Chapter 12 #3
He stands, towering over me, his expression inscrutable. “I don’t think anyone tells your mom no. And we’ve already been over this. I messed up before, and I’m sorry. I’m trying to be a better neighbor now.” Hunter turns his back on me and strides back to the kitchen.
I wince. A better neighbor. Merely doing his cohabiting duties. He’s definitely not having delusional thoughts about my arm veins.
After a moment of silence, I hear water running. With a sigh, I lie back down and resume rubbing my temples with my fingertips, closing my eyes against the pain. But the soothing scent of the peppermint continues to work its magic, reducing the headache incrementally.
“This is clearly pretty serious.” Hunter’s voice makes me jump.
He moved so silently I didn’t even realize he’d come back.
My eyes fly open, and he’s crouching next to me again.
“And it’s honestly not hard for me to work from home.
I don’t have a ton to do yet.” Hunter places a damp washcloth that smells of peppermint over my forehead with a gentleness that makes a fragile longing unfurl within me.
“Here you go. Just the way your mom instructed.”
“Hunter?” I murmur.
“Yeah?” His voice is a little hoarse.
My eyes are shut again because the peppermint on the washcloth would make them sting. But I can sense him still beside me. “Thank you.”
There’s a long silence. Then, “No problem. Hope this helps you feel better.”
“Not only for helping me. For those, too.” I blindly point in the direction of the table. “I’m sorry for being so rude last night. Maybe later today, you can show me your ideas.”
Another pause before he clears his throat and says, “Don’t worry about it.” I’m not sure if he means my rudeness or looking at his ideas, but before I can ask, he continues. “If you’re okay for a little bit, I might go for a quick run.”
“Yes,” I reply immediately. “Go. I’ll try to get some more sleep.”
“Okay. I’ll only do a few miles so I can get right back.”
The concern in his voice sends a flutter through my -stomach—either he does care about me a teeny, tiny bit, or he’s really scared of my mom. “I’m okay right now. Go for your normal run.”
“What in the name of all that’s holy is going on down here?” Lou’s disgruntled, half-asleep grumble takes me off guard since I can’t see with the cold compress still on my forehead. “Can someone explain why you’re both up before six and having a full-on discussion in the living room?”
“Well, if you’d paid attention to what we were saying—or if you happened to take a look at the couch—you might have realized Olivia is sick.” I can only imagine the look Hunter must be giving his cousin.
“No,” Lou gasps. “How bad is it? Does she have a fever? How’s her heart rate?”
“She’s right here,” I say, “and she’s fine. Just a little sore throat.” I take off the washcloth so I can see. “It’s under control,” I add.
Lou is wearing shorts and a tank top, her teal-blue-tipped hair in a ponytail, and she’s staring at me with wide, frightened eyes. I don’t blame her for looking like she’s seen a ghost; she was the one who found me a year ago and had to call the ambulance.
“It’s not like last time. And if I get any worse, I’ll call the doctor.”
“I promised her mom I’d work from home to keep an eye on her today,” Hunter adds.
Lou’s eyes widen even further.
“Which is not necessary,” I grouse.
“Yes, it is,” Lou insists. “Someone needs to be here—just in case. If you don’t want Hunter, I can stay instead.”
“I made the promise, and I’m not breaking it.” Hunter’s voice brooks no arguments. I’m still baffled why he agreed to it in the first place—or why he’s adamant on keeping the promise.
“Fine,” Lou acquiesces. “But you better keep a close eye on her. I can’t go through that again, Livvy. I’ve never been that scared in my life.” I don’t know if she realizes she’s gripping the bottom edge of her tank top.
“What in the world happened last year?” Hunter glances between us, his brow furrowing.
“It wasn’t that big of a—”
“I came home to find Liv lying on the kitchen floor, barely conscious, her lips blue, struggling to breathe,” Lou cuts me off. “Her heart rate was over 150.”
Hunter’s alarmed gaze swings to me. “That’s your idea of ‘not that big of a deal’?”
I have to look away. “I hate that it happened,” I admit, quiet and defeated. “I hate that kind of fear. If I let myself go to worst-case scenario . . . I don’t know how to keep going. I have to tell myself it’s not a big deal—or how else would I even get out of bed?”
Lou’s expression softens—sympathy, maybe even grief. But Hunter’s color has drained, his skin grafts suddenly bone--white. He doesn’t say a word. Just stares, his expression carved from stone.
I lie back and put the washcloth over my forehead so I have an excuse to close my eyes.
“Liv,” Lou finally says, “that heart you got is a super heart. She’s going to keep beating for decades. Mark my words.”
I nod, squeezing my eyes tight against a sudden burning.
“What do you mean decades?” Hunter’s voice is low, meant for Lou alone—but I still catch the words.
I have to lock my jaw against a swell of despair when she answers just as quietly, “If she makes it twenty years posttransplant without needing another heart, she’ll have beat the odds.”
“Another heart?” he repeats, soft and stunned and sad. I can’t bear to hear it—not from him.
“I’m really tired. I need to rest,” I cut in, forcing my voice to be firm—in control.
“Of course.” Hunter’s response is so fast; the tone of his voice so different—and I hate it. I hate that now he’s worried, pitying. The same as so many others.
After Lou walks upstairs and Hunter heads into the kitchen, I roll onto my side toward the couch cushions and will myself to fall back asleep.
One coping mechanism I’ve gained from all the months on end in hospitals, being poked, prodded, and tested at all hours of the day and night, is the ability to fall asleep quickly, even when I’m upset.
Unfortunately, today it takes longer than usual; I’m still awake when Hunter comes back and sneaks over to check on me.
I keep my body loose, my breathing even, pretending to be lost to sleep, but my lungs constrict when he drapes a blanket over me.
His touch is halting but gentle as he tucks the blanket carefully around my shoulders.
Finally, he goes, quietly shutting the front door behind him, leaving me lying on the couch, cocooned in the blanket and the ghost of his touch. My heart doesn’t race from his thoughtfulness—it aches.
I know better than to allow anything more than cautious gratitude when it comes to Hunter. Neighborly kindness doesn’t really mean anything.
It doesn’t.
It can’t.
Because I can’t handle any more loss in my life, even if it’s merely the loss of hope I never should have let myself give in to in the first place.