Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 72765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 72765 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 364(@200wpm)___ 291(@250wpm)___ 243(@300wpm)
I may be lying in a hospital bed on the cardiac floor of Mercy Cross Hospital, but I’m still a red-blooded man with every intention of having my way with her—whenever the hell that may be.
“Are there any questions I can answer for you?” Dr. Rathburn slides her hands in the front pockets of her white jacket.
“How long will I be here?”
“We have you scheduled for the procedure first thing in the morning. After that we’ll run a few more tests. If all goes well, we’ll discharge you in the early evening,” she says, heading to the door.
The nurse hands me a hospital menu.
I was supposed to have dinner with Astaire tonight, at my house. She’d suggested getting dinner some night this week, but I hadn’t been feeling well so I invited her over to my place instead, thinking a quiet night in would give us the best of both worlds.
This morning, I was leaving my attorney’s office after updating my will and leaving everything to Honor when I nearly passed out on the elevator ride to the main entrance.
After the transplant last year, I was well-versed in all of the rejection warning signs, and I passed my one-year check-up with flying colors.
Denial got the best of me these past few days.
“Press seven on your room phone to dial the kitchen,” the nurse says before handing me a red button. “Press this if you need a nurse. I’ll get you some ice water, and then I’ll be back to check on you in about an hour.”
“Thank you.” I place the menu and call button aside and retrieve my phone from the plastic bag. A dozen missed calls—a mere two of them from Astaire. The battery is critically low, and of course I don’t have a charger.
When I was going through cardiac rehab last year, I remember one of the nurses telling me that some cardiac transplant patients never have signs of rejection—they simply go into cardiac arrest without any warning.
I’m living with a borrowed heart on borrowed time, and the gravity of those facts coupled with the fact that I’m adopting a child render me paralyzed for a moment.
If I drop dead a year from now, I need to have someone else lined up to take care of that little girl.
I imagine how Astaire might fare as a mother.
There’s a gentleness to her, a softness in her disposition that I’ve yet to find in another person. Her sunny disposition can get exhausting at times, but her heart is always in the right place. And clearly she adores children.
She’s patient, intelligent, curious, and sweet.
Her voice alone was made for bedtime stories.
It’s the strangest thing … and maybe it’s the meds or maybe I hit my head when I passed out … but I think I miss her right now.
It’s as if there’s an indescribable void in the room where she should be, as if a piece of me is missing.
I tap out a text message on my phone, nothing more than MERCY CROSS HOSPITAL and FLOOR 4, ROOM 4677 followed by BRING PHONE CHARGER. Then I lie back in my bed, close my eyes, and wait for what feels like forever.
27
Astaire
It’s been hardly over a year since the last time I stepped foot inside the beige brick walls Mercy Cross Hospital, when Trevor was braindead and hooked up to machines and his mother was signing his organs away—exactly what he would’ve wanted.
I never dreamed I’d be back.
Certainly never thought Bennett no-showed to our dinner plans because he was here.
“Hey,” he says when he sees me lingering in the doorway of his private room. “Come in.”
I’ve never liked the smell of hospitals.
Antiseptic. Sterile plastic. Bleached flannel. Fresh-and-dying flowers.
I sanitize my hands, place my bag on the counter, and strip out of my jacket.
“Are you okay?” I go to his side. Instinctively, I reach for his hand and then I stop myself when I see the IV taped to the top. “What happened? And why are you in the cardiac unit?”
Everything about him is unfamiliar in this setting.
No power suit.
No healthy flush painting his bronzed skin.
No wicked gleam in his eyes.
No smart-mouthed quip readied on his tongue.
Bennett sits up, adjusting the pillows behind his back, and then he tugs at the top of his hospital gown until his chest and shoulders are exposed.
And then I see it.
The thick, pink scar going down the middle of his chest.
“A year ago, I underwent a heart transplant.” He studies me, though for what, I’m not sure. “This week, I started showing signs of rejection.”
My breath catches as I wait for him to continue.
“I’m going to be okay. For now. I’ve got a procedure in the morning and they’ll run some more tests.”
“Why didn’t you mention this before? The heart thing?”
He lifts a brow. “Because it never came up in conversation?”