This Heart of Mine

by C. C. Hunter

  I pull up in my driveway. The house looks lonely. Funny how I can tell Mom’s not home.

  I get out of my car and unlock the door. I miss her calling out to me, miss the cookies. Miss her asking how my day was. I wouldn’t have told her it was effing bad, but it’s nice to be asked. Not that I want her to stop working. It’s the last thing I want. She deserves a life.

  Nothing but the house’s hum fills the space.

  I grab a cold Coke and go to my bedroom. I deposit my backpack on my dresser and try to shed the stress.

  The pink clock on my bedside table shows the hour. Matt will be here in twenty minutes. What am I going to do? Tell him, not tell him?

  I pop the top of my drink and lay back on the bed. I hold the cold can to my ear, listening to the fizz pop-popping in the can.

  Tell him? Not tell him?

  And what is he going to tell me?

  My phone rings. It’s Mom, checking in. We talk for about four minutes. She’s already loving her job. It occurs to me again how much she gave up for me. I never want to go back there again—stealing the lives of others while losing mine.

  We hang up, and I stare at the ceiling and remember my “skipping school” comment that sent Matt into a panic. How would he feel if he knew that if I accidently skipped a pill, my body would start killing Eric’s heart? That I would die? Eric’s heart would die?

  Is it fair of me to be dating Matt? To be lying to him?

  I’m not lying. I’m just not telling him everything. And I will. Just not when we’re still new. Let him see how normal I can be before I tell him that I’m not.

  I look at the time. I force myself to get up, change blouses, comb my hair, and am brushing my teeth when I hear the doorbell.

  I rinse my mouth and run for the door. In spite of the whole to-tell-or-not-tell issue, I want to see him. Touch him. Breathe in his scent.

  “Hey.” I force a smile when I open the door. Then I see him. Matt’s eye’s almost swollen shut. I gasp.

  “What happened?”

  “It’s just a black eye.” He steps inside. Closes the door.

  “Did you have a wreck?” I reach up to touch him but am afraid I’ll hurt him.

  While I’m staring at his eye, he moves in for a kiss. I stop him.

  “No. Tell me what happened.” I touch his cheek.

  “Don’t be mad,” he pleads.

  Just like that I know. “You confronted Jayden?” And I’m mad. “You promised—”

  “I confronted Cassie, not him. While I was driving to the police station, I saw her walking. I followed her. I found her in a park. She got mad—was yelling at me when Jayden showed up and…” He holds his hands out. “And this happened.”

  My mind’s going in circles.

  “Let me get you some ice.” I step back.

  He grabs me. “I already iced it.”

  I see his swollen hand and moan. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

  “Less than it did before. And even less now that I’m with you. You’re magic.” He wraps an arm around my waist. “Detective Henderson is going to look into things. He had me write everything down. Said he’d call me when he learns more.”

  Hope lights up his eyes. Dare I tell him what Ted said? Risk taking away Matt’s hope? It’s not like Eric really said he was going to kill himself. How many times had I said that I’d die before doing something? It’s a figure of speech.

  “What did Cassie say?” I ask.

  He sighs. “Basically what you said. It hurts to see me. And she swears Eric didn’t come see her that night. But Eric told me—”

  “How do you know he told you the truth? I know you think Eric didn’t keep secrets. But he never told you about Jayden. Maybe he wasn’t really going to Cassie’s that night.”

  Matt frowns. “You think he was meeting Jayden? That he didn’t tell Cassie?” Matt releases me. “He might have been going to threaten him with the gun and then … It could have happened.” Doubt resonates from his voice.

  He runs a hand through his hair. “Why wouldn’t he tell me that? I don’t get it.”

  “Maybe he was embarrassed, thought it made him look bad.”

  “But he told John and Cory!” The hurt gives his words a deeper quality.

  “Your opinion mattered more,” I say, wanting to say anything to help.

  He gets quiet again. “She also told me that Jayden wasn’t the one Eric was pissed at.”

  “Who was he pissed at?” I ask.

  “She wouldn’t say. She just clammed up, and I know she was just protecting Jayden.”

  I look up at him. I sort of agree that Cassie isn’t telling us everything. But I also don’t believe she’s lying about everything either.

  He wraps his arms around me again. “You can’t ever go back to Cassie’s or Jayden’s house. Officer Yates told Henderson he thinks we’re stalking Cassie.”

  “Me?”

  “Yeah, and the last thing I want is to get you in trouble. So stay away.”

  I nod.

  He looks up at the ceiling as if thinking about something that’s bothering him.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “It’s … I just wish Cassie would talk to me. If she’s not behind this, and she’s hurting, I think … I’d like to help her. What if Jayden hurts her?”

  We stay there, leaning into each other, my head on his chest, his cheek on top of my hair. It’s so easy to be here. To stay here. To forget everything but how this feels.

  But some things have to be said. I force myself to speak. “I worry that we might never have all the answers. Will you be okay with that?”

  “I’ll just never stop looking.” His body tenses. “I need answers.”

  And what if the answer isn’t the one Matt wants? What if the dreams are a way for Eric to show us how scared and hopeless he felt. To make us understand why he did it.

  I’m so confused now. I don’t know what to believe.

  I put myself in Matt’s place and realize either way I’d need to know. Maybe even the wrong answer will offer Matt closure. But closure isn’t pain-free. I want to protect him.

  “Sooner or later we have to let bad things go.” I hear my own advice, and I know I’m still working on heeding that wisdom myself. I realize that, no matter how different our issues are, we are dealing with the same thing. Death.

  But not just that.

  Life. Learning to live. Learning to count on tomorrow and next year. Knowing we’re both still here and figuring out where to go next.

  “I missed you today,” he says after a long pause.

  “Me too.” I lift my chin and rest it on his chest.

  He looks at me, swollen eye and all, and leans in for a kiss. I recognize the kind of kiss this is. One that takes us to temptation. I pull back. “We should study first.”

  He grins. “Why did I know you were going to say that?”

  I take his left hand and lead him to the dining room to study, but I remember my backpack is in my room. I keep walking down the hall, his hand in mine.

  I release his hand to grab my books. When I look back, he’s leaning against the doorjamb. He’s staring, his eyes wide. I remember walking into his room, liking that I was going into his space. Everything in his room reflected something about him.

  My room doesn’t quite offer the same. “Go ahead and say it.”

  I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. He steps in. “It’s pink.” He does a slow turn and then looks up. “I don’t think I’ve ever seen a pink polka-dot ceiling fan.”

  I laugh. “When I was in the hospital, Mom redid it. She likes pink.”

  “What matters is if you like it.”

  “No. What matters is she did it out of love. I don’t like it. But I didn’t have the heart to tell her. Not until recently anyway.”

  “Then redo it. I’ll help you paint.”

  I smile. “Be careful—I might take you up on that.”

  “I hope you do.” He walks over to my dresser and stares at t
he framed selfie of Brandy and me. “How long have you been friends?”

  “Since she moved here in third grade.”

  “I can tell she cares about you.”

  I think about him and Ted again. “I care about her too.”

  He points to the jewelry box. “Is this where you keep the locket?”

  I’m surprised again that he remembers stuff. “You want to see it?”

  “Yeah.”

  I open the box; the little ballerina pops up and starts dancing to the chime of a slow love song. I pull the necklace out. It’s cold to my touch. It’s old, not antique, but old. The heart locket, etched with swirly designs, hangs open. I feel the sadness I felt the day I found it.

  “I cleaned it. It was dirty.” I hand it to him. “The clasp is broken on the locket.”

  He studies it. “Maybe there was a picture in it and it just fell out. Maybe it isn’t a sad story.”

  Does he remember everything I say? “I broke it when I opened it. But it could have rotted out or something.” It’s kind of odd how one associates emotions with things. The locket makes me sad. Books makes me happy. Hot chocolate makes me miss Grandma.

  Matt’s staring at my reflection in the dresser mirror, and I swear he sees everything. My crazy emotions, my fears, my love for him. It hits me then. I love Matt Kenner. It’s too soon to say it, but I know it’s true.

  “Maybe the girl who lost it had a happy ending. And she just lost the necklace.”

  “Yeah,” I say, but it comes out forced.

  “We’re going to be okay, you know,” he says. “You make me okay.”

  “And you me.” I reach up on my tiptoes and press my lips to his. And I’m the one deepening the kiss. Oh, hell, we can study later.

  I kiss and walk at the same time, moving him backward until he hits my bed. Then I give him a slight push. He falls back and laughs. I fall with him.

  I smile down at him. “Gotta problem with my pink bed?”

  “Not if you’re in it.”

  We kiss.

  We touch.

  We dive right into temptation.

  But like before, we leave the clothes on.

  It still feels amazing.

  We get to that point—even quicker than before—when we have to stop or we’re tempting fate. Matt ends the kiss.

  Yet fate has never looked so welcoming. I lift my head and take his mouth again. I run my hand under his shirt and up his chest. Our legs are a tangle, pressing in all kinds of wonderful places. I stay on that ride. Not wanting it to end.

  Matt pulls back again. “We should probably…”

  “Stop,” I finish for him. “Sorry.”

  “Don’t be.” We lay there, only our hands touching and watching the pink polka-dot fan whirl above us. He leans up on his elbow.

  I see his face. “Crap, I didn’t hurt your eye, did I?”

  “No.” He sweeps a gentle finger over my lips. “This … it’s your call.”

  I know what he’s talking about. I nod. Part of me wants to say now. Right now.

  “I have … protection,” he says. “For when you’re ready.”

  “Okay.” No way am I going to tell him I have some too—that my mom bought them for me. Or that I’m on the pill. But I’m glad we’re actually talking about it. I look over at him. Oh, and I have a scar and I’ll be wearing a sexy camisole when it goes down. I hope you don’t mind.

  The words do backbends on the tip of my tongue. But I can’t push them out.

  “And we can go somewhere,” he continues. “A nice hotel…”

  “That would be good.” Talking about sex so matter-of-factly has every nerve in my body tap-dancing. It makes it so real.

  And bam, I’m suddenly curious. Has he done it before? I want to ask, but I might not like the answer. Then other crazy questions start popping in my mind. Does he sleep in the nude? Does he read before he goes to bed? Does he ever talk to himself in his sleep?

  Burying my unanswered questions, I grab my backpack. We move to the dining room table and study. My curiosity fades into just … excitement. About him. About us. About discovering every little detail of who he is, all his habits.

  This is living, I think. The electric hum I feel in my body. The obsessive need to know everything about him. The thrill of knowing love and expressing it. This is what I would have missed without Eric’s heart.

  * * *

  Matt arrives home, freeing Lady from her kennel and letting her smother him in kisses. Then he ushers her outside. While she does her business, he does his. He writes a big whopping lie of a text to his mom.

  Played ball. Had fun, but got elbowed in eye. Got a shiner.

  He knows if she arrives home and just sees it, she’ll freak. If she’s forewarned, she’ll still freak, but not as much. And she won’t question his story so much.

  She texts back.

  Oh, goodness. Put ice on it. Be home in two hours. Love you.

  Already iced. Love you too.

  He pauses and then texts back, Did you have fun? She’d met her sister halfway between Dallas and had gone shopping.

  Yes. Got work clothes.

  Every day he sees her getting better. She’s looking better too. She’s taking better care of herself. He knows she’s still hurting. He’s not sure it will ever go away, but she’s living again. Sort of like him now that Leah’s in his life.

  He and Lady go to his room. His mind plays back the whole scene with Cassie and Jayden, of speaking to Henderson, but quickly leaves those memories in the dust to concentrate on his time with Leah. How it felt being on top of her. Under her. Beside her. How just being with her is like a drug.

  He remembers the locket he’d seen at the jewelry store. It wasn’t exactly like the one she’d found. But he didn’t want it to be exact. Just enough that the message was clear. She would have her happy ending. Her locket wouldn’t be empty.

  He grabs his phone to see if one of the pictures Leah took of them on the bench last week could work. Jumping up, he downloads the images onto his computer and prints them out. They’re almost perfect.

  The doorbell rings. Lady starts her high-pitched barking. When he turns into the living room, he sees Ted’s car out the window. Matt’s surprised to see him.

  Things still feel strained between them.

  When he opens the door, Ted stands there, shoulders drooped and his hands buried in his jean pockets.

  “Hey.” Matt opens the door for him to come in.

  “Shit. What happened to your eye?”

  “A scuffle…” Matt hesitates to say more.

  “With who?”

  “Cassie Chambers’s boyfriend. I found out she was seeing him when Eric and her were dating.”

  “Crap,” Ted says. “I thought she was crazy about Eric.”

  “I know.” Matt moves into the kitchen and drops into a chair.

  Ted’s hands go back into his pocket. His shoulders drop lower. “I … need to tell you something.” He pulls his hands out and sits down looking extra nervous.

  “What?” Matt asks.

  * * *

  I’m running. A tree, a big tree, looms ahead. An oak tree. Beside it are two pine trees. Twins. Identical in size. Identical in shape. Not that it matters. Nothing matters but running.

  I’m winded. Can’t get enough air. My sides pinch. My legs cramp. I need to slow down. I can’t. I’m going to die. All of a sudden I hear a gun explode. Everything starts moving in slow motion. I see the bullet shoot out in front of me. The bark on one of the pine trees in front of me splinters. I see where the bullet buries itself deep into the pine. But I still can’t stop running.

  Faster. I have to go faster.

  Another sound surrounds me. Not a pop of a bullet. It’s … it’s …

  My alarm’s tone makes the dream feel less like reality. But I feel myself still running. I gasp at air and finally yank myself free of the dream. I lay in my pink room, pulling in air and not moving. I try to remember the details.

&n
bsp; This dream was different.

  For almost the last two weeks, I’ve had the same dream. Nothing changed.

  Now it’s different. Why? Does it mean anything?

  I sit up; my head’s pounding. I press a hand against my temple. Blink. Wait for it to go away. It always goes away. Not this time. Then it hits. This isn’t Eric’s pain. It’s mine.

  I pick up my pen and pad and write down the notes. Bullet. Twin pine trees.

  A chill runs down my spine. I shiver. This isn’t an I’m-scared chill, but an I’ve-got-a-fever chill.

  No! No! No! My heart starts racing. I find the thermometer and bury it under my tongue. The pain in my head throbs with each thud of my heart. I start counting, waiting for it to beep. Waiting to be proved wrong. Twenty-three, twenty-four …

  Finally, the tiny beep fills the silence. I pull it out. I stare. A gulp of fear forms in my gut. Effing hell!! I have a fever. 101.

  I’m not positive of all the signs of rejection, but I know fever is on that list.

  “You up, sweetie?” I hear my mom’s voice. “I’m about to head out.”

  Shit! “Yeah,” I say and slam back down, pretend to be half asleep.

  She peeks in. “I’ll see you this afternoon. Love you.”

  “Love you.” I wave. As soon as the door closes, tears fill my eyes. It’s only been this week that she stopped asking me about the temperature or blood pressure. This week that she stopped being afraid.

  I can’t tell her. I can’t. I don’t want to pull her back to rubbing her hands raw. Back to preparing herself for her only child to die.

  Dad calls out his goodbyes. I respond with, “Love you.” And I do. God, I love them, and I don’t want to hurt them anymore!

  As soon as I hear the door close, I grab my blood pressure cuff and fit it on my arm.

  Even as panic turns my blood cold, I know I’m overreacting. I inhale and force myself to remember that there could be all kinds of reasons for the fever. Reasons that don’t mean I’m rejecting the heart.

  Reasons that don’t mean I’m dying.

  33

  “Congratulations,” Dr. Hughes says. “You have your first post-transplant cold.”

  “A cold?” I’ve never loved a diagnosis so much. But yeah, on the way here I noticed my throat hurt, but the panic had already set in. The marbles were crowding my chest and didn’t allow me to think straight.