Beyond The Roses - Monica James Page 0,100

It’s a lot to take in, and I know it’ll take a while to sink in.

When he turns the next page and then the next, the color drains from his face, and he gasps. His eyes arrow upward, searching my face, begging me to tell him this is a joke. But it’s not.

“W-what is this?” he demands heatedly, waving the papers in the air.

“You know what it is,” I reply softly, my body trembling.

“No, I really don’t, because what I’m reading makes no fucking sense!” He jumps up, completely livid. “Please tell me you’re joking.”

I bite my lip but stand my ground. “No. I’m not.”

“Have you gone mad?”

“Roman, just listen…” I advance but quickly retreat.

“No!” he shouts, hurling the papers onto the floor, unable to stomach the sight of them. “I will not. That”—he points at the fallen paperwork strewn all over the white carpet—“is not happening. Ever!” He curls his lip, appalled.

“You promised you would read it with an open mind.”

He sniggers. “I made that promise not knowing I was going to read the most horrifying thing you could ever propose. How can you think I would agree to that?”

“Because it makes sense. It will work.” I’m trying to keep cool because he’s just gone from zero to ten billion in five seconds.

“No, it doesn’t, and it won’t!” He treads forward, on the warpath. “None of this makes any sense.”

I don’t back down. “I’ve done the research. I’ve consulted with Dr. Carter and the finest doctors in New York. They all said it will work. Please”—I crouch down, picking up the paperwork—“just read the rest.” I offer a fistful. He recoils as if I’ve just asked him to commit the ultimate sin.

“No. Get that away from me!” He waves his hand, turning his head, unable to look my way.

“Roman. Please. This will work.” I’m on my knees, begging for him to see reason, but he doesn’t.

“You don’t get it!” He throws his arms out to the side. “I don’t care what the results say. It may work, we may be a match, but I won’t do it. How can I? How can you expect me to?”

Tears sting my eyes. This has gone much worse than I expected.

“B-because I want you to live,” I cry, gathering the folder and its contents, needing to do something other than look at the mess I’ve made.

“Lola…I can’t.” The fire in his tone abates. “I would do anything for you…anything…but there is no fucking way I would ever agree to that.”

My fingers fumble, and tears cloud my vision. This was my final plea. This was the only way I knew how to save him. But he doesn’t want it. A strangled sob escapes me, but I cover my mouth, not wanting to break down. I failed. I can’t believe how terribly so.

“Please don’t cry. I’m sorry, but I can’t do this.”

“Can’t or won’t?” I press, still on my knees.

He’s silent, the anger slowly subsiding. But the undercurrent still has the capacity to drag us under. “Look at me.”

But I can’t. I’m afraid of what I’ll say or do.

“Please.” He lowers himself before me on both knees.

I lift my eyes, a tear sliding down my cheek. He wipes it away, stroking my jaw.

“This isn’t a solution. It’s a tragedy. How can I do this? How can I walk around every day knowing what I did?” His voice breaks.

Surrendering, I declare the only thing that makes any sense. In this tumultuous blackness, this is the only light I can find. Placing my hand over his strong heart, I lose myself in the rhythm.

“Because…you gave me your heart…and now…it’s time I gave you mine.” And I mean that in every literal sense.

Roman closes his eyes, shaking his head, pained.

The paperwork confronting Roman was notes detailing that I was a suitable donor. My heart would beat inside him. It would give him life. By ending my life, I could breathe new life into him. I did the tests, and my heart is healthy. The medication has left it unscathed.

“This is the only way.”

He hisses, the truth burning him. “This is where you were today?”

“Yes,” I whisper.

“Why didn’t you come to me?”

“Because I knew you’d react this way! You gave me no other choice. You said that this was the only way. That a heart transplant would save your life.” Reaching for his hand, I place it over my chest. “Well, I have a heart. Take mine. I don’t need it.” Searching his face, I beg him to see

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