Page 129 of When Hearts Remember

Ba-dum. Ba-dum. Ba-dum.

Her steady heart. She’s alive, but sheisn’talive.

It’s not fair.

A surge of anger rushes through me as I fist her blankets.

Helpless. I’m fucking helpless.

“I wish I could move on.” The corrosive poison pours out of me in a hushed whisper.I wish it didn’t hurt so much.

I bite my lip hard and taste metallic. A punishment for the lie.

Opening my eyes, my vision blurry, I press another kiss on her hand. A smidgen of blood stains her fair skin and I quickly wipe it away.

I can’t dirty my hummingbird.

“No. That’d be a lie, Nova.” I swallow. “I’d giveanythingto continue loving you.”

Sliding my hand into my pocket again, I pull out the one thing I bring with me every time I visit her.

Snapping open the box, I show her the sparkling engagement ring.

I take her hand in mine again and whisper, “You never gave me your answer, Lexy. I have the ring now. The only ring I’ll ever buy for the only woman I’ll ever love. Will you marry me?”

I hold my breath—the way I do every time I ask her when I visit—and wait for the impossible miracle. A twitch of her fingers. A spasm of her eyelids. A faint whisper from her lips.

But only the beeping of the machines echo in the room.

Blowing out a heavy breath, I open her beside drawer and tuck the gold coin away with the rest of the treasures I gathered for her.

Mementos from her bucket list. Symbols of hope, waiting for her when she wakes up.

If she wakes up.

Five items down, two more to go.

I told myself I have to let her go when the list runs out. My Nova would want me to because she’s selfless that way. It’d hurt her to see me in pain.

The Anderson men aren’t lucky in love.

The words Dad said a long time ago haunt me as I stand and tuck the blankets carefully around her.

The Anderson men aren’t lucky in love.

I’d take all the bad luck in the world if it meant she could wake up.

Even if she forgets me.

Chapter 41

Present: Nine Years After the Accident—Twenty-Nine Years Old

Releasing a happy sigh,I sit on a blanket under the barren, drooping branches of the weeping beech tree in the quiet courtyard of Ravenswood Library.

It’s the Saturday before Thanksgiving, and things are slowing down at work. Not wanting to be cooped up inside my apartment and needing to finish an assignment from my Creative Poetry class, I decided coming here would be perfect.

Ever since I discovered this beautiful place, I’ve been drawn to it—whether it be wandering the quiet floor of The Wing of Eternal Dreams or hanging out in this private courtyard I came across recently.

---