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“And you told Jimmy what, exactly?”
“What’re you getting at?” I push my arm against his.
The tide’s coming in. The sun is high over the mountains to the east. My bare feet sink in deep sand with bits of broken shell.
He peers down at me, and it’s clear he’s expecting me to say more. This conversation feels juvenile, but… “I told him we made out.”
“Made out. So that’s what the kids are calling it these days?” I exchange smiles with an older woman walking her dog on a leash.
“You can stop teasing me.” I’ve always been behind the curve. But I’m finally okay with that. It’s who I am. “I forgot the line is monitored. So I guess your team knows now, too.” I can’t believe I forgot that.
“I don’t think it will be exactly news to them.” We grin at each other, but I’m still all kinds of embarrassed. “So, there’s something else I want to know.”
“Okay.” He squeezes my hand gently, and the action sets me on edge. What could he possibly want to know?
“Your, ah…health status. You’re healthy now, right? That’s what you said.”
“I am.”
“And we’ve got all the meds you need. You’re good?”
He emphasizes the word good, and I let out a deflated sigh. He’s seen my pill stash, so I can understand why he’d repeatedly ask.
“I’m good. I promise. I’m really good.”
“I remember Sam saying something about life expectancy.”
“It’s just statistics. And I was young…that’s to my advantage. There are Facebook groups out there of people who are going on thirty years post-transplant. That’s what you’re getting at, right?” Thirty-six percent of people survive more than ten years after a heart and lung transplant. If you focus too hard on percentages, especially in the post-twenty-year data, which drops to a six or seven percent survival rate, it’s scary. But as my doctors say, and as I continually counsel myself, each person is an individual. My doctors are optimistic.”
“So, the life expectancy figures…they don’t apply to you now?”
“I’d say that yesterday my chances of dying by bullet were much higher than organ failure.”
“That’s not funny.”
He’s right. It’s not funny. Yet I laugh. And then the next thing I know we’re running along the beach, splashing in the water, and it’s as if all is right in the world. And yet, there’s a gun tucked into a holster on a belt around Knox’s waist hidden by the untucked shirt he’s wearing.
CHAPTER 25
Knox
A glimmer of light, a bright reflection off on the hill, has me covering her with my body, angling her behind me. A man seven feet away, legs out, feet in the sand, looks up from his book, a curious expression on his face. He shifts in his seat to see what caught my attention.
“What? What is it?” Sage stutters.
It’s a relatively flat beach, with cottages tightly packed together. I might’ve seen someone closing a sliding door. A window. Light reflected off a ring. The shoreline is the lowest elevation, and every row of houses rises higher above sea level. Far away, in the hills, houses with an ocean view look out upon us. We’re on a public beach, and someone could be watching from any one of these houses.
“Knox?” Her grip on my wrist strengthens. A plastic shovel halts midair. The mother watches me instead of the bucket her kid asked her to fill.
“Yeah. Sorry.” I wrap an arm around her shoulder and pull her up against my side.
The houses thin as the beach narrows near rocky terrain. The shoreline curves up ahead. In almost every window, the sun reflects off the glass, creating a mirror facade. My vision’s solid, but behind any one of these doors or windows could be an assailant. I’d never know.
“Is walking the only form of exercise you can do?”
“No. But it’s my favorite. I find it helps clear my mind, and it’s cardio, but it’s not too stressful. I tried biking, but–”
“How about we go back to our place and we do some Pilates or yoga today?”
