Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance (8 page)

“I grew up in San Francisco, moved to LA for nursing school when I was eighteen and never looked back. Don
’
t know where Mom is, don
’
t know where Dad is, and don
’
t know where Nate is. Delaney is my best friend and she
’
s really my only family.”
 

“Jesus, babe. That
’
s rough.”
 

“It is what it is.” I shrug. “And now I
’
m here.”

“And now you
’
re here,” he agrees. Touches my chin with a thumb, kisses me softly, sweetly, quietly. “And now you have me. Always will.”
 

We kiss again, and that leads to more…a lot more.
 

Which leads to us getting married when we ship back to the States after doing a year together in Africa.
 

And that leads to six glorious years with Ollie. Six years of love, sex, and arguments. Six years of war zones, earthquakes, disease outbreaks, hurricanes, typhoons, and even a tsunami.
 

Six years.
 

And I
’
d never trade a single moment of any of those years, not for all the treasure in the world.

Just live for the spin and hope for the win

Mayo Clinic
 

Rochester, New York

I remember a light. A white light. Bullshit, I always thought. But it’s fucking real. There was a white goddamn light, and I went into it. I remember peace. I remember floating. I remember this…nothingness, a beautiful, all-encompassing, soothing nothingness.
 

That’s something I’ll never forget, that peace.
 

I didn’t die. I don’t know why, but I didn’t. Robby got me to the hospital in time, and they kept me alive. I don’t remember any of that, because I was kept alive via machines. I was in an induced coma, just waiting.
 

It was futile.

I’d never get a transplant.

They could keep me alive on the machines indefinitely, as long as that machine was plugged in. But without a transplant, I’d never leave the bed.
 

And fuck that.

I signed the DNR form a long time ago; if I die, let me die. Don’t put me on the heart-lung machines; don’t keep me alive and tethered to fucking pumps and shit. But Mom, I guess, circumvented my wishes, and had me kept alive.
 

“Alive”, though, is a relative term. My brain was on, but my heart was a useless lump in my chest. I was unconscious. If they switched off the machine, I’d die.

Which is what should have happened.

I should have died at the hospital in LA.

So why the
fuck
am I awake, in a hospital bed?
 

Because I am. It’s taking me some time to sort through things, to wake up, to take stock of reality.

And reality is, I’m alive. There’s a catheter—fuck those things, and the indignity of them. A bunch of wires trailing to monitors, keeping track of HR, BP, pulse-ox, all that. But no heart-lung machine. No pumps whirring and sucking and plunging. No mask over my face, no tubes down my throat. I mean, there’s a cannula in my nose, but that’s typical for post-op care.

It’s hard to move.
 

There’s a cockload of pain, not localized to anything in particular, just…everything hurts.

Wait.
 

Post-op care?
 

No.

Fucking no.

I can barely get my finger to slide across the bed and hit the call button.

In less than a minute a middle-aged woman with brunette hair done up in a tight bun bustles in; all nurse efficiency and sharp friendliness.
 

“Mr. Montgomery. Good to see you awake. How are you feeling?”

My voice, when I speak, is a rough, sandpapery rasp. “A…alive.”
 

“And isn’t it wonderful?”

“No.”

She looks up from checking my charts. “No? What do you mean, no? It’s a miracle you’re alive. That they found a heart to match you, and that your system has accepted the new organ…it’s a miracle. You are truly fortunate, Mr. Montgomery.”
 

“I signed a fucking DNR.”
 

“Your mother argued, successfully it would seem, that you signed the DNR under mental and emotional duress, and that you weren’t in a position to make such decisions for yourself.”

“It was
my
goddamn decision.”
 

“You’ll have to take that up with God, and your mother.”

“Fuck God, fuck my mother, and fuck you.”
 

“Well now, that’s not very nice. I’m just doing my job, Mr. Montgomery, and my job is to help you get well so you can get out of here. So you can get mad at me for situations I had nothing to do with, and we can be at odds, or you can realize that I’m just the nurse and that I’m here to help, and we can get along famously.”

“I don’t want to be here.”
 

“That much is obvious. So it’s in your best interest to cooperate with me. Then we can get you out of here and you can get on with your life.”
 

“I don’t have a life to get back to.”
 

“Then you get to start one.” She smiles at me, and the smile is warm, bright, and—like everything about this woman—sharp. “You have a new lease on life, Lachlan Montgomery. It’s a cliché phrase, but it’s grounded in a very real truth. You were supposed to die. You should have died. You
did
die. And now you’re alive. You have a strong, healthy new heart in your chest, and your whole life in front of you.”

I swallow hard. Nothing makes sense. My emotions are all haywire. Wild, manic, frenetic, a hurricane of so much bullshit I can’t grasp at any one thing. Everything hurts, but it’s not a physical pain. It’s emotional pain.
 

I’m alive. And I don’t know how to fathom that.
 

I duck my head, stare at the thin white blanket covering my lap, and blink back the bizarre tears that burn my eyes and blur my vision. The nurse bustles around me, checking charts and paperwork and monitor leads, not looking at me. Giving me privacy to deal with my embarrassing emotions. God, I’m fucking crying? What the fuck? I don’t cry. I never cry.

What the hell am I crying for? I’m alive. I should be glad.
 

I spent my whole life expecting to die. Waiting to die. Knowing I’d die.

And now I’m alive, and…

Now what?
 

*
 
*
 
*

Trinidad, California
 

Three and a half months later
 

I refused to see Mom through the entire post-op care process.
 

I refused to let her into my room. When she came in anyway, I refused to speak to her.

Immature? Yeah.

But I don’t know how to deal with any of this. I don’t know how to deal with the fact that she kept me alive when I specifically indicated the opposite.

I don’t know how to deal with being alive.
 

I don’t know how to fucking deal.

After the transplant, I remained in the hospital for two weeks and then spent the following three months in transitional care at the Mayo Clinic, enduring biopsies, lung function tests, EKGs, and echocardiograms. When it was all over, the team of doctors told me my body had successfully accepted the new heart. On hearing that news, I went back to Mom’s house in LA, packed my shit and headed north.

Dad kept a property in Humboldt County, way north. A tiny little house, comparatively speaking. Only three thousand square feet, worth maybe five mil, in a remote little town called Trinidad. Compared to the castle in Beverly Hills and the sprawling estate in Franklin, it’s nothing. But when Dad died, he left it to me. I think he knew I’d need this place someday. Maybe he meant for me to come up here to die.

It’s mine, but I haven’t been up here in years. I spent a week or so up here after I graduated high school, while I was waiting for the
Vagabond
to be finished, but I haven’t been back since. There’s a caretaker, of course, a local old guy with not much to do but swing by and check on things. His wife dusts from time to time and keeps the place clean and the cupboards stocked with non-perishable food. I called him after I left the Mayo Clinic, had him open it up, stock the fridge, shit like that.
 

God, it’s gorgeous up here. The house is on a bluff overlooking the ocean and there are views from every room. There’s a forest behind and the village of Trinidad spread out below. Eureka is even visible in the distance on a clear day. I park my brand-new truck in the driveway, step out and stand on the running board, stare at the house and look over at the rippling, winking blue ocean in the distance. I inhale the clean, clear air.
 

I say new truck, because I sold the
Vagabond
. I also sold the Pagani.

Jesus, I sold the Pagani. That car was Dad’s baby, and the
Vagabond
was mine. I packed all my shit—clothes, a couple cases of Lagavulin, a kayak, a stand-up paddleboard, and my climbing gear. That’s my life, and it all fits in the back of a tricked-out F-250 King Ranch.
 

I figured, I’m starting over. I’m moving up here to Humboldt County, for one thing, and Humboldt is rugged and wild, which means a Pagani Zonda isn’t exactly practical. I brought everything with me, because I don’t know what I’m doing, where I’m going, where I’ll end up. I’ll probably stay here in Trinidad for a while, but I don’t think I’ll be here forever.

Truth is, I don’t know what to do with myself.

I’ve lived my entire life certain I’d never make it past thirty-one. Well, here I am, thirty-one, and alive. With everything in front of me.

And I’m scared shitless.

Confused.

Paralyzed, really.

Gregor, the caretaker, is in the backyard, putting a coat of finish on the deck railing. He hears me come around the corner, turns, can of finish in one hand, brush in the other. Gray hair, blue eyes, and wrinkled, weathered skin. Friendly smile. “Mr. Montgomery. So glad to see you, sir.”
 

“Call me Lock. Things all set, Gregor?”

He nods, goes back to applying the finish. “Sure is. Just putting some of this on the deck, since the paint was peeling a little. The missus got everything cleaned for you, and we stocked up the fridge. Lots of fresh produce, steaks and fish, all of it local. You should be all set, but you got my number if you need anything.”
 

“Thanks, Gregor. I think I’ll be good.”
 

He swipes the paintbrush a few more times, then pauses, and glances at me. “Gotta say, Lock, it’s good to see you. Real good. I never thought—” he cuts off, unsure how to finish.

I take mercy on him. “I never did, either. That’s why I’m up here.”
 

He nods. “Your dad, he came up here, right near the end. I think he bought this place for…” a vague wave, “—to get ready. He knew it was coming and…he needed to—to get ready.”

“He gave it to me so I could do the same.”
 

Another nod. “Well, now…you’re here for the exact opposite reason. That’s…that’s a damn good thing.”

“You knew Dad?”
 

A shake of his head. “Not well. You get tourists and the occasional newcomer, folks up for summer vacation every year, things like that, and they keep to themselves, mostly. But your dad was…different. You all got money, and a lot of it, but he acted like a local. Friendly with everybody, generous, liked to drink at the local watering holes. Everybody liked him, round these parts.”
 

“He spend a lot of time up here?”
 

A nod. “Sure did. Toward the end, he was up here more than anywhere else. I think he wanted to…to pass on up here, but your mother talked him out of it. I think maybe—well, that’s conjecture, and it don’t do to speak on it. You’re here, and that’s all that matters. Does my old heart good, is all I’m saying.”
 

I unpack, put all my clothes on hangers and in the drawers, pile my gear in the garage. It’s weird, unpacking, being on solid ground and in one place after so long. The floor doesn’t roll. There’s nowhere to go. No Friends of the Day. No new adventure to go looking for.

Once I’m unpacked, I—

I have no idea what to do next. Mom said she would be coming up for the weekend. I did everything in my power to dissuade her, but she’s not a woman to take no for an answer. I sure don’t need or want a babysitter, but sometimes it’s just easier to give in to her.
 

Gregor has left, and the house is utterly silent. Onboard the
Vagabond
, there was always sound of some kind. The caw of gulls, the chuck of waves, the ever-present wind, the clink of metal on the mast, the snap of bellied sails. And, usually, music, women laughing, men tossing playful insults at each other. Now…there’s nothing. The doors and windows are all closed, there’s no music, no voices. Just…complete silence.

And I don’t know what to do.
 

I’m rarely alone.
 

Rarely enveloped in silence.
 

Rarely left to my own thoughts, left to let my emotions boil up and over.

And fuck, are there a lot of thoughts and emotions to deal with.

I slide open the windows, pull open the back door and move out onto the deck. And that’s not helping, because the ocean is there. The sea has always been my siren, calling me. And there she is, right there. Wide and blue, whispering to me.
Come
, she says.
Follow my currents. Ride my winds
.

I can’t, though. That was my old life. This is my new one. If I go out there, if I follow the sea, I’ll never come back. I’ll fall into my old patterns. And now, that just…it feels wasteful.
 

It feels like running away.
 

I put my hand over my chest, feel my heart beating. The thud under my ribcage is steady, strong, reassuring. No defect. No end in sight. I reached the deadline, and I’m past it. I’m alive.