Page 36 of His Heart

Part II

Four Years Later

Voices of the past echo with sorrow

carry through time

and space

separated by heartbeats

and the pain of living

without you

~B

Sebastian

The gym was mostly emptythis early in the morning. Just a handful of dedicated—or crazy—people who’d gotten up before the sun.

“Are you serious?” Charlie asked. His hands hovered beneath the bench press bar as I lifted, spotting me in case I needed help.

“Yeah,” I grunted, pushing the heavy weight off my chest. God, that felt good. “One more.”

Charlie helped me with my last rep and the bar clicked against the rack when we set it down. I blew out a breath and sat up.

“Yeah, I’m serious,” I said. “I told you I sent them a letter, right?”

“You did, but a letter isn’t meeting the donor’s family,” he said.

“It was actually their idea,” I said. “They got my letter and we started emailing. Mrs. Harper asked if I’d consider meeting them in person. I said yes.”

“That’s some deep shit, dude,” Charlie said. “Wasn’t he, like, our age?”

I nodded. “A year younger.”

“Fuck.”

“I know.” I rubbed my bearded chin. Charlie gave me shit about it, but I’d let my facial hair grow out after my transplant surgery. I’d always had to shave as a wrestler. But I liked keeping it; it marked the difference in who I was now. “Believe me, I know. They lost their son and I’m alive because of it. But I think it might help give them some closure, you know?”

“Sure,” he said. “Get your ass up, though. I need to do my set.”

I laughed and stood to help Charlie load more weight on the bar. He was still stronger than I was, although not by much anymore. Since I’d started working out again, I’d regained a surprising amount of my former strength—and size.

My new heart worked like a champion. I still had to take a pharmacy’s worth of pills every day, and would for the rest of my life. I had to be careful about getting sick; the anti-rejection meds I took suppressed my immune system. But because I was healthier overall, I didn’t get sick nearly as often as I had before the transplant. I’d only had one close call, about a year ago, when I’d gotten a cold that had turned into a sinus infection. Pre-transplant, that would have landed me in the hospital. This time I’d been able to fight it off, although it had knocked me on my ass for a solid week.

I’d never be a competitive athlete again, and things like hang gliding and scuba diving were off limits. But other than that, after I’d recovered from the surgery, I’d been able to lead a normal life. I’d moved back to Iowa City with Charlie. Last year, I started back at U of I. I was beginning to feel like my old self again.

But really, I wasn’t him. I wasn’t the guy who’d been laser-focused on winning state. On wrestling for U of I. That guy had died the day my old heart had stopped working.

I wasn’t sure who I was now. I had a second chance at life, but I had no idea what I was supposed to do with it. Who I was supposed to be. People seemed to expect me to pick up where I’d left off. Finish college. Go work for my dad at one of his car dealerships in Waverly. But it wasn’t that simple.

Charlie told me to chill about it and just let life happen. But I’d always had a plan. A goal to focus on. Not having that made me feel like I was drifting. That fire I’d had inside me—that drive to achieve—had almost burned out. I wasn’t sure how to get it going again.

It had been four years since the transplant, and I was still trying to figure it all out.

Charlie finished his set and got up from the bench. “You tell your parents yet?”

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