Change of Heart (Windhaven #1)

Chapter 1

EMMA

Why did I wear these damn jeans?

Shifting in my seat, I try to unstick the denim from my inner thighs and undo the button at my waist, letting my organs fall back to their natural positioning.

You could never catch me in jeans on any other given day.

My usual uniform consists of very-fashionable-and-not-at-all-raggedy painting overalls or black leggings, an oversized band tee, and dirty converse.

So tell me why I thought tight ass denim jeans were a good fashion choice on an eight hour train ride from Manhattan to middle-of-nowhere Vermont.

Morning Emma clearly lacked the foresight of Afternoon Emma, as I am now fighting for my life in this seat.

I will admit, they make my ass look really good.

I was impressed as I checked myself out one last time in the floor-length mirror before leaving the apartment.

But now, instead of enjoying the changing scenery outside the train window or thinking about anything profound, all I can think about is the denim squeezing me like a boa constrictor—making this whole life-altering train ride back to the small town I swore I would never return to thing that much more uncomfortable.

The phone buzzes in my lap with a text from Dallas, interrupting my inner monologue of self-pity. By now, I know she is fully regretting letting me leave without staging a complete intervention before I boarded the train twenty minutes ago.

Dallas

Ya know, it’s not too late to turn that train around.

I snort out a laugh loud enough to earn a death glare from the old lady sitting across the aisle. Flashing her my best disarming smile, I quickly snap a photo of the city skyline fading into the distance. She continues giving me a judging look as I hit send on the picture to Dallas.

Tough crowd.

(Photo of train window with NYC skyline in the distance) Pretty sure trains don’t do U-turns.

Dallas

Fine. But seriously, keep me updated, okay? Small-town gossip, weird neighbors, mysterious bad-boys. I need new ideas for my next book. This writer’s block is going to send me into psychosis.

Well, I give you permission, in advance, to write about my sad excuse for a life. I’ll call soon!

Dallas

How dramatic.

Safe travels, Em! Love you!

I chuckle softly this time, feeling a bit lighter despite the weight of impending doom in my chest.

Dallas and I have been through everything together: breakups, job rejections, late night Taco Bell runs, and the kind of drunken karaoke that could haunt a person for life.

She’s my person.

We met in the dorms during freshman year of college. The housing office slapped us together as roommates, most likely because we both checked “messy” on our living habits questionnaire.

Dallas stormed into our tiny shared space with a duffle bag in one hand, a coffee in the other, and an air of supreme confidence that was almost as intimidating as it was magnetic.

Within ten minutes, she had rearranged the furniture, declared her side of the room as “the fun side” and introduced herself by saying, “I’m Dallas.

Yes, like the city. No, I’ve never been there.

And yes, I fully expect us to hate each other by midterms.”

We didn’t end up hating each other—quite the opposite, actually.

I was skeptical at first, but it was impossible not to get caught up in the whirlwind that is Dallas Martínez.

She is bold where I am cautious, brash where I am reserved.

She is redheaded and vibrant, while I am brunette and quiet.

Total opposites. And somehow, over the years, that contrast balanced out into the kind of friendship that feels like family.

Dallas is also the only other person, besides my brothers, that knows the full truth about why I’m on this train.

On a Tuesday afternoon just like any other, my whole world came crashing down.

It didn’t seem real, even as Dr. Flores talked about new medications, “treatment” plans and the possibility of needing a transplant in the near future.

His tone was calm and balanced, like he had given the same speech a thousand times and it had become routine for him at this point.

Like he was discussing the weather or how to prepare a bowl of cereal, not telling a twenty-eight-year-old girl that her heart is continuing to give up on her.

I was diagnosed with dilated cardiomyopathy at the tender age of five years old, meaning that the muscles in my heart are stretched, therefore making the entire thing enlarged.

This causes it to lose the ability to pump blood effectively throughout my body.

The grocery list of effects on my daily life are dizziness, shortness of breath, fatigue, palpitations, and the occasional fainting or collapsing completely.

There is no cure and it’s pretty much expected that, if you live long enough, you will eventually need a heart transplant.

Nearly 40% of children with DCM, without a transplant early in life, don’t make it to their third birthday.

I was, and still am, considered lucky.

My team of doctors put me on more medications than fathomable for such a small child—ACE inhibitors, beta blockers, Entresto, Lasix, Captopril, Lanoxin, and about three others.

At thirteen, I had an ICD placed—an implanted cardioverter-defibrillator—that helps deliver electric shocks to my heart if it detects threatening arrhythmias.

It has been my lifeline for the past fifteen years.

Now, not even the ICD can save me.

“You’re in heart failure, Emiliana.”

I didn’t hear the rest, just nodded when I was supposed to, agreeing to whatever next steps he was explaining. I did manage to make it out of the hospital without completely losing it, but by the time I pushed through the doors of Dallas’ office, the dam had broken.

Tears were streaming down my face as I stumbled inside, my breath came in short, panicked gasps. Her assistant, Annie, barely got out a startled “Emma?” before I shoved past her and bursted through the double glass doors unannounced.

Dallas was on the phone at that moment, mid-sentence of some important details regarding her current book tour. The second she saw me, her expression shifted. “I have to call you back,” she said urgently, not even waiting for a response before hanging up on whoever was on the other end.

“Em, what’s wrong? What happened?”

I tried to speak but the words were lodged in my throat like barbed wire. My whole body was trembling and all I could do was shake my head. Dallas immediately barrelled towards me, rounding the desk and wrapping her arms around me before I could collapse.

“Hey, hey, qué pasó? Talk to me.”

I clutched onto her, my fingers digging into the soft fabric of her blouse, because I knew she was the only thing keeping me upright. “I’m in heart failure, D,” I choked out, the words strangled and raw. “Fucking heart failure.”

She went completely still.

For a moment, the world was silent. All I could hear was my own ragged breathing and the pounding of my pulse in my ears.

Then slowly, her arms tightened harder around me as one hand ran soothingly up and down my back.

“Okay,” she started, as if the gears in her head were already spinning, trying to come up with a solution to the problem at hand.

“Alright. We’re going to figure this out.

There has to be something they can do. We can get a second opinion.

We can find a better doctor. Maybe it’s a mistake and they were reading someone else’s results. Maybe we can—”

I squeezed my eyes shut, pressing my face into her shoulder, trying to ground myself in her unwavering presence. But nothing felt real. Nothing made sense. There is no feeling comparable to being told that your own body is giving up on itself.

She let out a heavy sigh and squeezed even tighter. “You’re gonna be okay. Te lo prometo.”

I knew that was a bold thing for her to promise.

If I knew anything about life, it is that nothing is ever promised.

Nothing ever goes the way you hope. My whole life was a constant example of that.

But I let her words comfort me in that moment, refusing to believe anything different for the sake of not completely breaking down.

It was exactly three months later that I made the decision to move back to Windhaven.

When I called my brothers and told them the inevitable change to my condition, there was no surprise.

We all knew this day would come eventually, but didn’t expect it to happen so soon.

Cam, the most logical and analytical of us all, also insisted on finding the best cardiologist in the country for a second opinion and more advanced management options.

Unfortunately for me, the hospital that might save my life happens to be just a couple minutes outside of Windhaven, leaving no argument for not moving back.

I cancelled all my solo art shows for the foreseeable future, requested an early termination on the lease of my studio and started packing up my apartment a couple days later.

I knew telling Dallas that I’d decided to leave the city was going to crush her so I put it off as long as possible without her noticing something was off.

We were sitting on the oversized sectional in her apartment on a rainy morning when I finally mustered up the courage.

I was next to the windows overlooking the city, legs crossed under me with a fresh cup of coffee warming my hands, watching the endless mass of people hurry to get to where they’re going—probably to a job where they are replaceable and unappreciated or to a home with a partner that treats them like shit.

Dallas was in the thick of another writing deadline so there were notebooks and post-it notes scattered all around the living room while she typed away on her laptop. It was normal for us to sit in silence like this: Dallas, lost in her fictional words, and me, lost in my thoughts.