Borrowed Heart

by Linda Lamberson

  I had to laugh.

  “It’s good to hear you laughing, Evie,” he said sweetly.

  “It feels good to be laughing,” I noted, smiling. The candlelight hit Quinn’s face in such a way it made his skin look as though it was glowing softly. It actually reminded me of the glow that emanated from my hands when I had healed him, which was strangely appropriate considering that Quinn was healing my spirit … my soul. What had been a dark and empty void within me not long ago now seemed so full of energy and … life. I no longer felt alone. I felt happy.

  “All right, we’re not done yet. Next to the Indian food are some traditional Greek dishes. Over here we have mousaka, a gyros plate, spanokopita, and tzatziki.” Again, he pointed to each item so that I could get them straight in my head.

  “At the end of the table over here, we have another favorite of mine—Chinese food. I got some hot and sour soup, kung pao chicken, Mongolian beef, and moo shu pork.

  “And for the grand finale,” he said as he led me to the coffee table, “I got a variety of desserts. Over here is baklava, and to the right of that is crème brûlée. That over there is chocolate lava cake. Of course, I had to include a few childhood favorites—Reese’s chocolate peanut butter cups and Nestle’s chocolate-chip cookie dough. And, last but not least, I have some mango sorbet in the freezer.” Quinn stood back and surveyed the room. When he was satisfied that he’d explained everything, he sighed.

  “I guess that’s about it.”

  “That’s it?” I asked, astonished. “Quinn, there is enough food here to feed an army! How are you going to eat all of this?”

  “Hey, I’m still a growing boy with a big appetite.” He smiled as he rubbed his stomach. “And, in case you haven’t already noticed, I’m a big fan of leftovers.”

  “I’ve noticed,” I replied. Since I had been assigned to Quinn, I had yet to see him open a can of soup or turn on the oven, much less make an actual meal. He was the king of takeout.

  “So where do we begin?” I scanned the room again, feeling more overwhelmed. It was obvious he had put a lot of effort into this evening, and I was going to make sure I didn’t miss anything.

  “Anywhere you want,” he responded excitedly.

  “Hmm.” I decided the best thing to do was start from the beginning. I walked over to the breakfast bar and pointed to the hot dog. “Let’s start with the American classics.”

  “Wise choice, Mademoiselle.” Quinn tried out his French accent once more and it made me laugh.

  I picked up the hot dog and examined it carefully, rotating it horizontally three-hundred-and-sixty degrees to get the full picture.

  “Well?” he asked anxiously.

  “It looks okay,” I said. But as I brought the hot dog to my nose and inhaled, the smell of raw onions assaulted my nose.

  “Um, Quinn, I’m pretty sure I’m not a fan of raw onions.” I pushed the hot dog into Quinn’s hand like it was a dirty sock. He graciously accepted my offering and took a huge bite.

  “Oh, totally,” he said in between chews, “I could see how this would completely offend the senses. I’ll never eat one again for as long as I live!” he proclaimed as he proceeded to take another couple of bites, clearly enjoying every morsel of it.

  “Just disgusting!” he exclaimed. I laughed as he pulled out a huge garbage can from behind the kitchen counter and took one more bite before tossing the hot dog in the trash. “Check this one off in the ‘no’ column.” He looked up at me and smiled, which only made me laugh even harder.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “You have … mustard … on your nose!” I could barely get the words out, I was giggling so hard. Quinn wiped it off with the back of his hand.

  “I think we’re going to need some reinforcements here,” he said as he grabbed a roll of paper towels from under his kitchen sink.

  There was no easy way to pick up the ribs, so I pulled my hair back and bent down to smell them. “Now these smell good.” I leaned over again to inhale the sweet smell of molasses and brown sugar and the savory scent of vinegar and whole grain mustard. “Mmm. If I could eat, these would definitely be up my alley.”

  Quinn quickly devoured a few ribs. “I agree with your assessment. Strike this one up as a ‘yes.’ These have earned themselves a spot as an official leftover.”

  We tried the rest of the items in a similar manner. I discovered that I was so-so on the cheddar bacon cheeseburger; it smelled good, but it looked too greasy. I also didn’t like the ultra spicy buffalo wings, which all but set my nasal passages ablaze when I took a huge whiff. As if on instinct, I felt the undeniable urge to cough and had a hard time stopping my coughing fit once it started.

  Quinn roared in laughter—that is, until it was his turn to actually taste them. Then it was me who was fighting the fits of laughter on the brink of escape. Beads of sweat formed on his forehead almost immediately, and his face turned bright red from the heat.

  “What?” he gasped. “These are good … really,” he insisted in a hoarse whisper, trying to convince me that he was okay as he took another bite. It was when I saw him affectionately eyeing the can of Coke on the table next to him that I just lost it and began laughing uncontrollably. Quinn finally gave in and took a huge swig of Coke, quickly followed by a few more gulps until his cheeks began to resemble a rosy shade of pink rather than bright scarlet.

  “Yeah, so I don’t think I’ll be saving the rest of these for later,” he said as he scooped up the cardboard container of wings and threw it in the trash, which sent me into a fit of giggles again.

  The pizza, spaghetti Bolognese, gnocchi in tomato vodka sauce, and chicken marsala were all hits for both of us, making them eligible as finalists in the leftover category. I liked the chicken enchiladas, and the tamales smelled delicious. Quinn promptly demolished them both. But the beef burritos were a no-go because I didn’t like the smell of refried beans. He frowned as he slowly walked the burrito over to the trash, taking one last memorial bite.

  “Adiós, mi amigo. Down the hatch you go.” He pretended to be sad as he dumped the burrito.

  I also was not a big fan of French food—or I should say, the French items Quinn had selected. I realized that it wasn’t just raw onions that offended me; all onions bothered me—even in soup. The pâté and escargots freaked me out in both appearance and smell. Quinn, who apparently loved pâté and cooked snails, urged me to give them each a second chance, but I refused. So he begrudgingly walked over to the garbage can and turned his back towards me for a second as he gulped down a few more escargots and another spoonful of pâté before pitching them.

  Saving the Indian food for last, we tried the Greek food next, followed by the Chinese dishes. I passed on the mousaka and gyros plate, but I liked the smell of the spanokopita and tzatziki. Quinn ate the spanokopita and half of the gyros, throwing the rest of it out. The tzatziki and mousaka made it to the leftover list. Same with the kung pao chicken, Mongolian beef, and moo shu pork, each of which I loved—as did Quinn. The hot and sour soup was not a huge hit for either of us, so it was tossed.

  Finally, we got to the Indian food. I really enjoyed the smell of the vegetable curry, but Quinn wasn’t a huge fan of vegetables—or curry, it would seem. I tried to convince him to take another bite, but he wouldn’t budge. And when I wanted to put it on the official leftover roster, he looked at me like I was nuts.

  “What are you going to do? Open the fridge in the middle of the night, and smell it for a while?” he teased.

  “I don’t know … maybe.” Admittedly, it wasn’t the strongest of arguments. Quinn took the container and threw it away. We both liked the lamb kebabs, and the chicken tikka masala was okay, but not good enough to make it a keeper. Then it was time for the palak paneer. It looked like some type of pasty spinach dish with cubes of tofu or some type of cheese swimming in it.

  “You first,” Quinn offered.

  “Are you sure? I mean, I don’t mind at all if you want to go ahead,” I said, t
rying to graciously pass.

  “Nope. You know what they say … ‘ladies first.’”

  Great, I said to myself as I bent over and inhaled the scent of the dish. To my surprise, it actually smelled pretty good—earthy with a little garlic and other kinds of spices I couldn’t quite place—maybe coriander and cumin. It wouldn’t have been one of my first choices, but I liked it overall. Instantly, however, I knew Quinn would not be a fan. Nonetheless, I desperately wanted to see the look on his face once he tried it.

  “Mmm, it smells good,” I said in an exaggerated tone and bent down to smell it again.

  “Really?” he asked me incredulously.

  “Absolutely; you should try it,” I remarked enthusiastically.

  As Quinn scooped up a heaping spoonful of spinach, I could barely contain the laughter that was welling up inside of me. He put the entire bite in his mouth, and the expression on his face immediately changed; it looked contorted, twisted, and miserable. He just sat there for a minute not knowing what to do with whatever it was in his mouth that he clearly disliked. Like a little kid who had just been tricked into eating a mouthful of Brussels sprouts, Quinn shot me a look of contempt before running to the kitchen sink and spitting it out. I couldn’t contain myself any longer; I began laughing.

  “You think you are so funny, don’t you?” Quinn asked in between his gulps of water directly from the kitchen faucet. “I thought you were here to protect me—not kill me!” I was still reeling in laughter as he picked me up, carried me over to the couch and fell back into it with me in his clutches.

  We sat there for a good hour before we—well, before Quinn—could even think about eating anything else. We talked about our walk that day, the people we observed, and the sites we passed.

  When we finally did move to the desserts, I discovered that I liked the crème brûlée and mango sorbet the best, while Quinn stuck with his old favorites—chocolate peanut butter cups and raw cookie dough.

  At some point, he looked at what would be his umpteenth spoonful of cookie dough, debating with himself as to whether he should eat it. He ultimately decided against it and tossed the spoon onto a nearby plate and moaned.

  “Boy, am I stuffed.” Quinn sighed as he dragged himself up off the floor and crawled onto the nearby couch. He looked at me still sitting on the floor in front of the coffee table. “But it was worth every bite.” He smiled at me, and my insides swelled with joy. I climbed up onto the couch next to him.

  “Quinn, I can honestly say I don’t believe anyone ever has done anything like this for me before.”

  “Well, someone should have.” His voice was husky, his face grew serious, and his eyes sparkled. I felt his heart beating faster in my chest.

  “Well, thanks for being that someone.”

  He looked like he was going to lean in any minute and kiss me. But he picked up a lock of my hair that had wandered out of place and wound it gently around his fingers before tucking it behind my ear instead. His fingers brushed the nape of my neck as he did and my skin tingled at the site of contact. Afraid of getting lost in the vast oceans of blue staring intently at me, I glanced down at the floor.

  I was acutely aware that I was treading on very thin ice. The desire I felt for Quinn was growing stronger with each passing moment. I was on the verge of losing all sense of self-restraint, and I knew it wouldn’t take much for me to give in to my intense urge to kiss him.

  The smart thing for me to do would be to say good night. Orchestrating my escape, I checked my watch. It was after midnight.

  “It’s pretty late.” I stood up and grabbed some of the dessert containers on the coffee table in front of us. “Here, let me help you clean up.”

  “Wait!” Quinn exclaimed urgently, startling me. Then he jumped to his feet. “I almost forgot—there’s more!”

  “Oh, please tell me there’s no more food,” I begged. “I don’t think I can suffer watching you eat another bite.”

  “Don’t worry. No more food.” He smiled. “I have something else in mind, so you can’t leave yet.”

  I frowned. I didn’t need sleep, but he did. The expression on my face must have given away my thoughts.

  “Look, Mom, I think I’m old enough to decide when I should go to bed. Besides, tomorrow’s Sunday—the day of rest. So I can catch up on my sleep if I’m tired.” He took the containers from my hands and put them back on the table and then gently sat me back down on the couch.

  “Evie, don’t go just yet.” His eyes pleaded with me to stay.

  “Okay.” I couldn’t resist him.

  “Okay,” Quinn said, relieved. “Good. So just stay there and relax for a few minutes. Don’t get up,” he commanded. He grabbed the garbage can, brought it over to the coffee table, and dumped the dessert containers inside. He then proceeded to clean up the rest of the evidence of our culinary experience, which was just a matter of dumping a few more containers in the trash and sticking the rest in the fridge to be consumed by him another day. I felt silly just sitting there watching him, so I grabbed a clean napkin that had fallen on the floor and started to wipe down the coffee table.

  “Nuh-uh. I’ll take care of it,” Quinn insisted.

  Amused, I put the napkin down, sat down in my chair, and pulled my knees into my chest. Quinn walked over to his computer bag, grabbed his laptop, and brought it over to me. He proceeded to open up his iTunes music library.

  “Here,” he said, handing me the laptop. “Why don’t you scroll down this list and see if you recognize any songs.” He smiled mischievously at me, and I recognized it as the same smile he had flashed me during our walk earlier that afternoon when he’d initially concocted my surprise.

  The candlelight danced across Quinn’s face. He really was breathtaking—and amazing. At that moment, I became painfully aware of just how much I had fallen in love with him.

  “What?” Quinn asked, suddenly looking a little sheepish. “Is there something wrong? Is there something in my teeth?” He covered his mouth with his hand.

  “No, quite the opposite actually. As far as I can tell, there is absolutely nothing wrong with you.” Even in the candlelight, I could tell he was beginning to blush. His pulse began to speed up a little too. He ran his hand through his hair and looked down as a nervous little chuckle escaped his lips. He smiled, but he couldn’t look at me. I couldn’t believe it—I actually had embarrassed him.

  “At a loss for words?” I teased. It wasn’t like Quinn to be left speechless, and I didn’t know when another opportunity like this would present itself. He took a deep breath, and I felt his pulse regulate itself. I could see his cheeks returning to their normal pigment.

  “No. I’m just not used to you being so direct,” he remarked calmly.

  “Well, I could always go back to being more ambiguous—if you would prefer,” I offered, knowing full well that was the last thing he would have wanted.

  “No, no. Direct is good.” He bent down so his face was barely an inch from mine and smiled. His eyes were blazing. My body began to tremble with excitement. His smile grew wider, and instantly I knew he had noticed my body’s reaction. He brushed my cheek with his own as he closed the distance between us. “Direct is very good,” he whispered in my ear.

  Oh, please let me have the strength to get through this, I pleaded silently with myself as a surge of electricity shot through my body like lightning. I cleared my throat and shifted in my seat to create a few inches of space between us. I looked down at the computer sitting in my lap.

  “So … same idea as the food?” I asked hoarsely.

  “Yup,” he said smugly, looking thoroughly pleased with himself for turning the tables on me. Whatever upper hand I may have gained a moment ago was now long gone. He stood back up and walked into the kitchen to clean up the rest of the mess.

  I did as Quinn asked for no better reason than to get my mind off of him—and to ignore my body’s reaction to him. I quickly began scrolling through the list of songs.

  I
t was so odd—I couldn’t recognize the name of a single song, but I was familiar with using a laptop and with iTunes generally. How could I be so comfortable using a computer and a particular computer program but not remember ever learning how to do so? And what was the deal with music? Maybe specific songs or types of music were too personal, to culturally specific, to be able to retain knowledge of in the afterlife without giving away too many hints as to who the Shepherd was when human or where he or she was from. I also wondered how Peter was able to extract only specific contextual and experiential memories of my life, while leaving behind the knowledge and technological know-how I had acquired while alive.

  “Do you recognize any songs?” Quinn asked.

  “No,” I replied, frustrated.

  “Well, then we’ll have to just go through them one by one.”

  “All of them?” I exclaimed. There must have been thousands of songs downloaded onto his computer; it would take all night—at least!

  “I think it’ll be easier if we sample different genres first and go from there.” Quinn plopped down onto the couch and patted the open spot just to the left of him. I stood up and gave him the laptop as I sat down next to him. He double-clicked on a song and it started to play.

  “What do you think?” he asked after a minute or two.

  “It’s good.” We listened to the whole song.

  “Recognize this one?” Quinn asked after he chose another.

  “No, but I like it,” I noted.

  We went on like this for the rest of the evening. He would pick songs and wait for me to rate them. We listened to everything from classical to country to alternative. If I liked a song, Quinn would copy it into a playlist he had created for me named “Evie’s Faves.”

  By the wee hours, Quinn had copied a couple hundred songs into my playlist. He also gave me a pair of earphones.

  “Here, these are for you. You can just come out here and play these songs—or add more if you want. You know, just in case you’re ever bored hanging around here … Oh, you’ll need this too.” He wrote down the password to his computer and handed it to me.