The Girl in the Love Song (Lost Boys 1)

She smiled wanly and wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Vi, what’s wrong? Aside from…” I waved my hand. “All of this.”

“Nothing. Just tired.”

“You forget I have your every expression memorized. Something’s wrong, and it’s not just my shitty kidneys.”

Violet pretended to think. “That’s a punk band, isn’t it? The Shitty Kidneys? I think they headlined Burning Man…”

“Tell me.”

She plucked a thread on the sheet. “I had myself tested to see if I could be a donor for you. Your mom did, too. But we’re not compatible.”

I pulled her to me. “I disagree. I think we’re really fucking compatible.”

Violet sniffed a laugh and climbed on the bed, burrowing into me. She rested her head against my chest, and we lay in the relative quiet of beeping machines, me stroking her hair that was black against the white of my shirt.

“You’re going to be okay, Miller,” she said. “I’ll to make sure of it.”

“Are you really going to give up being a surgeon?”

“I’m not giving it up; I’m moving it out of my way. I was meant to take care of you, and I will. There’s hemodialysis that you can do at home. I’m going to learn everything I can about it while we wait for a donor.”

I pressed my lips into her hair, kissing her and holding her tight to me. She was making it sound easier than it would be. There was a shortage of organ donors; I could be waiting for years, and we both knew it.

The next day, I was packing my shit to leave while Violet wrangled all the balloons, bouquets, and stacks of get-well cards from fans that covered every available surface of the window ledge.

“It looks like someone emptied the goddamn giftshop in here,” I muttered.

“Your fans love you.” Violet flipped around a card to show me the front. A photo of me in the green room at the Key Arena. “From Sam. Don’t read what he wrote inside unless you’re ready to cry for three days straight.”

“What’s this about crying?” Dr. Monroe entered the room, a tight, strange smile on his face. “No crying when I have good news. A match has been found.”

The card fell out of Violet’s hand. I dropped the shirt I’d been putting in a small travel bag. “What? Already?”

“We need to run a few more tests, but I feel confident we can schedule surgery for the day after tomorrow.”

“That’s amazing,” Violet said, reluctant hope wanting to bloom over her features. “Oh my God…”

“But the Donor Network said the wait time could be years,” I said. “They found a match already?”

“For one kidney and partial pancreas, yes.”

Violet and I exchanged glances. “So, it’s from a living donor,” I said. Pancreases, it turned out, like livers and lungs, could be portioned out to give the recipient part of the organ without harm to the donor.

Dr. Monroe rocked on his heels. “This will change your life, Miller. No more insulin shots, no more highs and lows…”

“Who?” I asked, going cold all over. “Who’s the donor?”

Dr. Monroe shifted. “I’m afraid I can’t speak anymore to that. Confidentiality is of upmost importance in situations like this—”

“Tell me.”

“Miller, I—”

“It’s my dad. My dad’s the donor. Isn’t he?”

Dr. Monroe’s expression shifted, a miniscule wince, and I knew I was right. I sank down on the bed. “Holy shit.”