That reason being that, any day could easily be my last.
Which only put me in a dark mood.
Next month I had a doctor’s appointment, and I wasn’t holding out hope.
I rowed harder as I tried to ignore my wayward thoughts, but the sad thing was, shit always caught up to me.
I never got to live my life, because the moment that things started to go well for me, I was always slammed into place and shown that things weren’t ever going to be okay for me.
“Whoa, hotshot,” Soren said as he looked over at my pace. “You still have ten minutes left.”
I looked over at him with a challenge in my eyes. “Want to race?”
Of course, he was up to the challenge.
And by the time we were done, we both collapsed onto the floor.
The even worse thing?
While I was trying to recover, my heart pounding like it was going to fall straight out of my chest and run away due to its intensity, I never noticed Mavis slip out until it was too late.
CHAPTER 5
You couldn’t handle me, even if I came with instructions.
-Mavis to Murphy
MAVIS
One month later
“Seven months and looking wonderful!” Fran clapped her hands.
I rolled my eyes and practically waddled into the house where Fran was slipping her feet into no-show socks.
“You were supposed to be waiting for me at the door,” I accused.
She rolled her eyes. “When have I ever been on time for anything?”
She had a point.
“Whatever,” I muttered.
Fran slipped her feet into her shoes, then looked at me with questions in her eyes. “Why are you grouchy? Did you forget to eat again?”
I had. But that wasn’t why I was grouchy.
“Well,” I paused. “So I saw him yesterday.”
We both knew who the ‘him’ was that always made me grouchy.
“Was he mean to you again?” she asked as she stood up and reached for her purse and phone.
I contemplated her question.
Was he mean to me again?
No.
But he’d treated me like I was nothing but a nuisance, which bothered me.
I didn’t know what the hell I’d done to him to warrant him being so mean.
I’d thought that we were getting over our differences, that possibly we could be friends, but his attitude yesterday when I’d seen him in the supermarket while I’d been talking with Madden had been anything but friendly.
“Not mean, per se,” I admitted. “Ready?”
She nodded and we both made it back out to my car, and then headed to the hospital where I had yet another doctor appointment.
This would be the appointment that started me on twice a month until I was about four weeks away from delivering the baby. Once I reached that point, I would start in with once weekly appointments.
Pulling into the hospital parking lot, I found a spot in the back of the lot—why was this damn parking lot always so freakin’ busy? —and walked inside with Fran who was reading something on her phone.
We were both focused on getting inside at first and didn’t notice the big man that we were walking up on until we heard his voice.
Both of us froze, very cognizant of who that voice belonged to.
“…have maybe a year and a half, two at most,” Murphy rumbled. “In stage B, or two, as of right now. Most likely will be in D by the end of next year.” He paused. “They said that once in end-stage heart disease, which isn’t just yet, they’ll utilize the transplant list. They said in the next month, if not a wee bit more.”
Fran and I looked at each other.
We weren’t stupid.
Both of us were nurses.
We knew what heart failure was.
End-stage, and needing a heart with a transplant, was significant.
Whomever Murphy was talking about would probably die if they didn’t get a heart soon.
I was so lost in thought, wondering who in Murphy’s life was having heart failure, that I wasn’t paying attention to the curb that was coming up until I was already tripping over it.
I went down hard, a cry bursting from my throat at the fall.
“Shit, Mavis!” Fran called out. “Are you okay?”
I hit the ground so hard that I heard a sickening crack, and I prayed that whatever I’d just done didn’t mean that I’d broken anything.
It took a whole three seconds for the pain to hit me.
I groaned and rolled to my ass in the middle of the parking lot, looking down at my hands and knees.
They were pouring blood.
I winced just as I heard Murphy say, “Move!”
I looked up to see him crouching down in front of me, and a younger man standing next to his pregnant wife glaring daggers at Murphy’s back.
Obviously, he didn’t like being told to move.
Duly noted.
“Swear to God,” Murphy shook his head as he started to pull out rags from his pockets and hand them to me. “They’re clean. Press down on your knees.”