Chapter 19
You like him!” Talia crows the next morning at the gym.
I apparently made the mistake of talking about Hunter a little bit too much last night .
. . and this morning. Instead of telling her what I discovered about Farmor at dinner, I told Talia about our game of confessions of a mess.
And this morning, I might have also told her about his stack of pie graphs and charts to help the bakery.
And his admission that he wants to ask me out. And—
“You like him, and you have no idea how to deal with it! You’ve refused to let yourself get this involved with anyone in years,” she continues, “and he snuck in under your radar.”
Talia pushes the bar up for her last set of shoulder presses and then bends over to drop it to the ground.
I scoff at her. “What are you talking about? I’ve dated guys. I’ve had relationships.”
Talia hands me a bar, one that’s lighter than hers. “Ten presses. Ready. Go.”
I scowl but do as she commands. Once I start, she puts her hands on her hips and says, “I’m going to give you some tough love right now—and it’s only because I really do love you. Okay?”
I pause in my reps. “No, not okay. I can’t take tough love right now.”
“Keep going. Who said you could stop?”
I immediately push the bar over my head again.
“And yes, you can handle it. I should have said something long before now. I didn’t want to upset you—but this has gone on long enough.
” Talia blows a stray hair off her forehead and sets her feet as if she’s preparing to PR her dead lift.
Talia’s words remind me too much of my last conversation with Farmor—and her nudges.
My arms begin to tremble. “Liv, I know you’re scared about the future .
. . but you have to stop using the uncertainty of your prognosis as a weapon to not let anyone get too close to you. ”
I nearly drop the bar on my head. Talia jumps forward and grabs it, steadying it and helping me set it down.
“Excuse me?” I say.
Talia straightens and looks at me, really looks at me, her familiar dark-brown eyes soft. I can feel the surge of acid releasing from the sudden churning in my stomach.
“Livvy, I love you. You’re basically the sister I never had.
You know that. We were best friends long before all this started and all the years since.
It’s a total miracle that you got a new heart and a new lease on life—but you’ve never let yourself fully embrace it.
You hold on to the chance you might still die like it’s a certainty.
And you’ve used that to purposely scare off every guy who has ever tried to get close to you. ”
I gape at her. The loud thunk of someone dropping a weight nearby makes me flinch.
“That . . . is not true. They have all gotten scared—they get weird—because that ‘uncertainty,’ as you put it, is my reality. Yeah, I’ve purposely tried to scare off a couple of losers.
But with all the other guys, I was only telling them the truth about my future, and no one has been able to handle it.
I didn’t want to scare them off! I wanted them to say they love me anyway, but no one has! ”
Talia’s mouth twists; I think she might be trying to hold back tears. “Livvy . . . I know that’s what you tell yourself. And yes,” she rushes to add when I try to continue to argue, “there have been some cases where you’re right—the guys have gotten weird or been scared or whatever.”
“One dude wanted to know what the chances were that I would have a heart attack the night we got married—and he sounded excited about it!”
“Yeah, and that guy was a sketchy insurance salesman.” Talia puts her hands on my shoulders.
“But there have been others, Livvy. Good men who liked you, who didn’t care that you have a big scar and an uncertain future.
If you let yourself really think about it, you’ll realize it’s true.
And you ran them off. You brought up your transplant and the fact that you might reject your heart or have a heart attack at any minute or that you didn’t know if you could have babies over and over and over until they finally did what you wanted and broke up with you. ” Her eyes glisten.
“I can’t believe this.” I’m shaking. “I can’t believe you think that I wanted them to break my heart!
Because that’s what they did—every time every single one of them walked away.
” She might be on the verge of tears, but I’m mad.
I’m furious. And to do this now—in the middle of the freaking gym?
“I’m done for today.” I yank free of her grip, whirling to storm away to the locker room, not glancing back to see if she follows or not.
I grab my gym bag out of my locker and snatch my keys from the pocket where I stowed them. I yank the strap of my bag over my shoulder and turn to go when I spot Talia hesitantly coming through the door.
“Liv, I’m not trying to make you mad. I’m trying to help. I think you really care about Hunter, and I don’t want to see you push him away too.”
My heart thuds an angry staccato in my chest. I need to calm down, but I can’t stop her words from replaying. “My best friend accuses me of using my heart transplant to force guys to break up with me—and has apparently felt that way for years—and I’m not supposed to be mad?”
“Okay, you have every right to be upset. But please, listen to me. I know your future is uncertain, and that’s scary.
But you’ve made it seven years with only one real scare that ended up being fine.
What if you decided to live like you were guaranteed the best-case scenario instead of fearing the worst?
Please think about it. Think about what I’m saying.
Think about what happened with Jordan. And Preston. And—”
I push past her and walk away. This time, she doesn’t follow me.
The steady beeping of the machines is at once as familiar as the beat of my heart and as foreign as Farmor’s unmoving form on the bed. I stand at the foot of the bed, still in my gym clothes, my jaw clenched.
“Why did you lie to me?” I ask her, even though I know she can’t respond.
Even though she may never respond or look at me or hug me and laugh with me ever again.
Tears fill my eyes—hot, fat tears that sting and blur my vision and streak my cheeks with their wet trails.
“Why did you make me promise to give myself a chance for happiness . . . when you weren’t even happy? ”
There’s no answer, except for the beeping of her monitors.
“If you were actually miserable, why did you stay with him? Why did you lie to me about everything?” I wrap my arms around myself, trying to hold all the pain and anger inside. “I believed you. I wanted what you had. But now it doesn’t matter because it wasn’t even real.”
Farmor lies there, and I collapse into the nearby chair, my body shaking, my head hurting, and my heart cracking apart.
When I park in front of the bakery, I have to take a minute to compose myself.
I’ve showered, even applied makeup, but Talia’s words—her accusations—coupled with Farmor’s journal and my conflicting feelings for Hunter swirl like a tornado, ripping me apart inside.
I take several deep, slow breaths. Then I step out into the heat and walk into the -bakery.
When she sees me come through the door, Mom’s eyebrows lift. “Livvy, what are you doing here? I thought you wanted a turn with Farmor.”
I shrug, hoping it’s been long enough that she won’t be able to tell how hard I was crying earlier this morning.
“I was there for a while, but there’s no change, and I .
. . I couldn’t sit there any longer.” It is the truth—just not the entire truth.
“I know how tired you are, so I came to help so you can go take a nap.”
My mom’s shoulders sag at my words, but she tries to put up a fight. “I’m fine, really. If either of us goes to rest, it should be you.”
“I’ve had lots of rest—thanks to you staying at the hospital so much. Go home, take a shower and a nap, or eat a whole tub of ice cream. Whichever sounds better to you.”
Mom smiles wearily and pulls me into a hug. “You are the most wonderful daughter I could have ever asked for.”
I hold on to her, squeezing tightly. When we pull away, I blurt out, “Were you and Dad really as happy as you seemed?”
Mom’s smile falters. “Liv, what kind of a question is that?”
My stomach sinks. “I’ve always believed you guys were so in love—like a fairy tale. And that’s why it was so awful after he died. But . . . were you really? Or was it a show for us kids?”
My mom reaches out to cup my face with her cool, soft hands. “Sweetheart, of course it was real. I loved your dad with my whole heart. When he died, I lost a piece of myself, and I’m so sorry for what my grief put you through. I wasn’t a very good mom.”
Those first few weeks and months after his death threaten to rise in my mind—those never-ending days and nights when my mom was a hollowed-out husk, carved empty by grief, unable to leave her bed—but I force them back down.
“Don’t say that. You’ve always been an amazing mom.
” She’s apologized to me so many times before, but this time, her words make my throat thick with emotion.
“That’s not why I asked. It’s just . . .
I’m glad it was real. I’m glad I’m not remembering it wrong. ”
But a terrible, dark corner of my mind whispers, She could be lying too.
“I’m not sure where your question is coming from, but it was real.
Was it always perfect? Of course not. We were both human and got upset with each other.
We had rocky times like all couples do. But I really did love him that much.
I always will. And I’d like to think that he still loves me that much too. ”
I force myself to smile. “I know he does,” I say, even though newfound doubt beats alongside all my memories, calling everything into question.
“Sorry, that was so random. I guess I’ve been thinking about all sorts of things.
” I manage a small laugh. “Okay, go home; get some rest. I’ve got things covered here. ”
Mom gives me one more searching look but does as I ask, gathering her things. Before she goes, she pauses at the door. “Have you looked at the ideas Hunter came up with yet? He mentioned having some stuff to show us but said there hasn’t been a chance yet.”
The added stress of knowing the bakery desperately needs a boost in business settles heavily on my shoulders. “No, not yet. We should do that . . . soon.”
“Let me know if you set up a time so I can come. If you want me there,” she adds with a knowing look.
I don’t know what I want or what to do about anything at the moment, so all I say is, “I’ll let you know,” with what I hope is a reassuring smile.
After she leaves, I’m alone in the bakery; Rebecca couldn’t come in today.
I don’t see any cars pulling in, so I retreat to the kitchen and then continue on, into Farmor’s office.
I should go over the numbers again, maybe even text Hunter to set up a time to brainstorm anything we can do to increase sales—that we can actually afford. Read: free.
But when I sit in Farmor’s chair, I can’t tear my eyes away from the drawer that holds her journal. It calls to me like a beacon.
I pull out the blue, leather-bound book and set it on the desk, staring at it.
My heart thuds against my rib cage. If I do this—if I read more of her journal—there’s no going back. Whatever I find in there will be a part of my story forever.
And honestly, I don’t know how many more blows I can take today after the awful things Talia said to me at the gym.
The bell over the front door rings faintly, and I suck in a breath, shove the chair back, and hurry out to help the customer.
After I finish ringing the woman up and she walks out, I stand in the middle of the bakery, full of indecision. The assault in my head resumes, a swirling maelstrom of confusion, anger, and sorrow.
Finally, my chest caves inward, and I exhale all the uncertainty out. I can’t do it, not today. Whatever is in that journal can wait until tomorrow—when it’s not within hours of my best friend telling me I’ve used my transplant as an excuse to not live life fully.
I slowly walk back to the office, pick up the journal, which feels as dangerous as a grenade waiting for the pin to be removed, and carefully set it back in the drawer.