Full Tilt (Full Tilt #1)(100)

I can’t lose you, is what I wanted to say, but I was going to lose him, and so I cried and he held me until I stopped.

I wiped my eyes, then pulled off my shirt and unclasped my bra.

“What are you doing?” he murmured in the sleepy, measured voice he had to use now to say anything, to have enough air to speak.

“Want to be close to you.” I snuggled up tight against him. He smelled of warmth and soap and his own scent that was uniquely him.

Jonah held me close and fell asleep quickly—he was so terrifyingly tired all the time—but I lay awake for long hours, my strong heart beating against his failing one. I willed whatever strength I had into him. I tried to visualize a current of energy, vibrant and gold, emanating from me and seeping into him. Making him better. Making him well.

Don’t leave me.

The next morning, he woke up short of breath, hardly able to sit up without help. Our eyes met, and he brushed his fingers along my cheek. “It’s time.”

I thought I’d collapse against him then, sobbing and wailing—letting the grief pour out of me. God knew I wanted to. But then I’d have to take him to the hospital and this last moment, here in our bed, would’ve been wasted in crying.

Instead, I kissed him like a lover—deep and long, and with everything I had. With every ounce of infinite love that dwelt in me.

I kissed Jonah Fletcher with all of my heart, and with every piece of my soul that would love him forever.





They set Jonah up in a private room, steps from the elevator, the chapel, vending machines and the restrooms. The circle of his friends and family—The Seven, I called us—had access to everything we needed, allowing us to camp out in the waiting room.

No one left for longer than a few hours at a time, and checked back in via text every few minutes:

Is he okay?

Any news on a donor?

What does the doctor say?

The answers stayed the same for the first twenty-four hours: Jonah was resting, no news of a donor heart and the doctor said he wasn’t likely to get one. Jonah’s kidneys—ravaged from the medications—were failing and he was put on dialysis, which made him all but ineligible for a second heart transplant.

“If you’d let me give him one of mine…” Theo said. He looked terrible—dark rings under bloodshot eyes. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep in weeks.

“It wouldn’t have helped,” Dr. Morrison said. “His antibody count has always been much too high. The CAV too relentless.”

“So they just took him off the list?”

“Not at all,” Dr. Morrison said. “Jonah was never removed from the donor list. But if a new heart were available, we would have heard already. I’m so sorry.”

He turned to address the Seven. “Right now, the best thing for Jonah is to remain comfortable and spend time with you.”

“He’s not in pain, is he?” Henry asked.

“No,” Dr. Morrison said gently. “And I will do everything in my power to ensure he stays that way. I promise.”





Over the next two days, we crowded into his room, talking and reminiscing. Laughing at his bedside and stepping out to cry in the hallway. By the third day, when Jonah was struggling through the minutes, some instinctive realization took hold of the group.

It was time to say goodbye.

Tania, Oscar and Dena took turns alone in his room. Then the Seven became Four: the Fletchers and me.

“How are you?” I asked Theo. We slouched on chairs in the waiting area while Henry and Beverly sat with Jonah.

“My brother’s dying and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it. That’s how I am.”

I stared at my hands through a beat of silence.

“How are you?” he asked.

“I can’t really sit over here by myself anymore,” I said. “Can I…hold your hand?”

Theo moved to sit beside me. His large, strong hand engulfed mine. I studied the tattoos that snaked around his forearms.

“Your designs?”

“Some.”

“What drew you to tattooing?” My voice sounded like I’d been screaming for hours—tear-soaked and hoarse.

“Permanence,” Theo said. “Tattoo is art that bites deep. Leaves blood. Can never be washed away. It stays.” He looked down at me with his whiskey-colored eyes. “You stayed.”

I smiled. “I want a tattoo from you.”

“Name it.”

“Not sure yet. I’ll think about it.”

He nodded and we waited, hand in hand. The Fletchers came out then—Beverly looking frail and delicate, Henry ramrod straight, stoic and stiff—his grief boiling below the surface.

“Theo, dear,” Beverly said in a tremulous voice. “He wants you.”

Theo went in, and I sat wedged between the Fletchers, holding her hand, resting my head against his shoulder. They weren’t my parents, but I loved them. And I felt loved by them in a way I never had from my own. Even Henry’s reserved affection was a million times warmer than my father’s.

I hadn’t thought of him since San Diego. Or my mother. They’d never met Jonah, and now they never would.

Their loss, I thought bitterly, but in the next instant that bitterness morphed into fierce pride, and even joy. I had known Jonah Fletcher. I had been loved by him, and it was a privilege I would carry with me for the rest of my life.