in Chloe’s head.
How does she feel about all of this?
The sex, the fact that I found out about her . . . what do you call it? Situation? Sickness? Condition?
“Were you going to tell me?” My voice is rough, and my throat dry as if I haven’t had a sip of water in days.
But I have to know. The question has been on my mind ever since I found out, spinning in my brain like an angry tornado, causing damage I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to repair.
Because fuck. This is Chloe.
With. A. New. Fucking. Heart.
She shrugs, and a gush of air whooshes out of my lungs at my exhale.
“I don’t know. Probably at some point . . . I think.” She closes her eyes, and I feel an odd sense of relief that she doesn’t see me right now. And that I can’t see her eyes right now either.
Why the hell wouldn’t she tell me? Would I tell her if the roles were reversed?
Shit.
I don’t know if I would.
Maybe it would depend on the intentions I had for her, for us.
Well, fuck.
I’m not sure I like where that thought leads either.
When she wordlessly turns around, I can’t help myself and close the gap between us.
Did she just sniffle?
God. I know I wasn’t given a choice to be with her, but she was my world. And I would have wanted to be there every step of every grueling moment. Yet somehow, this brave woman fought on her own. Is still fighting.
She’s had years to accept this, yet here she cries. Selfishly, I want to be angry, hurt, sad . . . but that makes this all about me.
I cannot fathom how hard this is for her. This is her everyday.
I put my arm around her and pull her close, letting the comfort of her body aligning so perfectly with mine slowly soothe me to sleep.
Twenty-One
Chloe
When I wake up the next morning, my brain is fuzzy. Until the events from last night slam into me. The sex. Goodness, the amazing sex.
Then Noah finding my medicine. My stomach clenches at the image that’s stuck in my mind. Noah looking so broken, so helpless. Then more sex later in the middle of the night. More tender this time, making me feel cherished and complete.
The bed beside me is empty, and I roll onto my back to stare up at the ceiling for a few minutes. Then I close my eyes and place my left hand on my heart and my right on my stomach, focusing on each deep inhale and exhale. Trying to find my equilibrium. Needing it to get through whatever will happen next. To me. To Noah. To us.
Even though there isn’t a future for us, I still know that I owe him more—he deserves to know how this happened.
And I was planning on telling him. Eventually.
My therapist used to say, “What happened is done and can’t be changed. How you will react to it, and what you’ll make of it though, is up to you and will shape your future.”
One of the most important pearls of wisdom I carry around with me as if it got imprinted on my new heart. She retired only a year after I received my transplant, and I had great therapists after her, but her impact has always been the most significant.
I know what the right thing to do is, but sadly, that doesn’t eliminate the desire to flee, to pretend none of this happened.
Ten more deep breaths. That’s what I give myself before I push back the covers and walk to the bathroom where thankfully, my morning brain takes over. Using the toilet, brushing my teeth, taking my medicine. It’s been my routine for so long, I don’t pause. I don’t wonder. I just do.
When I gather my hair and twist it on top of my head, my gaze drifts to the small window. I lift the blinds and stare at my tiny backyard, if you can even call it that. More like a small patio area, but that’s more than enough for me. I was lucky to snatch up a house I could afford in this neighborhood. It’s a bit out of the price range I was looking at, but it works for now.
Like an invisible pull, I look to the patio where my beloved swing is. The main reason I go outside at all. And that’s where he sits. On one side with his legs outstretched in front of him and