Page 100 of Near Miss

My brain shuts up.

Maybe it’s because physiologically speaking, my brain relies on my heart for the blood it needs to live, and maybe my heart won that internal tug-of-war because it was holding all the power at the end of the day, and it didn’t want to be separated from Beckett for a moment longer.

I don’t say anything, I’m not entirely sure how. But I watch him a bit more closely all afternoon, and I must smile more because he catches me and asks me more than once what it’s about.

I find more reasons to touch him—a brush of my hand over his shoulder, one of the waves of his hair twirling between my fingers, my lips scoring across the stubble of his jawline.

I press my cheek to the planes of his back while he stands over the stove cooking me dinner.

He likes that, I think.

He picks me up and carries me upstairs to his bedroom after. It’s beautiful—more floor-to-ceiling windows with a perfect view of the slope of the hill, of stretching tree branches weighed down with leaves that still look brilliant, and of the moon reflecting off the lake.

Apparently, the dishes can wait because there’s a movie on the History Channel he’s dying to show me.

I’m not so sure about that when he drops me on the bed and insists I change, saying that historical documentaries are best consumed in bed, wearing nothing but your underwear.

He takes my sweater off, kissing every inch of skin he sees before he moves to my leggings.

I don’t kiss every inch of his skin when he takes his clothes off—mostly because I’m busy watching. Looking at him with eyes that know they’re looking at something they love. It’s quite the sight, really.

He sits down beside me, propping himself up against the headboard. But he pauses when he picks up the remote. “That night we ran into you and your sister on the rooftop, I overheard you talking about growing a liver from another liver. What does that mean?”

I roll my eyes. “It means nothing because I was on my fourth glass of wine.”

Beckett grins, dropping the remote, one hand coming behind his head where he rests it against the headboard. “Seriously.”

I sit up straighter, trying to contain my hands, but I start talking with them anyway. “There’ve been so many advances in regenerative medicine. Think about stem cell transplants.”

Beckett’s eyes track the sweeping movements I make, the corners crinkling, like he’s trying to fight a smile, but he nods. “They talked about Sarah having one.”

“Right, so, there have been so many advances for tissue transplantation, but it just hasn’t translated to organ donation.” I wave both of my hands around, like it’s not weird we’re sitting here in our underwear talking about the untapped power of regenerative medicine. “There are a lot of complicated, boring reasons for that. Believe it or not—there’s a shortage of organs. Live donation solves some of that, but this idea that regenerated organ cells could come from a patient’s own tissue, not only does that bypass the need for a living donor if a deceased one isn’t available—it eliminates the problem of rejection.”

He does smile this time. Softer than usual, no dimple, but understanding etched into all the sharp lines of his face. “And then no one would ever have to give a piece of themselves away.”

“Yes,” I whisper. “The possibilities are just so ... vast.”

“Vast,” he nods, repeating.

“Vast.” I smile.

Beckett raises a brow. “You look alive.”

I narrow my eyes. “Have I looked like a corpse the entire time you’ve known me?”

“No.” He shakes his head. “You’ve looked beautiful.”

My chin tips up. “What about when I had bile in my hair?”

“Even then.” He grins, offering me a shrug. “You just seem ... bright. Like the possibility excites you instead of shackling you. It doesn’t weigh you down like surgery does sometimes.”

“You sound like Rav.”

His grin turns wry. “Is he looking for an assistant? Come Sunday, I might be out of a job.”

“You won’t be.”

“I think”—Beckett scrubs his face, before looking at me, his smile resigned now—“that it would be okay if I was.”

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