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“Are you sure? Because you look like death right now.”
“Yeah, but I always look like death lately.” Twelve months ago, her doctor guessed she had eleven months to go, unless they located a new heart. Living on borrowed time now. “It’s coming, just as we knew it would.”
“No. There’s got to be something else we can do. Have you pursued ads on the darknet wide webs?”
“That isn’t what it’s call—”
“I don’t care what it’s called. Use it. You might get lucky and find someone who’s selling a perfectly acceptable preowned organ.”
Cookie blinked back tears. No emotion. If she broke down, Pearl Jean would break down.
“No, I’m not going to search for a preowned heart on the quote-unquote darknet wide webs,” she said softly, evenly.
“Is money the problem? Because I’m willing to donate my Social Security.”
Lying there, fatigue got the better of her. Cookie fought to keep her eyes open. “Can we postpone this conversation?”
“No, we cannot,” her best friend cried. “This is life-or-death.”
Guess she’d have to end this the Cookie way. Brutally. “All right, then. Let’s talk about the fact that I’m not going to get a new heart. I’m going to die sooner rather than later. Before I go, I want to ensure you and Suggy have someone to take care of you.” Preferably someone willing to attend to the house panther’s smallest whim, exactly as he deserved, while this same paragon resisted the urge to stab themselves in the ears anytime Pearl Jean convinced herself she’d rung Death’s doorbell.
In other words, Cookie needed to find the unicorn of people. The champagne of friends. A generic brand, maybe. Cheap didn’t always mean lower quality.
“Okay, yes,” Pearl Jean said with a nod. “We can postpone this conversation.”
Finished with his meal, Suggy jumped onto the couch, pranced across Cookie’s legs and curled up on her chest.
As she reached out to pet him, she caught a flash of light from her cell phone. Next, her ringer activated. How odd. Before the match with Nick, she’d turned off the sound.
Wait. She’d programed the cell to make a single exception.
Her jaw went slack. No. No way. This couldn’t be happening. But was it?
Riiiing. She jerked her gaze to Pearl Jean. “I think...that might be...a heart.” The last two words emerged as a squeak.
“Well? What are you waiting for?” Pearl Jean vibrated with excitement. “Answer it. Answer the phone right now.”
“All right, all right.” She grabbed the phone, doing her best not to disturb the cat, trembling as she placed the device to her ear. “Hello? Yes?”
“Chantel Bardot?” a jubilant voice asked.
Hearing her birth name threw her for a loop. “Y-yes, this is she. Her. I mean, the first one. The first one I said. She.” Her gaze remained on Pearl Jean. Please, please, please be the news I’ve waited so long to hear. “And you are?”
“I’m the one who gets to tell you that we found a match. Your surgeon and transplant team have been notified.” She continued spewing facts, but Cookie could no longer hear her.
This was truly happening?
I’m going to live?
CHAPTER FOUR
Six Months Later
COOKIE DARTED HER gaze as she walked Sugars on a leash. The backyard appeared normal. Morning sunlight filtered through a canopy of branches, courtesy of massive oaks. Birds chirped from twisted limbs. A family of rabbits observed her little trio from behind a bush blooming with flowers, despite the winter season.
Everything seemed normal. Sugars stalked a billowing leaf, and Pearl Jean puttered beside her on a scooter. But nothing was normal for Cookie.
For 26 years, she’d felt as if she’d existed rather than lived. Never as fast or as strong as other kids. Kept on a strict diet and a never-ending medication regimen. Myriad doctor visits. Then, suddenly, the heart her parents had sparked at her conception was gone, cut out of her chest. Now, someone else’s heart powered her body. Someone who’d died, selflessly giving Chantel Melissa Bardot a chance to live. And yet...
She still lacked zest. For so long, she’d expected to die. She’d resigned herself to it, growing comfortable with her worldview. But her vantage point had shifted. Now she was supposed to live for herself, as well as the woman who’d saved her. No doubt her family expected Cookie to do great things with the gift she’d been given. The pressure!
And how many other patients had been more worthy of the heart? What if Cookie screwed up, the sacrifice wasted? She had no idea what to do with this second chance.
The worst part? Paranoia had reset her brain. She couldn’t shake the feeling she was being hunted. She felt it all—the—time. Even now, a cold sweat glazed her palms.
Along with the paranoia came a sensation of being both unstoppable and as fragile as glass, capable of everything and nothing at once. Presurgery, she’d had motivation but no energy. Postsurgery, she had plenty of energy but a confused motivation. It was galling, and it kept her imprisoned on her property.
