Page 102 of When Hearts Remember

“D-Do you blame me, Nova?” A choked gasp. “If I taught you how to swim…maybe you could’ve escaped. I keep replaying that day in my mind.” My tears seep into the fabric of her hospital gown. “Every moment, every choice. If I’d doneonething differently, maybe you’d be awake now. Maybe I could’ve saved you.”

That’s the thing with grief. Oftentimes it’s laced with regret. Because we never know when the clock runs out—when that brief kiss, that argument, that phone call, might become your last.

And once you realize…it’s too late, and those painful, corrosive thoughts eat you alive.

I swipe away the wetness on my cheeks. “Please don’t make me do life without you.”

My chest is hollow.

I can’t imagine a life without her.

Idon’twant to imagine a life without her.

A ragged exhale escapes me, and I close my eyes and breathe in her scent.

My muscles seize. It’s all wrong.

Where’s the lavender? Her lavender?

All I can smell are soap and cleaning agents. Hospital smells.

Panic rears its ugly head. My pulse quakes in my ears and my lungs constrict. It’s like someone is stabbing me with knives—over and over again.

I can’t do this. I can’t be here.

I can’t see her lying there, hooked up to machines.

Clinging to life by the thinnest thread.

My panting breaths quicken and soon the room spins.I can’t breathe. Why I can’t I breathe?

Mind swirling, I stagger off the bed. I tuck the blankets around her shoulders and kiss her forehead.

Then I flee.

Some time later, I find myself inside Bhut Kitchen, where we were supposed to meet that night for our first bucket list item.

“Namaste.How many people are in your party?”

I blink at the blurry shape in front of me—waitress, waiter, whoever. It doesn’t matter.

“One.”

She frowns as she grabs a menu and motions me to follow her.

A pressure cinches my neck—the beginnings of a migraine. I barely notice the lush decorations—bright, jeweled tones and fabrics I’m sure are beautiful if I care to pay attention.

A fork clatters as I brush past a table. An older couple gapes at me. I swipe my face, my week-old beard prickling my hand. I haven’t shaved since the hospital visit and other than a quick shower this morning to make sure I don’t reek; I know I look like a mess.

The headache intensifies, and I wince.

Any normal person would go home and hide from the world, not trying to brave the ghost pepper curry challenge.

But Ineedto do something. For her. For me.

“This is your table, sir. Would you like anything to drink while you look over the menu?”

I shake my head. “Water’s fine. And I don’t need the menu. One ghost pepper curry please.”

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