Page 57 of Hearts to Mend

He pushes his chair away from the table and pats his lap. “Come here.”

I have half a mind to refuse. I’m still mad. But Rico’s lap looks so inviting, and I love the things that happen when I go to him. I should let him apologize to me properly. So I straddle him on the chair and smirk when he presses his forehead to mine.

“I’m sorry,” he says.

“For what?”

“For acting so casual with you. Everything is so…easy with you, being with you just feels natural, you know? But that’s no excuse for me taking you for granted. I need you like I need my heart to beat, but sometimes I take it all for granted. And for that, I’m sorry.”

He angles his head and kisses me so gently, so sweetly. It’s a heartbreaking kiss, I know, because it’s broken me for any other man. This kiss cements all my feelings, making it abundantly clear to me that, despite how infuriating he is, I love this man.

When he slowly pulls away and presses his forehead to mine again, I open my eyes and stare deep into his. It’s like drowning, being so totally adrift in all these emotions, treading water as I hang onto him for dear life.

Then he devastates me further when he kisses my forehead and whispers, “If I survive tomorrow, I will sweep you off your feet, baby. I will convince you to love me again. And then I will convince you to marry me. I want it all with you, and I will do anything and everything to win your heart back.”

I blink away the sudden rush of tears and swallow the lump in my throat as I clutch his cheeks between my palms. “When you survive tomorrow, not if.”

CHAPTER 22

RICO

* * *

Today is the day. And I’m terrified.

They keep you awake for the event. And I just want to know: Who in their right mind would want to be awake during heart surgery?

Dee keeps reminding me that it’s not “heart surgery”; it’s a “minimally invasive heart procedure.” But that’s semantics. People are going to poke around in my heart, and all I get is this little valium to calm my nerves. I swallow the valium and give the nurse my friendliest fake grin as she turns to leave.

It’s just me and Dee in here for a moment. Mamá went down to the cafeteria to collect a pair of coffees for them. None for me. Maybe that’s why I’m extra irritable today—it’s not the impending heart procedure, it’s the lack of caffeine.

Turning to Dee, I flop my hospital gown aside as I complain, “They manscaped me.”

Dee blinks at me then looks down and giggles. “Oh my God, it’s so cute! Like a little mohawk for your dick.”

I grumble more.

“Stop your bitching, Stroke Boy. The dick mohawk is for your own good. They have to access your heart through one of the veins in your groin, and you don’t want some stray pubic hair getting into your heart, do you? So boom, dick mohawk.”

Dee’s logic is sound, and gross, and it makes me even more cranky. I’ve never been one of those guys who shaves it all. I trim, sure, but now my cock has a mohawk. A cockhawk, if you will. I flop my hospital gown back down. And it’s just in time because mamá comes back into my room with two steaming cups of mouthwatering coffee. This is cruelty.

I turn my attention to the television, some documentary about the Texas Killing Fields playing, and after a few minutes, I don’t care about the documentary, or the coffee, or my cockhawk. The valium must be working.

When the time comes for my procedure, I’m ready. For the first time in weeks, the flutter in my stomach isn’t nerves, it’s excitement. For myself, my son, my family, and my love, I want to be mended.

When the nurses come for me, mamá smothers me in hugs and whispers a prayer. Then Dee leans down and gives me a sweet, lingering kiss that makes me want to stay a little while longer. But they roll me away, out the door, and down the hall.

They push me into the operating room, and it’s like I’ve been wheeled onto the bridge of the USS Enterprise. The technology here is out of this world.

I’m rolled to the center of the room, beneath a massive lattice of tracks used for moving lights, monitors, and machinery to where they’re needed. A handful of helpful aides shift me from my patient bed to the operating table. Someone covers me with a paper cloth that adheres to my skin around the incision site, providing a modicum of privacy for me and my cockhawk.

Overhead, an X-ray machine is arranged directly over my chest. To my left, a monitor as wide as a movie screen displays the black-and-white X-ray image of my beating heart. And at my right, my doctor and his assistant stand behind a plexiglass screen wearing X-ray aprons with turtleneck collars, affording them maximum protection from chin to shin.

My doctor informs me we’re beginning, and I nod as a pinch of pain hits at the top of my thigh. Almost as soon as I feel the injection of anesthesia, I feel nothing but the sensation of pressure at the spot where my leg meets my abdomen. I’d rather not think about all that, so I turn my attention to the television, watching my heart beat.

After my stroke, my editor cut me some slack on the number of hours he expected me to work, understanding I’d need more rest as I recovered. The one condition was he wanted me to write a piece about my experience.

Taking the assignment to heart—so to speak—I’ve recorded all my experiences from the night of the stroke to everything that’s happened since. I’ve researched heart conditions and stroke statistics. I’ve conducted hours of interviews with medical professionals, including the team who saved me the night Dee and Drew rushed me to the ER. And now? I observe it all.

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