He turns to me, slow, his dark brows angled. “Can you ever be ready for something like that?”
I shrug. “This miniature human is going to change every last aspect of your entire world. Make you feel things you never knew you could feel. I hope you’re at least somewhat ready …”
“I’ve got help. It can’t be that hard.”
“Your family’s stepping in?”
“Of course not.” He frowns. “They’re not exactly on board with any of this—not that it matters. But I’ve hired one of the best nannies in the city, and I’ve heard she attends one of the best public schools in Worthington Heights. Starwood Academy. Perhaps you’ve heard of it?”
A strange knot twists in my middle.
“Honor,” I choke out her name. “Honor is your niece.”
He nods. “I’m told her teacher is Ms. Carraro …”
“You’re letting her stay?” There are at least three other elementary schools between Starwood and Bennett’s neighborhood, not to mention a myriad of top-rated private schools peppering the county.
“Of course. She’s adjusted and doing well. No sense in changing that.” He pushes his cart toward the elevator.
“When were you going to tell me?” I push mine next to him, the world around me blurred.
“I found out yesterday. In fact, I hadn’t met her until yesterday.” We step onto the elevator and he presses the button for the main level. “I had no idea she existed until the week Larissa died. None of us knew. Except my mother. But that’s a story for another day.”
In all of my idealistic fantasies and well-wishes, I always imagined Honor going to someone like Linda. Someone with warmth and a contagious laugh and a zest for life.
I study Bennett from the corner of my eye as we ride down.
The man’s the antithesis of warmth.
“Honor means the world to me,” I tell him when we step onto the main floor and head to the registers. “There isn’t anything I wouldn’t do for her. I want to be there for her. I want to help you. If there’s anything you need—”
“—Astaire. I know. Why do you think I called you today?”
We find a lane with two customers ahead of us and get in line, an overflowing cart separating us and pausing our conversation.
Ten minutes later, we’re leaving the store, toys in hand, and making our way to his idling SUV where George waits. It takes a bit of maneuvering, but we manage to get everything in the trunk and third row, with a handful of bags sitting pretty in the front passenger seat.
On the way home, we stop for coffee. Bennett gives our orders to George, who runs into the busy café, giving us a few moments alone.
“Why do you keep looking at me like that?” he asks.
“Like what?” I hadn’t realized I’d been staring until now.
“I don’t know—that’s why I’m asking.”
I lift a single shoulder as a smile paints my mouth. “I guess … I guess I’m just happy for you. And I’m happy you’re letting me be a part of this.”
He rolls his eyes, feigning annoyance. “Of course you just have to go sprinkling your sunshine sprinkles all over this.”
“You know, I was wrong about you.”
“How so? Exactly?”
There’s beauty beneath his cruel façade. I see it. I feel it. Even if he refuses to believe me. It’s chained beneath an impenetrable, ice-cold ego.
“Turns out you have a heart after all.”
Twenty-Four
Bennett
* * *
“And how long has this lightheadedness been going on?” Dr. Rathburn glides an icy stethoscope along the front of my chest Wednesday afternoon, avoiding the raised scar down the center.
“A day, maybe two. Three at most.”
“And the fever? When did you notice it?”
“Yesterday.”
She exhales through pursed lips and returns the stethoscope to her neck. “Next time this happens, you need to come in immediately.”
I tug my shirt back into place.
“You’re taking your antirejection meds?” The doctor peers over wiry glasses.
“Like clockwork.”
“Getting rest?”
“Eight hours a night.” With a handful of exceptions.
“Eating well? Lots of plants, monounsaturated fats, and lean proteins?”
I nod. Sweets have never been my weakness.
“Any new stressors in your life recently?” she asks.
I shake my head. I don’t tell her about Honor because I know what she’ll say, and it won’t be anything I haven’t already considered.
“Cutting back on your work hours?” She studies my face like she’s ready to call me out. “Last time you were here, you said you were putting in seventy, sometimes eighty hours a week.”
“Certain things are beyond my control.”
“Ever heard of delegating?” She washes her hands.
“Clearly you haven’t met the staff I inherited from my father.”
Returning to my side, she adjusts her glasses. “Look, Bennett. Either you can do things my way, add some quality years to your life and keep that borrowed heart of yours ticking … or you can continue making excuses and wind up right back where you started, waiting for someone else to die so you can continue living this life which you so clearly take for granted.”
My post-transplant months flash through my head like a bad highlight reel. A laundry list of nurses and caregivers doting on me around the clock for months, cardiac rehab, biopsies, and never-ending appointments.
I’d never felt so weak, so helpless.
And I vowed to never feel that way again.
Dr. Kay Rathburn is one of the best cardiovascular surgeons in the nation.
She’s also a straight shooter.
“I know you don’t want to hear this,” she says, “but I think we need to admit you. Do a biopsy of your heart tissue, make sure there’s no infection or inflammation.”
I check my watch. I’m supposed to meet Astaire for dinner in an hour.
“Don’t worry about whatever it is you’re worrying about right now. It can’t wait. It’s imperative that we …” The room begins to darken and Dr. Rathburn’s voice fades into nothing.
And the world around me goes black.
Twenty-Five
Astaire
* * *
I knock on his door at a quarter past five Wednesday night, juggling an overflowing brown paper grocery bag in one arm as my bag dangles off my opposite shoulder. The whole thing was his idea—cooking dinner together at his place.
He mentioned he wasn’t in the mood to go out, that he wanted a quiet night in.
It’s silent on the other side.
No music. No footsteps.
I knock again. Wait.
“Bennett?” I push my voice through the door and knock a third time before placing my things on the floor and calling him. Five rings later, I get his voicemail. “Hey, it’s me. I’m at your place … maybe you got stuck in traffic? Anyway, just wanted you to know I’m here.”