the bench they’re closer. Her leg presses against him. It takes longer than it should for him to find Cassie’s number in his contact list.

  Right after she types it in, her phone beeps with a text. He’s not trying to see it, but he does. Trent’s name flashes across her screen. His mind flashes to the image of her wearing the guy’s coat.

  Leah swipes the screen. Lady’s tugging on the leash.

  “You think we should walk her?” Leah asks.

  “Yeah.” He’s still seeing the damn coat.

  Should he ask if she’s going out with him? Does he want to know? Her phone rings then, and she turns it off and places it facedown on the bench. Trent again?

  “Let’s walk Lady. Then it’s my turn to buy lunch. And it doesn’t have to be Indian food.”

  Her smile pulls one out of him. “Sounds good.”

  They stand up, and Lady bolts, tearing the leash from Matt’s hands. Leah runs and grabs it.

  “Good catch,” he says, a few feet behind her.

  “Wait.” She swings around, running right into his arms. He catches her by the shoulders.

  “I … I forgot my phone,” she says weakly.

  Just like that, he’s back. Back in her house. Back to the second before he got the best kiss of his life.

  And like before, she’s against him. Her chest moves to take in air. She’s close.

  He likes close.

  He can smell her hair, her skin, her breath. He can feel her breasts against his chest. Dare he take a chance?

  Eric would call him a coward if he didn’t.

  “Oh,” he says. “I … I thought you were going to kiss me.”

  15

  For a second I think I’m imagining the words. Because the same ones are fluttering like big butterflies through my mind. But I don’t waste time.

  I tilt my chin up. “Do you want me to kiss you?”

  He’s wearing that crooked smile. “If you’re Leah, I’ve been wanting you to kiss me since sixth grade.”

  I lift one brow. “I said seventh.” His hands melt around my waist.

  “I know,” he says matter-of-factly. “I’ve wanted to kiss you longer than you have me.”

  I laugh then fall right back into the part, because this isn’t finished. And that’s the best part.

  “Is your heart strong enough?” I ask.

  He tilts his head down. “Are you that good of a kisser?” His eyes are so beautiful, his mouth so close, and my dreams are a breath away from coming true.

  The fact that he remembers verbatim what was said on that day eight months ago makes me feel light, airy. I’m happy to be me. And I haven’t been happy to be me in a hell of a long time.

  I’m a romance heroine in my own book.

  I’m New Leah.

  I’m not dying.

  I’m so damn alive and I feel it.

  I feel everything—his hands against my waist, his muscled chest against my breasts.

  It’s still not enough. I need what comes next. He hesitates, as if waiting on me.

  Not a problem. I’m going for what I want.

  I lift up on my tiptoes and press my lips to his.

  His tongue slips between my lips.

  He tastes like strawberry jam, and a hint of mint. He feels strong. He feels … I feel …

  His hold on my waist tightens ever so slightly. The kiss is even better than the one before. We’re not in my hallway where Mom is going to see. We’re not in earshot of my dad announcing he’s home.

  I feel myself easing closer. And we kiss and kiss until even this closeness doesn’t seem like enough.

  Which is the point when I know we need to stop.

  I pull back. I’m breathing hard. So is he.

  His lips widen in the softest, sweetest, sexiest smile I’ve ever witnessed. And I’m mush. I have to lean against him to keep my knees from buckling.

  “Hello,” he says.

  “Hello,” I answer.

  Lady chimes in with a bark.

  His chin dips as if to kiss me again, but my phone rings from the bench. His smile fades. “Should you answer that?”

  “I’ll check,” I say.

  I move to get the phone. The second his hands slip from my waist, I miss them. “It’s Brandy. I’ll call her later.” I pocket the phone.

  With him no longer close, I feel the chilly breeze. I shiver and try to shrink in my sweater to keep me warm.

  “Here,” he says, and before I realize what’s he’s doing, he’s fitting his coat on my shoulders.

  It’s warm and it smells like him. It feels like a hug. “Thanks.”

  He stares at me. “No, thank you.”

  “Now you’re going to get cold,” I say. />
  “Not after that kiss.”

  I laugh. Lady tugs on her leash and we start walking.

  She stops and sniffs every dead leaf and rock. I want to reach for his hand, but I think I used up my daily quota of courage when I kissed him.

  Not that I’m sorry. Never. “Where do you want to go for lunch?”

  “I don’t care,” he says. “Well, as long as it’s curry-free.”

  I remember reading the food stories of other transplant patients. Brandy’s right. It’s not that weird that two people would like Indian food, and the feelings I get could just be nerves.

  The dreams, however? Running dreams might be common. But running-with-a-gun dreams? How can I explain them? I can’t.

  But right now I don’t want to explain. I just want to enjoy being with Matt. For the next hour, I don’t even want to think about Eric; I just want it to be about us.

  Two normal teens doing normal stuff.

  * * *

  The doorbell rings. It’s Brandy. She shows up at my house an hour after I’m home. I called her during lunch and we’ve been playing phone tag. I finally text her and beg her to come over for closet duty.

  She texts back, Whaaaaat?

  But like the friend she is, she shows up. She might not believe me about the dreams, but she’ll do closet duty for me. That’s the kind of friend she is.

  I meet her at the door, not wanting Mom to say anything about me helping her.

  “Hi, Brandy.” Mom walks out of the kitchen. “How did—”

  “Gotta get busy.” I drag Brandy to my room.

  When I shut the door, she gives me one of her signature what-the-eff looks.

  “I lied to my mom, okay.”

  “So you’ve used up your lie budget for the day? Hmm … What can I ask you?”

  “Stop,” I say.

  “What did you lie about?”

  “Mom wanted me to go shopping today, but I had plans with Matt, so I told her I couldn’t because I was helping you organize your closet.”

  “Why didn’t you tell her you were meeting Matt? You said they like him.”

  I frown. “I don’t want … They act like he’s my boyfriend and I’m not sure he is. And if Mom knew I have Eric’s heart, I think she’d freak out.”

  “Sorta like you are?” Brandy asks. It sounds like a joke, but the comment stings.

  I choose to ignore it.

  She flops down on the one clear spot on my bed and looks at the clothes stacked around her that I’ve already taken out. “So how does that translate to me helping you clean out your closet?”

  “Mom thought it would be a good idea. She’s been bugging me to do it.”

  Brandy’s green eyes spark with humor. “Why do I think I’m getting the raw end of this deal?”

  “You don’t have to help. Just talk to me.” I reach into the closet for old shoes.

  “Pfff, I’m helping and you owe me.” She pops up, picks up a hanger with a navy blouse. “And while we work, tell me about today?”

  She gives me the evil eye. “And remember you’ve used your lie allocation for the day.”

  I drop an old but good pair of tennis shoes in the to-donate box. Because Brandy thinks Matt and I are crazy, I won’t share our whole conversation. But I can share the best part.

  “He kissed me again. Well, I kind of kissed him.”

  Brandy lets out a happy yelp. “What? Are you saying that Shy Leah, who wouldn’t hold Trent’s hand in front of anyone, has hauled off and kissed Matt Kenner?”

  “Shh!” I say, not wanting Mom to hear.

  “Don’t shh me. Details! Now!”

  I laugh and then … “I did let Trent hold my hand.”

  “After you’d been dating for six weeks. But forget Trent. Which obviously you have because he texted me complaining you haven’t answered his calls. But that’s old news. About the kiss…”

  “He’s texting you?” I feel a leak in my happy balloon. “Is he really upset?”

  “He’s a big boy. Don’t worry about him.”

  “I don’t like hurting him.” I sigh.

  “Yeah, yeah. Enough already. I want kiss details.”

  I push Trent from my mind, which isn’t hard when I remember Matt and the kiss. I tell her how it went down and how sweet and how hot and how perfect it was. She eats it up. I answer kiss questions, while we make clothes piles. Clothes I’ll donate, clothes not good enough to donate, and clothes I want to try on before donating.

  “Did he say anything about the chick he was with at the fireworks?” Brandy asks.

  Well, damn! A little more joy seeps out of my happy balloon.

  “We didn’t talk about her.”

  “Did he ask you about Trent? I mean, he saw you with him. He probably thinks you’re with him.”

  “No. We never said anything about either of them.”

  “Do you think he’s dating her?”

  “I don’t get that impression.” I drop onto the bed, not caring that I’m on a stack of clothes. “Are you saying someone like Matt wouldn’t be interested in a blatant book geek?”

  “Hell no!” Brandy snaps. “He’s lucky if he gets you. I just don’t want to think he’s using you or anything.”

  “He’s not,” I say with confidence.

  “Good. I mean, he has to treat you good. You’ve got his brother’s heart. To treat you bad is like treating Eric bad.”

  I look at her. For some uncanny reason, her remark opens up a whole new portal for my insecurities. “Do you think that’s why he’s with me? Because I have Eric’s heart?”

  Sure, the first time we kissed was before Eric was even dead, but what if some of the connection we feel now was because of the transplant. Matt might be drawn to me because I have … because I’m the last part of Eric he has left.

  “No!” Brandy says. “I was … just making a lame comment. He likes you because you’re smoking hot. And cool as shit.”

  “Right,” I say, but my self-doubt starts feasting on what confidence I have.

  I push those thoughts aside, because I know it’s a slippery slope that I could find myself on, and instead I focus on the job at hand. Closet duty.

  In an hour we have all the clothes in proper stacks. We talk about books. A safe subject. Or it is until she mentions the book club.

  “How could you let Sandy and LeAnn change the book club rule? You should have seen her face when I said I was reading romance.”

  Brandy chuckles. “Did you tell her you got me reading them too?”

  “No, I wasn’t going to rat on you. What happened to the club?”

  Brandy starts folding the giveaway clothes and putting them into a box. “I’ve missed a lot of the meetings, hanging out with Brian. But you know how LeAnn is.”

  “Yeah, I do. They’ll run the club into the ground. How many members do we have?”

  Brandy makes her oh-shit face. “Like seven, and they don’t always come.”

  “I had the membership up to twenty.”

  “And when you come back, you can build it back up.”

  “Or maybe I’ll let it go,” I say.

  “Please, it’s your baby. You created it.”

  “Old Leah created it,” I say.

  Brandy stares at me. “So who’s the New Leah?”

  “I don’t know,” I say out loud for the first time. I glance at her. “Haven’t you noticed I’ve changed?”

  “Yeah. You’re spunkier. But I think we’ve all changed. We’re supposed to, right?”

  “I guess.”

  She picks up the novel on my bedside table. “Have you finished this one?”

  I nod.

  “Do you mind if I take it?”

  “No.” I remember telling Matt I’d give his mom some romance novels. I look at the pile of books to donate and then to my “maybe” clothes. I yank my sweater off to start trying stuff on.

  Brandy gasps and swings to face the wall.

  “I’m sorry,” she says, still looking the othe
r way. “I didn’t … I wasn’t…”

  I stare at the angry scar on my chest that was necessary to save my life. I remember Dr. Hughes and wonder how long it will be before mine fades like hers. Or will mine ever fade?

  “It’s okay.” I grab a blouse on the maybe pile and slip it over my head to hide what now feels like a mark of shame.

  She turns back around. Empathy rounds her green eyes. “It’s … not that bad. I just…” She runs over and hugs me. “It kills me to think they actually cut you open. I can’t imagine how much that hurt.”

  “It’s okay.” I repeat. And it is. I’m not going to be mad at my best friend because I have an ugly scar. Brandy’s gaze lowers to my chest and steps back really fast.

  I look down. The blouse fits too tight and low. My scar peeps out from above the neckline. What should look sexy is so not.

  I put my hand over it. “Guess this blouse is a no.”

  “It looks good, but your girls are restricted,” Brandy says, avoiding the scar topic. “Didn’t I tell you your boobs got bigger?” Her grin says she’s worried she hurt me. “Maybe they gave you a boob transplant with the heart.”

  “Maybe.” I force a laugh and hope that lets her off the hook.

  My own feelings are left hanging. Brandy’s reaction reminds me that while I want to be normal, I’m not. More than anything, I want to be normal for Matt.

  And if my best friend can’t stand to see my scar, how would Matt feel about it? As much as I want to think it’s too soon to consider that, I’m not naive. The feeling when Matt kisses me or just looks at me isn’t a slow and easy attraction. It’s fast and furious. And fabulous.

  Yet even fabulous could fizzle out real fast. When school starts Matt might see things differently.

  * * *

  After the park, Matt takes Lady home and drives to talk to Detective Henderson. The station always smells like a locker room. Considering this is the homicide division, he supposes it’s seen a lot of sweat. The gray walls, the color of a dreary day, set the mood. Two people looking claustrophobic stir in the hardback chairs in the lobby.

  He moves to the front desk. The clerk, Mrs. Johnson, asks his name and then informs him Henderson isn’t here. When Matt asks to speak to another detective, Mrs. Johnson—frowning—claims no one is here who can help with the case.