Cross My Heart

Chapter Three

CHAPTER THREE

There’s a forty-year-old bride in the shop. She pivots in front of the mirror, considering the dress: backless, deep V, illusion neckline. Decades ago, when my parents first opened Just Say Yes, this woman might have stood out on the floor. She might have raised a brow or two for wanting to see something sleeveless and sparkly instead of understated and demure. Now, nobody blinks an eye. Her girlfriends coo from the couch, champagne glasses in hand, and Marilee grabs a cathedral veil that complements the lace on the gown.

Once, these older brides were a comfort to me. As my twenties ticked by. As each of my relationships ended. As man after man included in their breakup speech some iteration of “You’re just… too much, Rosie.” Older brides gave me hope that, even though my parents and sister and best friend all found their soul mates young, true love doesn’t have an expiration date.

Now women like that prompt a stab of panic in my chest.

My phone vibrates beneath the reception counter, and I drag my attention from the bride to read a text from Edith.

I’m okay, thanks for asking. I actually might venture a little outside my house/work comfort zone today and pick up some takeout. With my own two hands. From an actual restaurant. Or do you think that’s a betrayal of my frozen dinners from Trader Joe’s?

I smile as I type a response.

Def do takeout.

Joe will understand.

I’ve checked in on Edith a few times since meeting her last week, and we’ve tossed around dates to get together, but she hasn’t committed to anything yet. I’ve been worried that, despite her initial invitation to hang out, she’s been too ground down by grief to actually leave her house. But picking up takeout is a good first step. And it’s a positive sign she’s answering my texts at all. If it were me— No, when it was me, my eyes were too blurred by tears to even read my friends’ words.

I swipe out of Edith’s text and open DonorConnect to reread Morgan’s message, which arrived last night, after nearly a week of silence, with a tone that felt a little flirtatious.

I can finally focus on you… Lists are sexy… I think you’re remarkable…

All week, I’d felt nauseated from Morgan’s lack of response, nervous that, even to an almost-stranger, I’d once again become “too much.” I’d labored over my third message, same as I’d labored over the first two, and as the days passed, I was sure it had turned him off, the way I crafted and polished each sentence, the way I’d studied his style as a model for my own. But his opening paragraph (not to mention his compliments) put me at ease. He’d been slow to reply only because he was on deadline. Because he’s Morgan Thorne. Still, I promised myself last night that I would take his cue and wait a few days to respond. Tyler, my boyfriend before Brad, once complained that I was “always available” to him, and I guess that was a bad thing.

It doesn’t mean I can’t keep memorizing Morgan in the meantime, though. I open the list in my Notes app and add a couple bullet points.

Needs complete silence to write

Uses Moleskine notebooks and Lamy Safari fountain pens

“This is it,” Marilee’s bride says, eyes glittering with tears. “My dream dress.” She twists to admire her bare back in the mirror. “It’s definitely the one.”

Her friends leap off the couch to hug her, and Marilee takes a step back. In a minute, she’ll interrupt the bride for measurements, but for now, she allows the women to swarm their friend, to gush about a dress that none of them—not for a single second—can imagine as a ghost.

Her gown has buttons down the train. Mine had buttons, too, all the way up its lacy back. They’d been my favorite detail, but they made it impossible to fasten the dress on my own. So when Brad stepped into the room that day, his tie already unknotted, he didn’t see me as he should have, as I’d planned; he saw me with the gown gaping open—unfinished, unflattering—and that only added to the agony of it all.

My stomach churns with the memory, or maybe just with hunger. I haven’t eaten since breakfast. It’s five thirty now, still a few hours from closing, and I’ve got a returning customer with her second consultation at six. If she’s anything like she was at her appointment a few weeks ago—analyzing the placement of every bead, requesting estimates on every possible customization—I’m going to need some fuel.

I call out to Marilee, still on the sidelines of her bride’s celebration: “Want anything from Sweet Bean?” She shakes her head, distracted, then steps into the group of women.

“Let’s make this official!” she says.

Outside, it’s raining, the sky all steel, so I slide into my jacket and flip up my hood before making the forty-foot trek to the café. When I step inside, I’m greeted by Sweet Bean’s cinnamon scent, their leafy plants, the strings of fairy lights. I get in line behind a couple holding hands and crane to see the late-afternoon offerings. With five Danishes left in the case, my stomach gives a loud, anticipatory rumble. I turtle deeper into my hood, blushing as I scan the people around me—and that’s when everything stops. My awareness of the other customers. Sweet Bean’s folksy music. Even the rain outside.

He’s here.

Tortoiseshell frames. Dark scruff. Eyes like the bottom of a pool.

This is the closest I’ve ever been to him. I can actually see the gray in his beard—just a few tinsel strands—and the hair on his arms, the loose button on his shirt.

I watch from under my hood as he sips a cappuccino, sitting across from a woman. No—not just a woman. His best friend, Blair. I shouldn’t recognize the back of her head so easily, shouldn’t instantly know that shiny dark hair as hers, but I’ve studied every photo on Morgan’s grid, and she’s been a fixture in them for a long time, even before his marriage to Daphne eight years ago.

He laughs at something Blair says, and my lips part, the sound so rich I can almost taste it.

“Hey, Rosie, ready to order?”

I turn to see a gap between me and the counter, the couple in front of me vanished. With a glance back at Morgan, I step toward my favorite barista, then recite my usual—two Danishes, one cheese, one raspberry—adding, at the last second, an apricot one for Marilee.

“Switching things up a bit—nice,” the barista says. “Is that for here or to go?”

“Um…” I’d planned to take it with me to Just Say Yes, scarf it down in my office before my six o’clock shows up. “The apricot is to go. But the rest are for here.”

When she hands me my bag and my plate, I take them to the only empty table—diagonally across from Morgan. If he were to look my way, we’d be facing each other. But he’s focused on Blair. I nibble at my Danish, about to shrug out of my jacket, when I realize it’s best to keep it on, my eyes slightly hidden by its hood.

Only now does my pulse begin to pound. I know it’s just an effect of my transplant, my denervated heart. I know adrenaline rushes no longer happen in real time for me. Instead, I’m on a perpetual delay, my body needing a few extra minutes to react to things like this Morgan sighting. Still, it’s as if whatever remains of Daphne can sense her husband nearby.

“I had no idea there was so much involved,” Blair says, and it’s easy to eavesdrop. Most of the customers are staring at laptops, earbuds in. I take out my phone, scroll through some news app without really seeing it, trying to look as occupied as everyone else.

“Every day’s another urgent project and I’m going insane trying to keep track of it all. There’s the florist. The caterers. The band. I kind of thought that all just… came with a venue. I never considered all the research involved. I swear, if I have to read another review of, like, linen providers, I’m going to call the whole thing off.”

“Is a linen provider a thing?” Morgan asks, and his voice is as foreign to me as it is familiar. In the past year, I’ve listened to some of his podcast interviews, but hearing him now in person is like seeing a painting in real life after loving it first on a screen.

“I don’t know,” Blair says. “But napkins, tablecloths—they’ve got to come from somewhere, right? And apparently it’s too much to ask the owners of the rusty—I’m sorry, rustic —barn to include that.”

“See, this is how I know Vanessa is it for you. You’ve only been together for like eight minutes, but—”

“Excuse me. Eight months.”

“But you’re willing to forgo AC, not to mention complimentary linens—which I’m just now learning you care about—so she can have the cottagecore wedding of her dreams.”

“Wow. I was not aware you knew the word cottagecore .”

“I’ve used it with you before.”

“When?”

“In one of my emails.”

Blair slumps back in her chair, playing exhausted. “When are you going to learn? I do not memorize your emails.”

“You should. They’re very well written. Basically deserve a Pulitzer.”

I take another bite of Danish to smother my smile, but Blair is not amused.

“They’re like ten pages long!” she says. “It’s like you’re drafting an entire novel to me. Don’t you get enough of that all day?”

“It’s not like drafting at all. With drafting, there’s an outline, a plan, a story you’re building with an end already in mind. My emails to you are… a way to record and shape the events of my days. Clarify my thoughts.”

“I’m not your diary, Morgan.”

“Aren’t you? You know all my secrets.”

I look up in time to see something pass between them. A current of silent communication. A brief hesitation where their eyes stay locked.

“Whatever,” Blair says. “All I’m saying is: I don’t need setting details and dialogue tags for every half-interesting interaction you have.”

“Wow. I was not aware you knew the term dialogue tag .”

He grins to show he’s teasing, and I marvel at how they volley with each other. Marvel, in particular, at Blair, who isn’t afraid to give Morgan shit, be dismissive of his interests. Maybe it helps that they’re friends instead of lovers, but I’ve never been like that with men. For Tyler, I feigned a love of football so I could still see him on Sundays. For Gabe before him, I taught myself video games until my fingers were dented from the controllers. For Jared in college, I studied Shakespeare, bought tickets to plays so I’d have an in with his theater-major friends. And for Brad, I slept in a faded Arcade Fire T-shirt— Oh this? I’ve had it forever —that I’d bought at Goodwill one week after our first kiss.

“Anyway, what about the dress?” Morgan asks. “I think there’s a bridal shop next door. We could go after this if you want.”

I almost choke on my pastry. Morgan at Just Say Yes? We don’t take walk-ins—appointments book weeks in advance—but there are always exceptions.

I see the scene: welcoming Morgan and Blair into the salon, shaking their hands in introduction. First, me and Blair—professional, perfunctory. Then me and Morgan—our touch lingering. Electricity zinging through our skin. Gazes paused on each other.

“You’d actually want to go dress shopping with me?” Blair asks.

“Isn’t that part of my man of honor duties?”

“I don’t know. I’ve never had a man of honor before. But either way, I’m good. I have an appointment in Boston with my mom.”

My shoulders sag, my fantasy dissolving—even though it felt as real as a memory.

“Wait. Seriously?” Morgan says. “Do you really think that’s the best idea?”

“It’s fine. She’s been… better lately. Both my parents have. The dress appointment was her idea, believe it or not.”

“Oh, I believe it. Come on, Blair. They always do this. They make you jump through hoops for scraps of attention, and then, just when you’re finally about to call it quits—like that whole thing at Christmas—they reel you back in so they can start the cycle all over again. The dress appointment is bait.”

Blair takes a slow, measured sip from her drink. “Are you done?”

“You said it yourself: they use love as a weapon.”

I draw my gaze back to my Danish, guilty about listening in on something so personal.

“I should go with you to that appointment,” Morgan says.

Blair punches out a laugh. “Oh, sure, that would make it better. You know my mom just loves when you’re around.”

“Well, unfortunately for Janet, I’m always going to be around, because I’m always going to be the number one man in your life.” He gives Blair an exaggerated wink.

“Please,” she says, monotone, “if you don’t stop flirting with me, I’ll melt right here.”

My phone vibrates in my hand, delivering a text from Nina.

Proof of life please.

This is a frequent request of hers. A holdover from my tissue-clutching, fetal-position weeks, when I met Nina’s check-ins with silence. It’s a reminder, too, that while I’ve survived a year with someone else’s heart, Nina knows I’ll never be out of the woods.

I send her a picture of my Danish before returning to Morgan. He’s laughing appreciatively at Blair, and then, as he leans back in his chair, his eyes shift—clicking onto mine.

There’s a jolt of connection, like the tug on my heart during biopsies. A smile lazes on his face as he gazes at me. I hold my breath.

Then I break our stare.

My cheeks heat up; I feel him studying me still. I try to seem unfazed, thumbs skating across my phone.

OH MY GOD NEENS OH MY GOD.

What???

I’m at Sweet Bean and Morgan is HERE. One table over. We just made eye contact.

I slide another glance toward Morgan—ready, now, to return his smile—but his focus is back on Blair. Part of me is relieved. I wasn’t prepared for the intensity of his attention. The blue of his eyes that’s deep enough to drown in.

An ellipsis pops up as Nina types. Then it disappears. Flashes and dies again. Finally, her text comes through.

How did you know he’d be there?

I frown at the screen. She thinks I followed him. Stalked his Instagram Stories to zero in on his location, orchestrate a meet-cute.

I didn’t! It’s a complete coincidence.

As I wait for her to respond, I tune back into Morgan. “Seriously, though,” he’s saying, “wedding planning is stressful; it can make even the coolest, most capable people”—he pauses to point at Blair—“a little crazy. So just: lean on me more. I’m not here simply to write the greatest man of honor speech of all time. I genuinely want to help. Do you want me to learn guitar so I can be your wedding singer? Learn calligraphy to write the invitations? Choreograph your first dance? Whatever it is, I’m your man.”

Blair laughs. “You think I’d trust you with my first dance? Do you even remember yours with Daphne?” My back straightens, a piece of Danish crumbling between my fingers. “The two of you swayed like a couple of eighth graders with zero chemistry.”

I bite my lip, looking at Morgan, who dips his gaze toward his mug.

“You know as well as I do that chemistry was never our problem,” he says, flicking his eyes back to Blair. I see her body tense, and so does mine, because there’s something so pointed in his stare. Heavy with implication.

“And anyway, first dances are awkward,” he adds. “All those eyes on you.”

I wait for Blair to apologize. Wait for her to see in the slump of Morgan’s shoulders that it was a step too far, dragging Daphne into the conversation. But her response—“Oh, right, because you hate when you’re the center of attention”—makes Morgan break into a devilish grin.

My phone vibrates again, drawing me back to Nina.

Good. And you didn’t respond to his message, right??

My thumb hovers above the screen. I don’t want to lie to her. But I also don’t want to argue over a decision I’ve already made—one that felt, even as I defied Nina’s advice, more inevitable than illicit.

Right. But maaaaaybe this means I’m supposed to keep talking to him.

UGH. You’re making me want to go all Veronica Mars and find out he really IS a murderer or something, just so you’ll get ideas like THAT out of your head.

He is NOT a murderer! He seems like a good guy. End of story.

Orrrrr that’s just your Rosie-colored glasses talking.

My Rosie-colored glasses. Nina’s been using that phrase for years. And she’s right; I tend to see things a little tinted. A little brighter and better than they are. But sitting one table from Morgan, I can’t help but notice his hands. They’re cupped around his mug with a loose, almost tender grip. How could hands like that hurt anyone?

I’m staring at my phone, pondering how to respond to Nina, when a text arrives from Marilee.

Hey, your bride is here.

I almost groan out loud.

I glance between Morgan and the message, then back to Morgan again.

“I know,” Blair is saying—a response to something I missed. She’s gathering her trash. “But Vanessa’s in Oregon until the end of the month, helping with her mom’s recovery, and I’m trying to get it done before she gets back because I’d rather be the one to make that decision.”

“You’d rather have the control, you mean.”

“Always,” Blair says, standing, and she’s taller than I expected. On Instagram, when she’s tucked beneath Morgan’s arm, the two of them laughing together, she seems a lot smaller. But maybe that speaks to Morgan’s height more than hers. I won’t know until he stands, too.

“You coming?” Blair asks, snatching up her jacket and umbrella.

“Nah.” He pulls a laptop from the bag at his feet. “I’ve got some emails to write.”

For a second, I wonder if one of those emails will be to me—until I remember I haven’t even responded to his latest. Part of me itches to type a reply right now, if only to watch his reaction as he reads it. But I’m determined to do things right with Morgan. Learn from my mistakes with other men. Appear less available than I actually am.

Blair snorts. “You and your emails,” she says, then bends to kiss his cheek before heading for the door.

With her gone, Morgan has a clearer view of me, but his eyes remain on his screen. Still, I feel the space go taut between us, like a rubber band pulled tight.

I type out a response to Marilee about my bride.

Can you take her?

Because I could stay here, in Morgan’s line of sight. I could wait a minute, then pick up my plate, my bag with Marilee’s Danish, and accidentally bump into his table. I could apologize. Tuck my hair behind my ear. Ask if I jostled his cappuccino, if I splashed his laptop. When he says no, I could grab him napkins anyway. Our fingers might touch as he takes them. His eyes might zip to my face. He might recognize something in me—an old but enduring pain that fits snugly against his own. Because sometimes that’s all it takes: being in the right place, at the right time, with the right person.

Why? Are you okay?

I write back to Marilee quickly— Totally fine, just caught up with something —because I know she’s worried it’s my heart, that I’m stuck in the Sweet Bean bathroom, wheezing against the wall. It’s not a baseless fear. I’m weaker than I was before the transplant. Which is exactly why meeting Morgan through DonorConnect—or by chance, in a café—is so perfect. I don’t have the stamina for bars or parties or other places where relationships might spark.

Still, I’ll need to be careful. I should pocket my MedicAlert bracelet. It IDs me as having a heart transplant, and I’m not about to announce to Morgan, Hey, I’m who you’ve been talking to on DonorConnect . Because that would be too much. Too soon. I’d seem like such a stalker. And I can still use those messages to my advantage. I can ask more questions about his wife—learn what it takes to be a woman Morgan loves. I can gather evidence in writing that he is a good man, then show it to Nina when I come clean about us growing closer.

And once Morgan and I have a strong enough bond in person, I can come clean with him, too, tell him I’m the woman he’s already fallen for online.

But for now, I watch Morgan type. His eyes are stitched to his screen, his brow creased in concentration, and I wonder if he gets that focused when he writes to me. Hey, you —a greeting both gentle and intimate, like a thumb stroking a cheek.

Another vibration on the table. Another message from Marilee.

The bride’s insisting she work with you. She says you’re familiar with her “preferences.”

I pinch the bridge of my nose. The customer in question is picky and demanding, but she doesn’t have a budget, which means one sale from her could equal five, even ten combined. When she booked her return appointment, she told me she wanted to see what you’d pull for a Kardashian. Then we’ll customize from there . I can’t risk her taking her business elsewhere.

Across from me, Morgan’s fingers dance across his keyboard, nimble and knowing. His hands are so close to me—mere feet away—I can almost feel them on my skin.

Still, Marilee nudges.

What should I tell her, Rosie? Are you coming back?