Cross My Heart

Chapter Twenty-Four

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

“Wait, so you just… grabbed the gun?”

“Well. I tried to. I wasn’t very successful.”

“Still! That’s so brave! I would have frozen.”

I pop a forkful of pasta into my mouth. Edith and I are finally getting that dinner I promised her weeks ago—and we’re celebrating, too. It’s been two days since the police informed Edith she’s no longer a suspect, three since the night Blair was arrested. There’s a bruise beneath my rib cage, a twinge when I twist my torso, a scratch on my cheek, and one of my stitches had to be replaced, but despite the stress on my body, my heart is fine. That’s what the labs and scans promised, anyway. Over the next two weeks, I’ll have my regularly scheduled biopsy and angiogram, so I won’t rest completely easy until I get those results. But for now, I’m here, eating delicious food, enjoying Edith’s company.

“This means you fought that woman twice,” she says. “Both times she had a weapon, and both times you won.”

“I don’t know if we can call it winning. You saved me the first time, Nina and the cops saved me the second time. I really just”—I shrug—“got lucky.”

“Sure, but you’re alive,” Edith says. “I call that winning.”

I chew my pasta, nodding. Because she’s right. I’ve won. Every beat of my heart—of Daphne’s heart—is another victory. I not only fought Blair; I stopped her from silencing that heart for a second time.

“Seriously, you’re a badass,” Edith continues. “Blair was clearly crazy. She would have killed you in an instant. But you went for it.”

Out of sheer habit, I wince at crazy , even as I understand why Edith says it. Blair killed people. Stalked them. Attempted another murder. Nothing about that suggests she was sane. But Edith’s wrong about one thing: Blair didn’t kill me in an instant. She could have. She’d hidden that gun on her body with the intention of taking me out. But first, she talked me through her crimes. Laid out what she believed was unimpeachable logic for each one. I don’t know if she genuinely thought I’d agree with her actions, or if she simply wanted to unburden herself of all her secrets. Either way, one of the most dangerous things about Blair in the end was that, to her, her story wasn’t crazy at all; it was common: she’d simply loved someone.

“I mean, I know I did some problematic things when it came to Morgan,” Edith says. “But Blair took wanting him to an extreme.”

I just wanted him to love me , she said as the cops closed in. I just wanted us —

I never heard the rest of what she planned to say. But I don’t have to. That interrupted sentence was a truth all its own. I just wanted us.

And there’s something else Blair said, right as she surrendered to the police: I guess it doesn’t matter . As if, after everything she’d done to frame Edith, to escape punishment, Blair realized that her freedom, her future, was useless to her if Morgan didn’t love her.

It haunts me, how familiar that feels. After Brad ended things, I caged myself in my bedroom. Darkened the windows. Refused the company of people who cared. Muted all phone numbers except for his, which never lit up my screen. It was debilitating work, turning my pain into a prison, but disturbingly easy, too, because just like Blair, I’d pinned my happiness on somebody else. And over the years, I’d changed myself, bit by bit, for so many different men that, without one, I had no core identity to fall back on. I became only the absence of them.

It’s an uncomfortable fact I have to reckon with, how much I see myself in Blair. But now that I’ve had my past reflected back to me, I’m hopeful that, in the future, Blair doesn’t have to be a mirror. She can be a warning.

“So, to recap,” Edith says, “you’re brave, you’re badass.” She ticks the qualities off on her fingers. “And you’re… beautifully belligerent?”

“I’m what ?”

“Sorry. I was on a roll with the Bs. It felt like the third thing had to match.”

As she laughs at herself, I’m reminded of something I wrote to Morgan on DonorConnect, when I was trying out his Foolproof Trick to Naming Pets: Wait, why do those all start with the same letter? I’m suddenly nervous I only know nouns that begin with B. The memory prickles, but it isn’t painful. It’s more like recalling a date that started promising before ending disastrously. It feels like a bullet dodged.

“Let me try again,” Edith says. “You’re brave, you’re badass, and you battled a literal murderer. There. Battle starts with B .”

We laugh together now, even though there’s nothing funny about Blair’s crimes or how close I came to becoming one. Still, I appreciate Edith’s praise.

I’ve never thought of myself as brave or badass. Truthfully, I’ve thought so little about my own attributes over the years, too concerned with creating the ones my boyfriends wanted to see. But this portrait Edith’s painted of me—someone who battles danger and wins—makes me sound like a woman I’d like to know.

Even more, she makes me sound like a survivor.

Maybe in a dim, distant way, I already knew that. I survived my transplant, after all. But when my cardiologist first informed me I needed a new heart, I didn’t think of surviving as something I’d do —actively, with intention. I thought of it as something that may or may not happen to me, a thing like the weather, completely beyond my control. But now I think: it was me who made a home for a foreign organ. Me who swallowed the meds that kept my body from kicking it out. Me who endured the side effects, who kept to the schedule of painful tests and biopsies. So, in those ways, surviving was a choice, and it’s one that, every single day, for more than a year now, I’ve been brave enough to make.

How strange I didn’t see it before. I was too focused on what I’m lacking—a romantic partner, a fail-safe future—that I forgot to notice what I’ve had all along: myself. A woman who was so strong, so badass , she lived through losing her heart.

“Also, I really want to thank you,” Edith says. “Most people would’ve run for the hills after what I did—and I wouldn’t blame them. So I’m amazed you didn’t write me off. That you trusted me when I told you I didn’t kill Morgan. That you actually want to spend time with me, now that it’s all over.”

I smile, resisting the urge to brush off her thanks, to tell her it was probably just my Rosie-colored glasses that kept me fighting for her. A few days ago, when I was huddled on the floor with Nina, I recognized she was right; those glasses had distorted my vision, convinced me that so many people in my life had been better than they actually were. But at the awe in Edith’s eyes, I consider that maybe those glasses aren’t always an impairment. I love that I look for the best in people. If I didn’t, I might have done exactly what Edith said—written her off as soon as I learned she was Other Rosie. And that means I wouldn’t be here at this dinner tonight, discussing it all with a new friend.

I’m realizing, too, that whenever Nina and I have talked about my Rosie-colored glasses in the past, we’ve always done so as if I’ve chosen to put them on. A lot of times I do, that’s true—or I’ve just worn them so long it’s not even a choice anymore. But there have also been times when people—men I loved—have effectively handed them to me, encouraged me to look through their pretty pink lenses. Those men told me they loved me, then later proved they didn’t—proved, like Nina said, they didn’t even respect me. But while they were standing there, right in front of me, saying exactly what they knew I wanted to hear, why wouldn’t I believe them? Why wouldn’t I trust the vision they showed me?

Thinking of it that way, I can’t really blame myself for feeling a little unbalanced, a little unstable—yes, a little crazy—once they ripped those glasses off, once I saw the world in all its true chaotic color.

When I focus on Edith again, she’s staring into the distance with an almost anguished expression. I follow her gaze to a man at another table, his hand knotted with a woman’s. He’s stroking her knuckles, smiling at her as she laughs through a story she’s telling. For a second, I worry that the man is Edith’s ex, that I’ve taken her tonight to the one place where her still-raw wounds would be clawed back open. But then she says, “I miss that,” her voice so brittle it’s nearly a whisper, and I understand it’s not the sight of the man that hurts her; it’s the couple.

“You’ll have it again,” I say, because I know that’s what she needs to hear right now.

But the truth is: she might not. Her last relationship might truly be her last relationship. There’s no way of knowing, no guarantees. Love is too fickle and unpredictable for that. Life is too. But either way, I know Edith will be okay. Because even if she doesn’t find a romantic partner, she’s a sweet, funny person who won’t be alone. And at the very least, she’ll have me. Which is something, I think. Something pretty good.

Two days later, Just Say Yes is quiet. It’s a random lull in the afternoon, a two-hour break between appointments, the only sound coming from the back, where Marilee slices through tape to open deliveries that came in this morning. So I’m surprised when a woman enters the store, eyes sweeping the racks of dresses before she approaches me.

“Can I help you?” I ask.

“Um. I’m not sure. I need a dress, but my budget is pretty small. I was just driving by and figured I’d see if you even carry any dresses in my price point.”

“Sure, what is it?”

“Four hundred dollars?” She cringes a little, as if worried I’ll judge her.

Inwardly, I cringe, too, because our least expensive dresses run around twice that much. Still, I check the computer at the reception desk in case there’s a markdown I’ve forgotten.

“No, I’m so sorry,” I say when my search yields nothing.

The woman’s shoulders fall, even as she nods. “That’s okay, I knew it was a long shot. My fiancé and I are teachers, so money’s already tight, but we’re saving for a down payment on a house, and even with a small wedding—” She stops, waving in apology. “You don’t need my life story. I just saw the window display and couldn’t help myself.”

I bite my lip, glancing at the computer. I’m not allowed to comp a dress again until September, months from now, but I feel the sting of her disappointment as if it were my own.

“Thanks anyway,” she says, turning to go.

“Wait! Hold on.”

As she pivots back, I look at her more closely. We’re about the same height. Similar body types. It might not be a perfect fit, but—

“There is one dress,” I say.

“There is?” Hope springs to her face.

“Yeah—one sec.” I open a browser, search for a Casablanca gown from a few seasons ago, plugging in the name and style number I know by heart. When the image pops up, I swivel the monitor so the woman can see it. “Do you like this?”

Her eyes instantly sparkle. Her mouth opens with a gentle intake of breath.

“It’s gorgeous,” she says. “I love the beading. And the lace.” She steps closer to get a better look. “That’s really in my price range?”

Behind her, the door jingles as someone enters the store. I see only their shoulder, an elbow, a shoe—another deliveryman, I’m sure. “I’ll be with you in a moment,” I call, before answering the woman’s question about the dress: “Let’s set up a time for you to come try it on. And if you love it, it’s yours. No charge.”

Her mouth opens wider, her brows creased in confusion.

“It was purchased by another customer,” I say—which is true. “Her wedding was canceled.” Not even close to true. “So she’s donating it back to us, for a situation just like this.” Soon to be true.

“Oh,” the woman says, “I’m so sorry that happened. But that’s such a nice thing she’s doing! I probably would have just sold it.” She chuckles before taking out her phone, opening her calendar. “But yes, I’d love to try it on. Thank you so much. When can I come back?”

As I get her details for the appointment, something bubbles up in me, a strange mix of delight and discomfort. It’ll be good to get rid of the dress, even if it’s hard, even if it’s like letting go of a part of myself. I don’t know if I could ever put it on again without remembering the hours I spent stuck inside it, unable to reach the buttons. Even now, just thinking of it, I feel a phantom constriction, like arms are wrapped around me, gripping too tight.

There was a point during these last few weeks when I thought that the gown didn’t have to be tied to the past, that it could be a promise for the future instead. But that’s a lot of pressure to put on my future—especially when I have no idea how long it will be. It doesn’t even make sense to me anymore, the idea that, to make my remaining time worthy, I have to spend it with somebody else. My time is already worthy, just by being mine, and I can use it to do the things I love: laughing with friends, reading good books, listening to Taylor Swift, finding ways to ease people’s burdens. And who knows what else I’ll discover about myself when I’m not worrying over a relationship or stressing about romantic prospects. Who knows what else I’ll become. Even if my worst fear comes to fruition, even if I’m alone in a hospital during my final moments, at least I’ll know that I actually lived. That I loved and cherished myself while I did.

“Thanks again!” the woman says. “I’ll see you next Thursday.” She wags her phone, where she’s just input the appointment, and as she walks to the door, she reveals the man who’s been waiting patiently behind her.

Jackson.

“Oh—hi,” I say, jolting a little. “Did you… have more questions about the other night?”

I already gave him a full statement, relaying every piece of Blair’s confession, every sentence I could confidently quote from memory. But I’m happy to give more, happy to do whatever I can to ensure there’s justice for Daphne.

“No, I actually wanted to check on you,” Jackson says, “see how you’re doing.” My face must twitch with surprise, because he’s quick to add, “I was in the area. Well… I was next door, eating a cinnamon roll.”

He holds up his hand, fingers splayed, as if there might still be evidence of the sticky pastry.

“I know it’s none of my business,” he continues, dropping his arm back to his side, “but I can’t stop thinking— Is your heart okay? I don’t know much about transplants, but I imagine the recent stress and physical exertion might have…”

His sentence rolls to a stop, a blank he isn’t sure how to fill.

“Oh, yeah, it’s fine,” I say. “Thanks for asking.”

I’m touched by his inquiry, the caution and care in his voice. It’s a stark contrast to the way he spoke to me the night we first met, when he thought my hair was tangled in a dead man’s hand. He was kind to me when he took my statements, too—both after the attack in my home and after the fight at Blair’s. His questions were extensive but gentle, sensitive to my recent traumas.

“Good. That’s good.” Jackson nods, looking past me toward the racks of gowns. “It’s a good heart.”

“What?” I ask, laughing a little, unsure I heard him correctly.

His eyes meet mine again and they’re such a pale but warm brown, the color of cinnamon sticks. It’s a lovely, unusual shade, and it reminds me of Christmas, of gingerbread houses, of sipping comfort from a steaming mug.

“That’s what my sister always used to say about you,” Jackson says, “after you took her under your wing. ‘She’s got a good heart.’?”

I smile at that. Winnie Dean was always so sweet. “Will you tell her I said hi?” I ask.

“Of course.” His gaze remains on mine, like he wants to say more, but then he lifts his hand and turns toward the door. “Take care, Rosie.”

I watch him go, a little unmoored by the interaction, brief as it was. Outside, he heads toward his car, passing a man and woman chatting together on the sidewalk. The woman laughs, then pauses to drink from her coffee cup, and the man places his hand on her waist, pulling her closer to kiss her forehead.

I turn away, the public moment somehow too private, and try to suppress a twinge in my chest. I place my hand above the ache, feel for the thump of my heart. I count its beats, measure its rhythm, and only let go when I’m satisfied.

Winnie Dean was right. It’s a good heart.

I rummage through my purse beneath the counter to pull out my phone. I should do more than rely on Jackson to pass my hello onto his sister. I should get in touch with her on my own. It can be part of my commitment to focusing on myself—making new connections, strengthening old ones, filling my life with fun and friends.

I find her easily on Instagram and kick myself for never having thought to look her up before. A quick scroll through her profile shows me she lives in Boston now, she has a dog she adores, and she still enjoys baking, just like she did in high school. There’s a photo from last Thanksgiving where she and Jackson are both in oven mitts, holding separate casseroles. The Sibling Stuffing War continues , she captioned it. Spoiler alert: I won . I click on the comments, where Jackson’s added, If by won you mean SABOTAGED , and I smile at the implied hijinks while tapping on his handle.

There are only about a dozen pictures on his page, and the most recent is from late last year. In it, he stands on a lawn that’s quilted with leaves, beside a realty sign boasting a Sold banner. The caption is simple and straightforward: Finally a homeowner .

Curious, I zoom in on the house behind him. It’s a quaint yellow colonial with a white porch that bears a wooden swing. And above the front door, which is painted a rich emerald green, is—

I squint. Zoom in closer.

Yep. I know that window. A half circle of stained glass. And now that I’ve noticed this distinctive feature, I recognize the house, too. It’s somewhere between my parents’ place and Morgan’s. It’s a house I’ve passed dozens of times on walks with Bumper, always slowing to admire the pretty glass. Which means—I laugh at the realization: all this time, the house I’ve been admiring is Jackson’s.

The photo blurs before me as I think of his face, just now, telling me my heart is good. His expression was both guarded and vulnerable, like he was risking something by uttering that sentence. I think of my reaction, too—a little dazed by the compliment, when maybe I should have been dazzled.

This is the second time he’s visited Just Say Yes in a little over a week, and it’s still somewhat strange, seeing him in a setting that feels so personal to me when our relationship has been so professional. That first time he came, informing me of the results of the hair analysis, I thought he was trying to catch me off guard, coax me into saying something I might hold back at the station.

But what if he had another reason for showing up that day, for wanting to speak to me outside of an interview room?

I swipe out of Instagram and open a text to my dad.

Hey, I’ve been missing Bumper the last few days. Okay if I take him for his walk tonight?

After what happened with Blair, Dad told me I was off dog-walking duty for a while. He literally hid Bumper’s leash from me and said I needed to spend my time after work relaxing instead.

I’m straightening a rack of dresses when his reply comes in.

That depends. You feeling okay?

I’m feeling great.

Okay. Come on by after work.

I exit the text, smiling, then open my Notes app to start a new entry.

JACKSON DEAN

Became a homeowner last year

Participates in a Thanksgiving “Stuffing War” with his sister

Eyes like gingerbread

I mine my memory for more, absently stroking a blush tulle Marchesa we just got in stock.

Enjoys cinnamon rolls from Sweet Bean

It isn’t much. For all the times he’s questioned me these past few weeks, I haven’t really bothered to notice his specifics. But there are already two things that connect us—Winnie Dean, and our love of his house—so I bet there are even more.

I put away my phone, satisfied for now. It’s been a quiet afternoon at the store, but still a productive one, and tonight, I get to walk Bumper, that sweet, exuberant dog whose heart is the best of everyone’s, overflowing with unconditional love.

Maybe, as a treat for both of us, I’ll take him down the route he’s come to prefer. Maybe we’ll walk the shadowy, wooded roads that lead to Morgan’s.

And maybe, on the way there, we’ll see something worth a closer look.