Page 118 of The Last Kiss

“Promise me,” I demand with the force of a kitten whisked up in a hurricane.

He kisses me instead, lingering on my lips, and then sits and holds my hand.

Liv sits with us for a while, and I doze in and out. Henri is looking at his phone and I’m pretty sure he’s on the dark web looking for an B negative heart.

My eyes meet Liv’s and I give her an encouraging nod. She shakes her head and I answer with another silent nod. Standing, she leans over, running her cool fingers down my face. “Love you.”

“Love you.”

Pale, she turns for the door. “Henri, you coming?”

Startled, he stares between us. “Non.”

She raises her arms at me. Was that her best effort, seriously? Jesus. The door opens as Dr Simmonds steps in, followed by Dr Francis.

“Jules, how are you?” He steps for my chart and gives it a brief flick through.

“Tickety boo.”

He smiles and looks at Liv, while she looks at him with something like hope in her eyes. His lips press into firm line, eyes meeting hers, and her face falls, while that last little flicker of hope in my chest snuffs out.

“Olivia?” he asks her. I’m struggling to hear. There’s some static in my ears I can’t focus around.

I squeeze Henri’s hand, hoping to telecommunicate that he should listen for the both of us.

“Liv,” she says.

“The sister.” There’s a brief smile and that little kindle of hope flickers again… until he says, “Next of kin, I assume?”

Boom. And there it goes.

With a wave of his hand, he beckons her over and they talk in low voices with Dr Francis, gesturing at something on the chart; probably my newest and most pointless obs. They head back out, both doctors giving me gentle smiles that communicate sympathy. It’s not a new heart, but you know, the sentiment is there. Liv follows them outside, leaving just Henri and I. Me and my mystery man.

“What were they saying?” I whimper to Henri.

“Mon Coeur, I think they were saying that you should hang on.”

I attempt a snort, but it sounds rather like blowing snot bubbles.

I am so fucking tired.

I reach shaky fingers for his. “I told you.”

His fingers brush at my hair, delicately tracing down my cheek. “And I told you, ma petite fleur.”

This is unfair. He’s breaking all the promises, every damn one. Taking a pickaxe to them and splintering them to pieces.

Smash.

A tear rolls from the corner of my eye and he catches it, popping it, caught on the tip of his finger, into his mouth. Smiling, stormy night eyes shining. “Another taste of you.”

Unfair.

Smash.

I want to cry harder, want to give it some, but my chest hurts, every breath is like running a marathon just from sitting on the creaky sheet of a hospital bed. I hike in another gasped breath, as a large palm smooths my hair and lips press into the top of my head, a lifeline I want to cling onto even though I know my time is up.

When I can breathe, I shift slightly, looking up to meet his gaze. “You promised me.” I guilt him with a deploring stare. Please leave, my eyes say, although my tongue is having a problem expressing the words. Stupid tongue.