Chapter 31
The diazepam does its job. I doze for about an hour while I’m transferred and settled into my room, and then after another dose, I am able to eat half of my dinner before drifting off again. I haven’t slept much since the disastrous party, so the naps are tiny miracles to me.
Plus, it saves me from having to make conversation with anyone. Which makes me sound awful, but I’m exhausted in every way possible, including mentally. There is nothing more to say. I don’t have the energy or capacity to keep rehashing the same information.
I have my boyfriend’s dead sister’s heart.
There’s nothing anyone can say or do that will make that sentence—or the reality it signifies—any better.
By nine, everyone except my mom has left. I want to tell her she should go home, but she’s dozed off in the recliner in the corner of my room, and I hate to wake her.
My recent labs have shown an improvement, my telemetry reports are getting better every hour, and I’m not having as much chest pain anymore, which could be from those improvements or the diazepam. Either way, things are going the right direction. Thankfully.
The hospital outside my room is bright and always in motion. I can see the strip of light beneath my door and hear the voices passing by as nurses and doctors rush from patient to patient.
But in here, the lights are off, and the rain still falls, dripping down the darkened square of my window. I lie in my bed and desperately try not to think, to focus on the rivulets of water and keep my mind blank.
There’s a soft knock at the door, and I blink in the sudden burst of fluorescent light when it opens. It takes two beats of my beleaguered heart for my brain to catch up to my eyes.
Hunter stands in the doorway.
My mom rouses at the interruption, peeling her eyes open groggily.
When she sees him standing there, framed by the hallway lights, his powerful shoulders hunched forward, his hands shoved into his jean pockets, she jumps to her feet.
“I—I, uh, need to go call the other hospital. I forgot to earlier, and I need an update on Farmor, and I never . . .” She trails off and rushes out of the room, slipping past Hunter.
I can’t tear my eyes away, drinking in the sight of him in my hospital room. But I don’t dare speak. He stares at the monitors behind me, not meeting my gaze. The silence builds, stretching out.
Then, finally, he says, “I don’t know what to do.” His eyes meet mine, luminous, even in the darkness. “I don’t know how to handle feeling so guilty that she died because of me . . . and so grateful that you’re alive because of her death.”
My beleaguered heart lurches. “I’m sorry, Hunter. I’m so, so sorry I’m here because your sister died.” My voice quavers.
Suddenly, he strides across the room, sits on the side of my bed, and scoops me forward, his arms coming around me. “Don’t ever apologize for being alive,” he whispers, the words choked.
I sink into his body, hardly able to believe he’s here—that he’s holding me—that I’m not having a diazepam--induced hallucination.
But then he breaks down into sobs, and I know this is real. He’s here. He’s holding me.
And he’s wrecked.
There’s nothing that can be said that will ever fix it. There’s no way for us to move forward without compounding heartbreak with more heartbreak. I know what I have to do, but I can’t bring myself to do it—yet. I want this—the comfort of his touch—for one last night.
Finally, the tears slow and eventually stop. But still, we cling to each other. My head rests on his shoulder, his arms wrap around me, and I’m halfway pulled into his lap. I feel wrung out. Everything is raw and painful.
“I’m sorry about the last few days.” His words are low in my ear.
“This has all been . . . overwhelming. But when I saw you on that gurney . . . your lips so blue and your face so pale. It made me realize . . . I will never be able to let go of the guilt and pain of Lyla’s death, but if losing her meant saving your life—” Hunter’s voice is hoarse.
There’s a weighted pause where I both fear and hope what he’ll say next.
The last thing I expect is: “I’m moving out. ”
A rush of anxiety rises from my stomach to my throat. I guess there’s no waiting for tomorrow; it’s happening now. He’s here to tell me goodbye. Even though I know I need to end things for good anyway, the reality of losing him forever is a knife to the lungs; it’s suddenly hard to draw air.
“I understand.” I make my voice stay steady, refusing to start crying again.
“I got a place with another guy at work,” he continues. “You can move home.”
I tense in his arms, then push back so I can look into his face. “You’re . . . you’re not leaving Arizona?”
Hunter’s brows furrow. “Why would I leave Arizona?”
“To . . . to get away . . . from me and . . .”
Hunter takes my face in his hands, his fingers gentle on my jaw. “Liv,” he says, his mouth curving into a very small but very real smile, “I’m not leaving Arizona.”
I should be relieved . . . but instead, his words fill me with dread. Ending things with him would be so simple if he were gone. But to know he’s a few hundred feet away at the loan office every day? It will be agony. “Oh.”
He searches my face, and when his eyes drop to my lips, I think, for the briefest of seconds, that he might even kiss me.
It’s even more painful than the PVCs I had earlier today when I turn my head, taking away his choice.
Hunter stiffens. After a moment, he releases me and stands up. The silence presses in from all sides. “I guess I should go.”
My eyes burn, but I clench my jaw to keep the tears at bay. I can’t respond and risk losing control.
“I wanted you to know you can move back when you get out of here.” He’s hesitant now, and it breaks something in me. But I can’t let myself give in—no matter how badly I want him to sit back down and take me back in his arms. “Lou misses you. She needs you.”
I stay silent, my mind and heart at war.
“Liv . . . don’t ever apologize for being alive again,” Hunter repeats, soft and defeated.
I can’t bear it. “Did you ever read my letter?” I blurt out, and he freezes in the doorway. “I sent a letter after . . . I sent a letter. They wouldn’t let me put my name on it, but it’s from me. Did you ever read it?”
Hunter doesn’t turn around. “I saw it on the counter when I got out of the hospital—with the angel wings at the top. But I didn’t remember until I realized what your party was for and .
. .” He breaks off, his voice like gravel scraping out of his throat.
“I started to read it, but my mom grabbed it out of my hands before I could finish.”
I squeeze my eyes shut. If he wouldn’t have noticed the same paper on my desk that morning, would he have put it together?
“Please read it. I wrote it for you. I want you to understand what this heart—what your sister—means to me. I didn’t know I was writing it for you when I wrote it . . . but I did.”
He stands there, his back to me for several long seconds. Finally, he says, “Okay.”
And then he’s gone.