Tamsin was seven years older than me, and I often wondered if our difference in age attributed to our lack of closeness. But then I realized she was just a jerk.

But Adam didn’t huff. He never really said anything. And I could never figure out whether it was because he sensed I wouldn’t appreciate it or if he just didn’t care. I sincerely hoped it wasn’t the latter, though I’d never really asked him. I was much more abrasive and snarky in my head than I was in real life.

But it was his lack of domineering personality that made him the only person I could stomach being around for lengthy periods of time. I hated pushy people almost as much as I hated judgmental people. And Adam was neither. At least out loud.

What went on inside that head of his was anybody’s guess.

Adam and I weren’t the sort to share unnecessary confidences, but he had been there, in all of his strong, silent glory, through the rougher parts of my life.

So, like it or not, he had been handed the Corin best friend crown.

I had known Adam since we were kids. But we weren’t friends at first sight. Hell, I think we spent the first ten years of our acquaintance staunchly avoiding each other.

Though that wasn’t unusual for either of us.

Even before both of my parents had died when I was a teenager, I wasn’t exactly a people person. When everyone else learned to play beer pong, I made vases on my pottery wheel. I didn’t talk much.

Adam Johnson was someone who spoke even less.

He was the loner just shy of good looking with thick, dark hair and a wiry, lean frame. His lips were too thin and his nose too long. His ears stuck out through his curls, but his lashes were beautiful, making his eyes his best feature by far. He was a hodgepodge of attributes, some attractive, some not, that made him, at the very least, interesting to look at.

The day I had come back to school after my dad’s funeral, I lost it after first period. I had sat down on a stone bench in the school courtyard and sobbed until I thought I was going to be sick.

“Here.” Adam, whom I hadn’t noticed sitting in the corner, came over and offered me a stick of gum. I took it, holding it in my hand.

“You gonna look at it or chew it?” he had asked abruptly. Slowly I had unwrapped the gum and stuck it in my mouth, barely noticing the flavor. He sat with me until the bell rang. We didn’t talk about much that day. I think we mentioned the weather and a new sitcom on television, but that was it.

After that, I unconsciously sought him out during lunch. I went out of my way to find him while he smoked in the parking lot after school. He started offering me rides home and sometimes we’d hang out and watch television together.

But most important, Adam never looked at me like I was strange or different. Not even when I first told him I thought I had a rare form of bone cancer after complaining of aches in my legs for over three weeks. And when I told him I was pretty sure I had developed glaucoma, he had only shrugged and asked if I wanted to grab something to eat.

His lack of response was more reassuring than most people’s verbal concern.

“Oh yeah?” he asked, pushing his hair out of his eyes.

I rubbed at a sore spot in the middle of my chest. “I’ve been feeling dizzy and fatigued. And my left arm has been going numb. Dr. Harrison is running some tests.”

“Dr. Harrison?”

I shrugged. “Dr. Graham wasn’t very helpful,” I said flippantly, referring to the doctor I had been seeing semi-religiously for most of my life.

I had decided to find a new physician when, after complaining of chronic weakness in my left arm, he suggested that perhaps I should see a therapist instead of having more tests run.

I had been gutted. And more than a little angry. I could put up with a lot, but condescension was a major pet peeve. So I had given the good family doc the big heave-ho and quickly found another physician.

“So which group is it?” Adam dropped the empty cardboard box onto the floor and I picked it up immediately, grabbing a pair of scissors so I could slice the edges and fold it down into a compact square before putting it in the recycling bin.

“It’s the Mended Hearts support group over on Eleventh at the old Methodist church,” I told him.

“The Mended Hearts group?” Adam didn’t look up but I flushed slightly at the question. I hated this part.

The explanation.

I cleared my throat and grabbed the bag of pretzels I kept underneath the counter at all times. People had all types of vices. All manner of pretzels were mine. Salted pretzels, plain pretzels, sour cream and onion pretzels. I wasn’t picky. I loved them all equally. Adam knew they were hands-off. Limbs would be at risk should he try and take one.

I popped a few in my mouth, making sure to chew and swallow before answering. “It’s for heart patients. People who have survived heart attacks and defects. It’s actually a pretty big group,” I said quickly.

Adam looked at me with his deep, unreadable eyes. “Okay, I’ll close up.”

That was it. No more questions.

“Do you want to know what I’m being tested for?” I asked him, pushing the subject, when just minutes ago I wanted to drop it completely.

Adam shrugged. “I’m sure you’ll let me know all about it,” he remarked dryly and then walked into the storeroom, ending our conversation. I wasn’t overly bothered by his indifference. It had been one of the main ingredients to our quasi-healthy friendship. His lack of censure and overall disinterest in my frequent health complaints made us work.

I looked around my store and smiled at the few customers. I could hear Adam banging around in the storeroom. Krista, one of our part-time employees, was cleaning paint off the tables in the back.

This was my life. These were my only connections.

And that felt more than a little sad.

Not so deep down, I was a hopeless romantic. I wanted to find my soul mate. I wanted to have my happily ever after.

I wanted to be swept off my feet and loved forever.

Even if the thought of going on dates and engaging in meaningless chitchat to get to that point of true love made me want to break out into hives.

I was beginning to think I was destined to live and die alone. With only Mr. Bingley, my deceptively benign cat, by my side.

Oh god.

Beckett

“Let’s have a look at the incision,” Dr. Callahan said as she carefully peeled back the bandage attached to my chest with an excessive amount of tape. I tried not to wince as a clump of my chest hair was ripped out in the process.

I clenched my teeth as my doctor gently pressed the skin around the two-inch healing cut. It was still really sore, but it had only been a couple of weeks since having the cardioverter defibrillator implanted, so that wasn’t surprising.

The defibrillator, or ICD as the docs liked to say, was meant to monitor my heart, delivering an electric shock should it pick up on an abnormal rhythm. The purpose was to prevent another heart attack. Because, as Dr. Callahan gently informed me, the next one could be fatal given the heart damage I had sustained.

I had jokingly asked about getting a new heart, to which I was told, by a very serious Dr. Callahan, that it was an option of last resort. She made it clear that until my heart began to fail completely, it wasn’t something they would even consider.

“It looks like it’s healing nicely,” Dr. Callahan said with a smile, cutting a length of new gauze and taping it to my chest. When she was finished, she pulled out something that looked sort of like a paddle.

“I’ve been a good boy, I swear,” I joked lamely. Dr. Callahan, who was ridiculously hot for a doctor, didn’t respond to my less-than-appropriate attempt at humor.