I loved her. I wanted her. There was no one else. She felt right in ways no other woman ever had. Of course I was going to marry her, one day, when I was out of this shitbox, untied from this bed. After more dinners and late nights. After more boundary leaping and fighting. More touching, kissing, laughing.

Just not now.

Except that it had to be now. I felt myself failing. The dips into unconsciousness came with less warning. The effort to exist was such a task, I couldn’t imagine actually living. Was I scared? Fuck, yes I was terrified, and the only thing that kept it at bay was the thought that I could make her life better than it had been, that I could save her from her chronic penury, keep her from the manipulations of men like my father. If I could die knowing I’d saved her, maybe I would have served my purpose. It wasn’t like the money had anywhere useful to go, anyway.

Theresa sat in the chair Monica usually occupied, leaning forward, fingers knit together. I wanted to explain all of it to her, but I didn’t have the wherewithal to do it right, to explain my fear, my need to know Monica was all right, to keep a slice of control. I gave her the shortest version I had.

“I don’t blame her for saying no,” she said. “You need to get better first.”

“What if I don’t get better?”

“She’ll be a widow.”

At twenty-five. And when was her birthday? She’d told me she was a Cancer, but if she told me the exact date, I couldn’t call it up in my memory. I realized we’d never even celebrated a birthday together. Neither mine nor hers. I wanted to get her something extravagant six months early, to make up for the time we’d never have. And Christmas, of course.

“What’s today?” I asked Theresa.

“The twentieth.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“What do you want under the tree? Besides a ‘yes?’”

“I want her,” I whispered. “I asked for the wrong reasons. But I want her.”

She put her elbows on the bed and her hand on my shoulder. “Do it for the right reasons. Don’t do it because it’s convenient now. Don’t do it because you’re scared. Marry her because you love her, and your life wouldn’t add up without her. Can you do that? Can you promise me you’re not forcing it? It would break my heart to see you do this because you wanted to give yourself a reason to live.”

I rarely saw Theresa so impassioned. She was more like Jessica than any of my sisters in her refinement and grace. She seemed broken down that day, slightly shattered, holding herself together with chicken wire.

“What’s wrong, Tee?”

“I don’t think love should be taken for granted, and I don’t think you should keep on a path of least resistance.”

“This is hardly—“

“Can you say, honestly, that if you were healthy you’d marry her?”

“Yes. But we’d have a proper engagement.” I thought about all Jessica and I had together and I wanted to give it to Monica, but couldn’t. A party, a ring, a wedding. I wanted to see her smiling as she came down the aisle, toward me, that last time before we folded into each other’s lives forever.

Theresa pressed something into my palm. It was hard and scratchy and oddly shaped.

“Give it back when you can buy her her own.”

I lifted my hand, it was her engagement ring, a two carat sapphire cut that was totally Theresa, and utterly wrong for Monica.

“Daniel won’t be happy,” I said.

“He’ll tell himself he cares. But we cancel each other out. We add up to nothing. Trust me when I say, I’d rather break up for the right reasons than get married for the wrong ones.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I can’t explain why I feel okay about it, but I do.”

I held the ring in my fist as if I was afraid to lose it. “Thank you.”

“I’ll try and come back, but you might not see me for awhile.” She kissed my forehead and left, I fell asleep with the ring in my hand.

MONICA

Jonathan was out of his room. More tests, more prep. More shit piled on top of shit. A hundred thousand checklists to make sure he was worthy of whatever heart came in. Of course it came to me when my mother texted me the address to send the rent check. I quick internet search revealed J. Declan Drazen owned ODRSN Partners.

Anger and gratitude swirled together like a marble cake.

Dr. Thorensen was in his office looking at four computer screens.

“Monica. Come in.” He stood. “Close the door.”

“Thanks. I got your text, but I was driving.”

“Sit.”

He stood in front of a little counter with a sink and poured water into a pot, leaving his screens unattended.

“You’re playing City of Dis aren’t you? Where do you find the time?”

“This job doesn’t afford the time for a dazzling social life so, video games it is. And I have UNOS up on a screen right here.” As if responding to what must have been a baffled look, he continued. “The transplant list.”

“Ah. I heard someone came in...” I didn’t know if I should continue. This was surely privileged information, yet once I started talking I could hardly stop. “He’s brain dead is what I heard. I don’t mean to be creepy, but—”

“I think that’s going to be a no-go.”

“You telling me more or Jonathan getting the heart?”

“Yes.”

I looked into my lap. Margie’s text had given me enough hope to get in the door, and when it dropped out of me, there was nothing to replace it. We were back where we were this morning, only I was one day closer to the end.

“How are you holding up?” Brad asked.

I shrugged. “I guess I’m all right.”

“You’re never home.”

“Doctor, my presence at home is hardly under your purview.”

“I’m not asking as a doctor. I’m asking as your friend. How are you doing?”

“Fine. I feel like I’m waiting for him to either die or be saved, so the regular events of my life aren’t so interesting right now.”

He leaned back in his chair, eyes glowing in the screen’s light. “I’ve lived next door to you for a couple of years.”

“Three, I think.”

“I wish I’d gone to your door with something besides the leaves falling on the car, or the new fence. I should have known you better, sooner.”

His hands were folded over his tie, and his feet pushed his office chair back until the corners of his white lab coat dragged on the floor. Besides the hands, it was an exposed position, and even if he didn’t intend consciously to send the message he did, I understood the meaning in his heart.

“I’m too upset to give you a thoughtful response. I’m sorry.”

“I understand. If you want to go up, he should be back any minute, I think. Irene’s at the desk. Check with her if he’s ok to see. I’m watching this screen.”

I stood up and touched the doorknob. “I’d give him my own heart if I could.”

He sat up straight and put his hand on the mouse. “I hear that all the time.” He glanced up at me, his expression sucking the sarcasm out of the comment. He was just stating the fact. This was hard, and people loved one another.

MONICA

Police milled around the hallways, radios squawking, belts laden with black leather geometry, swaying hips from the weight of the instrumentation. I leaned on the nurse’s desk, peering to see Irene’s Russian newspaper.

“Hi,” I said. “What are all the cops about?”

“Security.” She waved her meaty hand and shook her head. “You feel safe? I feel safe. Like in middle of street.”

“I’m going in.” I stepped away.

“No, you don’t.” She picked up the phone and hit one of the buttons on the bottom of the keypad. “Wait.”

The person on the other side must have answered, because she muttered something in Russian, listened, then hung up. “Come with me.”

She shuffled from behind the desk, and went toward Jonathan’s room. I didn’t know why I needed her to guide me. My world revolved around that room, and going to and from it. The door was closed. She knocked. A deep, powerful voice that couldn’t have been Jonathan’s at that point, made some sort of affirmative noise. Irene opened the door.