With This Heart(79)

He laughed and shook his head. “Impossible.”

My cheeks flushed and I turned to inspect the kitchen. He kept his distance, watching me move around. I fingered his coffee maker and towel. The zombie salt and pepper shakers sat on top of his stove. I was soaking up details of his life. I wanted to know how many cups of coffee he drank a day. I wanted to know what he preferred to eat for breakfast. Maybe now we’d finally get the chance to figure those details out.

I turned to face him and then propped myself up to sit on the counter.

“ When did you see my note?” I asked, anxious to know how my plan ended up working.

His eyes danced with the memory of it. “I saw them all over campus yesterday when I was going to pick up some school supplies. But it wasn’t until I was sitting at a table in the union     eating lunch earlier today that I actually read it. I guess someone had dropped a few on the tables because I was taking a bite of my sandwich and then I looked down to see that headline. I didn’t believe it at first; I thought my eyes were playing a trick on me.”

I felt weightless sitting on top of his kitchen counter. His voice carried hints of surprise, elation, love .


Then he swapped the topic on me in a flash. “How’s your health? Is your heart okay?” he asked, crossing his arms and studying me intently.

“ It’s finally good, Beck. I’ve been on the same medication and dosage for eleven months. My immune system is as good as it can be while I take the medication. It won’t be easy, but I already have a cardiologist up here and it’s my top priority. I have an appointment with him tomorrow actually.”

He nodded and closed his eyes as he inhaled deeply. Had he been worried about my health over the past year?

“ Now it’s my top priority, too. I’ll drive you to your appointment tomorrow if you’ll let me.” His eyes flickered open again. They were a darker shade of hazel than usual. He stared right at me as he crossed the kitchen and came to stand in front of me. His hands drifted up my knees and over my thighs. His thumb ran along the inseam of my jeans.

I mashed my lips together, unable to look away from his exploring fingers. With a gentle tug, he pulled my thighs apart so that he could step in between them. My hips were right on the edge of the counter, so when he stepped forward our bodies pressed together.

“ I’d like that. Then maybe we can see if Sammy wants to get lunch or something,” I asked, hopeful.

“ Sounds good. My friend, James, just got back into town for classes, so I could invite him, too,” he answered. He was still running his fingers along the inseam of my jeans, making it more and more impossible to concentrate on the here and now. His hands trailed up my jeans and traced along the bare skin that touched the hem. My stomach flip flopped and I felt my skin flush in response. His touch flooded me with warmth I hadn’t felt since he left.

“ Stay the night with me,” he murmured, gently unbuttoning my jeans. By that point, I was beyond comprehension of things that didn’t entail his touch on my skin. I’d sleep on the ground outside if it meant he wouldn’t stop.

“ Okay, but no sleeping,” I grinned.

He chuckled and then grasped either side of my cheeks to tilt my mouth toward his. “Okay, no sleeping, Abby Mae.”

I closed my eyes and pressed my lips to his. A glimpse of the old Abby, the pre-Beck Abby, flashed before my eyes and deep awareness spun through my mind.

My life had taken quite a few sharp turns in the past few years. I’d prepared myself for the end and had come to terms with the abrupt conclusion life seemed determined to provide for me.

And then my beeper went off.

That archaic piece of technology vibrated on my night stand, telling me that I had a donor.

Suddenly, I had an abundance of life and no idea what I wanted to do with it. Being in Boston, in college, was a surreal feeling. I’d been given a second chance. A chance to make dreams and see them through. A chance to make mistakes and fight to make them right.

But it didn’t always feel that way. When I first had the transplant, there was this immense pressure weighing me down at every turn. To prove I was worthy of receiving the heart, I felt like I had to live every single moment to the fullest. If I wasn’t being the best, living the most, screaming the loudest, then I wasn’t doing Colby’s heart justice.

I was living for everyone around me. Caroline, Colby, my parents. I couldn’t breathe for fear that the decisions I was making weren’t the right ones.

I couldn’t ignore the nagging questions in the back of my mind:

Are the lives of some people more valuable than those of others? Had the world lost more from Colby’s death than it had gained from my life?

Is value based simply on one person’s impact on the world around them? How many friends we leave behind in death?

A year ago I thought I knew the answer to those questions. But now I realize that no one has the capacity to judge the value of a human life.

We all value different things and life left out a conversion chart on purpose.

We aren’t supposed to know the answer.

I couldn’t live for Colby or Caroline any longer.

The fact is, I was given a heart. I was given this gift of life that few receive and I had to decide how I wanted to use it. Not how others would deem noble.

So I finally stripped away the fear and anxiety, and suddenly life became crystal clear. I wanted to write. I wanted to create stories like the ones I’d written in my journal. I wanted to be with Beck, and I wanted to wake up each morning and appreciate the feeling of my heart beating beneath my scarred chest.