April 25, 2013
Lazy fingers drift up and down my back and I crack a small smile in my sleepy state. “Jake,” I whisper in a hoarse morning voice. The soft touch stops and I feel the bed dip then lift again. I moan petulantly, wanting him to come back and continue touching me. It feels good. So good. “Come back,” I whine, cracking my eyes open for the first time this morning. A pristine white tray ceiling surrounded by gray walls comes into view and it takes me a moment to remember where I am and to realize that I wasn’t dreaming about Jake—I’m with Zander. I groan as I roll over and bury my face in the pillow beside me. It smells just like Zander and guilt consumes me. But it’s a different kind of guilt. I don’t feel guilty for being here with Zander. I feel guilty for mumbling Jake’s name only a moment ago. “Idiot,” I mock myself quietly. I rub my eyes, sitting up in Zander’s bed wearing a white t-shirt that he begrudgingly let me borrow last night. Thoughts of him rolling out his full bottom lip, pouting that I wanted something to sleep in versus sleeping naked, brings a little smile to my lips and makes the blunt knife of guilt stab a little deeper.
I slide from the bed and gravity reminds me that I have a full bladder and a bathroom needs to be my first stop before finding Zander. I shuffle across his bedroom and into the master bathroom. Granite countertops. More gray walls trimmed in white. A mammoth bathtub. Grecian shower. Tiled floors. Shiny faucets. Plush white towels stacked neatly on an open shelf. I close the door behind me and quickly take care of business, washing my hands before I leave the bathroom.
Zander is sitting on the edge of his bed with his back to me. His hands rake through his hair and he looks lost in thought. I don’t even have to see his face. His body language says it all. The lean planes of his bare back are enough to make me wish I could gather the nerve to see the scar that I know is there. His body is impressive. He has a shirt in his hands and he tugs it over his head and down his torso.
“Hey,” I whisper.
“Hey,” he says halfheartedly and I know it’s because I called him Jake.
I feel terrible. I pad across the wood floor and climb back into his bed. “Zander, I—I’m sorry. I thought I was dreaming. I didn’t—”
“It’s okay. I understand.”
I scoot up behind him on the bed and wrap my arms and legs around him from behind, resting my chin in the middle of his back. I feel him take a deep breath. He hangs his head and I know that it still bothers him. I don’t know how Zander ended up needing a transplant. I don’t know all the details about his recovery. I don’t know how long he waited on the list before he got Jake’s heart. I don’t know how or why he made the decision to meet me. I don’t know how he feels about whatever we are. I wonder if he’s as torn up over it as I am. There are so many things that I want to know, but the fragile dynamic between us, two wounded people, doesn’t seem to allow for pushy questions. I understand that better than anyone. I’ll have to take it slow when asking him questions.
“We have to be in Atlanta early tomorrow to get some stuff done before the gala,” he says, interrupting my train of thought. “But we have the rest of today. What do you want to do?”
“Why did you need the transplant?” I blurt somewhat incoherently, since my chin is resting against his back.
Zander turns his head to the side in an effort to see me. “It’s called Hypertrophic Cardiomyopathy. A fancy as string of syllables that just means my heart hardened to the point that it couldn’t beat or move blood right. That’s all.”
“Hmm,” I say, considering his answer. “How’d you get it?”
“Just developed. Happens that way for a lot of people. Blindsides you. I was partying too much. Drinking too much. Eating enough junk food to make a frat guy cringe. I got tired a lot. Then I started passing out. I woke up in the hospital one time after I’d passed out on the golf course. Shit got crazy after that.”
“Oh.”
“Enough about that, huh?” He pats my thigh. “What do you want to do today, Slim?”
I would never admit it to him, but I kind of like it when he calls me Slim. I smile against his back, dropping a gentle kiss on top of the fabric of his shirt.
I think for a moment, trying to remember some of the little stupid things that are on my list of things to do before I die. It’s a dumb list that I’ve been adding to and checking things off of since I was a little girl.
“I want to try making chocolate covered strawberries. Like those fancy ones you can order on the internet,” I answer, feeling a little embarrassed.
“You’re serious?” Zander asks, getting to his feet and turning to me with a dubious look on his face.
“Of course. It’s on my bucket list.” I shrug.