Chapter 23
Harley
Show Genuine Gratitude
Harley answers the door to Kirsten, warmth flooding him as he’s reminded how happy and sexy she looked jiving with Clover. Thinking of how she took care of an obviously distressed Tori, despite being tipsy herself, so lovely and generous. He has no business dragging her down.
‘Got something belonging to me?’ She peers around him. ‘Albie passed on your message.’
‘Yeah, she was tired and hungry, and it was getting noisy. I felt like she needed a break.’ Ushering her in, he closes the door, aware he’s flustered, like a schoolboy on a first date. It’s ridiculous, but at the same time, exciting. Even though nothing can happen between them. Nothing.
‘Harley?’ Kirsten waves a hand in his face.
‘Sorry, what?’
‘I was asking what you gave her?’
‘Cheese omelette, fresh fruit for dessert and low-sugar squash, rather than the cola she was campaigning for.’
Her forehead furrows. ‘Huh. How’d you win that battle?’
She seems more sober than earlier. Also, has some of her anger about their curtailed kiss dissipated? He can only hope. ‘Distraction. Asked about her favourite Disney song.’
‘Hmmm. That wouldn’t work for me. You know, despite your initial reservations, you’re a natural with her. Younger siblings growing up?’
‘No. Only child.’
‘Godfather duties then?’
It touches a nerve, but he won’t hide who he used to be. Who he is? ‘Never been close enough to anyone to qualify. Was always too busy travelling or playing tournaments, and to be honest I led far too shallow an existence to ever think about other people’s kids.’
At his admission, she chews her bottom lip. He barely manages to stop himself from leaning down to soothe it with his tongue. Not being able to touch her is starting to feel like torture.
‘If you haven’t been around kids, how do you know how to look after them?’
‘Beats me,’ he fibs, because he has an inkling. Glancing into the lounge, he sees Rosie has curled into a ball on the sofa, fast asleep. Her cheek’s resting on her joined hands, and she looks angelic. ‘Damn, she’s adorable.’ He doesn’t mean to say it out loud.
‘I may be biased, but yep, she is,’ Kirsten agrees.
‘Although her cuteness multiplies in direct correlation to going more than half an hour without asking for something, or bouncing around all over the place.’ Judging by what hard work parenting seems to be, he doesn’t think she’s joking.
‘Let her nap. I need to sober up before her bath and bedtime.’ Walking into his galley kitchen, she flicks the kettle on. ‘Got any coffee?’
‘Hmmm?’ Harley leans against the kitchen wall, winded at how right it feels that she’s making herself at home. Like she belongs here. Like they both belong in his flat. Soothing a loneliness he hasn’t wanted to admit to.
No. He’s being… what was the word Albie used earlier? Fanciful.
No, you’re not, the young woman inside his head replies. You’re being honest. You want them both. To be part of a family. The one you finally deserve.
‘I don’t,’ he murmurs.
Kirsten looks outraged. ‘No coffee?’
Straightening, he nudges her aside. ‘I’ll find it, calm down. Black, two sugars, right? Take a seat. You must be exhausted from all the running around. Could probably use a spa weekend, or shoulder massage?’
‘You offering? If so, you’ll make someone a great house-husband one day.’ Smile dying at his grim expression, she sits at the compact kitchen table. ‘Erm, what shall we do about the developer’s plans?’
‘Not sure.’ He busies himself preparing their drinks, feeling bad for making her feel awkward. ‘I don’t think we should tie ourselves in knots until we know more. I’m sure the association will come up with a solution.’
‘Okay, I don’t think my brain can cope with more today anyway.’ She wraps her arms around her middle, looking troubled, and he wonders what transpired with Tori. ‘I’ve got a hangover starting,’ she admits. ‘Bedtime’s going to be fun. But thanks so much for looking after Rosie, I’m grateful.’
Instinctively, he wants to be a part of the bedtime routine, Kirsten sitting beside him with a goofy smile as he reads to Rosie. Jesus. What’s happening to him?
This place and these people have given you time to discover what’s important in life, she says boldly, away from the trappings of money, fame and ambition.
She’s probably right, but he’s not going to give her the satisfaction of agreeing.
As he brings their mugs over to the table, Kirsten prompts, ‘So, stop evading. You haven’t been around many kids, you’ve never been good with them, but since moving here you’ve developed a knack?’
He’s suddenly exhausted from trying to keep up the walls between them, and decides to let a chink of light through.
‘I’m not confident, and I second-guess myself with Rosie.
I can be completely rubbish, and worry about upsetting her.
Lately though, it’s easier. In my previous life, I basically repelled kids. Until…’
‘Until?’
‘Until I woke up after the piggyback heart surgery.’
Scooting forward, she wraps her palms around the coffee mug. ‘Oh? What happened?’
‘I was put on the geriatric surgical ward, rather than a private room. Something to do with staffing shortages. I had a reaction to the morphine as I came round from the anaesthetic, was rubbing my face with the sheet because it was so itchy, when I hallucinated my bed was covered with small children.’
She huffs a laugh. ‘And?’
‘I passed out, and when I came round, they were still there. Turns out the old man in the opposite cubicle had grandchildren who’d taken a liking to me.
Spent several hours asking me questions, insisting I draw things, and making me watch something awful on CBeebies.
I was in such a bad mood, especially as I felt groggy, but their little faces were so innocent I couldn’t bring myself to send them away.
I was on the ward for over a week, and without exception, if there was a child nearby, they found me. ’
‘Why do you think they were drawn to you?’
‘I had no clue at the time.’
‘And now?’
He pulls a face. ‘You’ll think I’m delusional.’
She scoffs. ‘What if I already do?’
‘Good point.’
‘Try me,’ she urges, taking a sip of black coffee and closing her eyes in bliss.
He sits back, studying her pink cheeks and the sprinkle of freckles across her nose.
From everything he’s seen, she’s open-minded, kind, and non-judgemental.
On top of which, more trustworthy than any woman he’s known.
Whether he likes it or not, they have a connection.
‘I think it’s something to do with my new heart. ’
‘Elaborate.’ Her forehead pleats as she opens her eyes.
‘In the days following surgery, I started hearing something.’ He stares into his Americano. ‘A little voice.’
‘Like your conscience?’ She places her hand on his arm. ‘Or how we speak inside our heads when we read? Harley, please look at me.’
He does, unable to stop himself. ‘That’s the odd part. When I read, it sounds like me. But the new voice doesn’t.’
Kirsten’s intrigued, shifting closer. ‘Who does it sound like?’
‘A young woman. Early twenties maybe. Sometimes she’s sad, or wistful. Mostly, she’s impatient or exasperated.’
‘Well, you are pretty annoying.’ She pauses.
‘Do you know anything about your donor?’ There’s an excited twinkle in her eye.
‘You think there’s a connected to your new heart.
Why shouldn’t it remember who it belonged to, and carry an echo of them?
Did you know when a woman’s pregnant, the baby’s DNA travels into her bloodstream via the placenta, and can stay in her system for decades after she gives birth? I mean, how mind-blowing.’
He stares at her, before standing up with a scrape of his chair.
Instead of running for the hills like he’s insane, she’s immediately on board with the theory he’s been brooding over.
Leaving the room, he doesn’t answer as she asks where he’s going.
Instead, he roots around his bedroom dresser, pulling a folded piece of paper out.
Returning to the kitchen, he gives it to Kirsten and moves his chair closer, so their knees are touching.
‘What’s this?’ Opening it, she traces a finger over the black slanted handwriting.
‘A letter to my donor’s family. I’m hoping the hospital will pass it on. I don’t know how it all works, to be honest. I started writing it after something Rosie said.’
‘Which was?’
‘She asked about my heart and an older girl, described her as looking like Snow White. It freaked me out, because I had a half-remembered dream about a young woman with black hair and pale skin.’
‘They do say kids are often sensitive to things adults aren’t.’
‘Yeah, I’ve heard that. Anyway, I’ve been thinking about my donor more often as I’ve become healthier. About the gift they gave me. I-I need to express my gratitude.’
‘Makes sense. You want me to read it?’
Saying yes will crack open a side of him he’s not ready to reveal, but as he gazes into her guileless eyes, he knows it’s why he fetched the letter. ‘It’s not finished yet. It’s only a draft.’
‘All right.’ Bending her head, she starts reading. After a moment, she reaches out to grasp his sweaty hand. As their fingers entwine, one of his hearts skips a beat, in the best possible way.
To Whom It May Concern,
I’m sorry to start this letter so formally, but I have no idea what to call you.
I don’t know anything about you, or about the relative you lost who so generously became an organ donor.
The person who has given me a second chance at life.
The more time that passes after surgery, the worse it feels not knowing anything about them.
So, I’m hoping you’ll write back if you can, and tell me about her, because for some reason I’m certain it’s a female relative.
I need to know who she was, how she lived, what her hopes and dreams were.
I also want to thank you and say how genuinely grateful I am for this gift. How much gratitude I have that – through your own grief and pain – you were able to respect her wishes and donate her organs to others. I feel certain I’m not the only person whose life she’s touched and changed.
I’ve never been an emotional man. No, that’s not true.
I had emotions before my illness, but they were selfish and self-centred.
I only cared about myself and what I wanted.
I hurt people in my relentless pursuit of glory and wealth, in striving to be the best at what I did.
I realise now, having lost it all, there are more important things in life.
Like friendship, community, kindness, having a purpose, and being at ease with myself.
Most of all, finding people whose happiness I care about as much as, or maybe more than, my own.
There was a time I was hurt, humiliated and bitter. I hid, guarding my privacy. To a degree, I still feel that way, but am learning not to take myself so seriously, and to deal with the consequences of my actions.
My new heart has changed me infinitely, and for the better. And I wanted to let you know in the hope it will bring you comfort. Thank you again, from the bottom of both my hearts; the one I was born with, and the one that will always belong to you, even though it beats within me.
If there’s anything I can ever do for you or a loved one, please let me know. My contact details are at the top of this letter.
Yours, forever grateful,
Harley Bellmont
Kirsten gulps, a lone tear trickling down her cheek. ‘Harley,’ she chokes, ‘it’s beautiful. And you’re putting a lot of trust in them, given your privacy issues, but this is the right thing to do.’
‘Thank you.’ He feels vulnerable, as if every artifice has been stripped away. Every layer of sarcasm, wit and deflection he uses to hide his true self from others, has vanished. However, the way she’s looking at him says the core of who he’s shown himself to be is good.
Maybe he is enough?
Re-folding the letter, she curls his fingers around the piece of paper. ‘But you’re also wrong.’
‘Wrong?’ He frowns, stomach pitching.
‘It’s not a draft. It’s finished. You need to send it.’
As their eyes meet and mutual respect flows between them, the mid-grey walls of the flat darken by a few more shades, the rooms growing cosier and drawing Harley and Kirsten closer together.