Page 42 of The Last Kiss

We both sag, relief rushing through my veins, making me feel lightheaded, in a good helium sucking way.

“However.” My stomach lurches. No… no however, no caveats, no if’s… “Julianna, you have one of the least common blood types. Not rare that it doesn’t happen, but rare that your wait might be longer.”

“How long?” My question is a breathy little gasp.

The answering shrug is not what I want to see. “We really don’t know.”

“Dr Francis said I only had a year left.” And there’s that sentence again that sounds so ridiculous to say.

“Then it will be your job to keep yourself in optimum of health. Our job is to get you that heart as quickly as possible if and when one becomes available.” I don’t like the IF word. It should be banned from the dictionary.

“That’s good news right, Jules?” Liv turns and grasps my hand, a light shining in her eyes I don’t want to put out.

“Yeah, that’s good news.” I swallow hard. “Right, can you go and get my niece, and I’ll see you later.”

“You sure?” Another squeeze of my fingers.

I nod. My throat too tight to talk.

It’s almost dark by the time I’m ejected from the hospital. I’ve been prodded, scanned, and made to runthe nurse lied.

Good news. All my organs are doing what they are meant to do.

Bad news, I got the distinct impression they didn’t plan to see me again anytime soon. Still, it’s okay. I’ve only done one of my remaining twelve months. There is still time.

Time.

I trudge through Waterloo under the big clock, feeling it echo in my bones. Tick and a tock. Tick and a tock.

Most women my age are starting to think of their biological clock, maybe hearing it start to speed slightly. The only clock I can hear is the mechanical one inside my chest, winding and cranking.

Stupid fucking heart.

“Juliette!”

I keep walking, head down. I need to get home. Need to put my pyjamas on. Need to Netflix.

Denial comes in the form of compulsive binge watching.

Dawson has been up the Creek without a paddle; The Queen has held onto her Crown; all the Vampires are dead, well the ones I like anyway; and I’ve jumped off the Bridge of Ton.

“Juliette!”

A pressure pulls on my sleeve and I whirl around ready to sock the person daring to touch me. It might be busy in the station but there is no accounting for weirdo’s these days.

Ooooh.

I stare straight up into deep navy. Wide and sensual lips curve down at me as my mouth gapes open.

“Juliette!” It’s him. Mr-One-Night-No-Names. Mr All the Feels.

Oh, good God. It’s him. Stealer of dreams and Pornoland’s lead star.

“You ran away.” Zhuuu raaaan awaaay. That’s his opening line? Did I do him a favour or is that displeasure in the turn of his mouth?

My heart races, a little flutter that doesn’t feel all that bad. My stomach tightens as memories of moonlit skin on skin play front of house in my brain. “I’m sorry.”

He has a firm grip on my elbow, a hold he seems unwilling to break. And that’s fine with me because his touch is damn electric and he’s only holding my arm.