Page 72 of The Last Kiss

“I asked first.”

“No.”

“Good.”

He seals the deal with a kiss.

“Henri, I can’t offer any more than this.” My eyes sting, emptiness flooding my limbs until they are laden and heavy.

“I know. And neither can I.” His lips press into a firm line and I wished I knew what they meant.

I don’t ask. What would be the point? I lie down and settle back into my favourite place, waiting for dawn to come.

17

What’s at the end of the rainbow?

Goodbyes are my new most despised thing. The middle of April and all I can hear is the tick and the tock, the tick and the tock.

Henri hasn’t been back. We’ve had the odd telephone call, late night, me snuggled under blankets, Netflix forgotten. He’s busy. His voice strained, a tightness running through the lyrical notes that hasn’t been in existence when he’s here.

I might not see him again. I know that.

The ice-cream scoop has been replaced by a razor-sharp Stanley knife that every so often casts me down with a quick flick of its blade.

“How’s it looking?” I ask. Dr Francis is reading my charts. He’s got me on the outpatient ward today so he can monitor me for longer. Three hours longer.

“Julianna,” he starts and I physically wince.

“That bad?”

“I’m worried about your oxygen levels. It’s just not high enough. They are far too low, in the seventies. How is the breathlessness?”

“Fine,” I say, smile tight.

“Uh huh.” He reads on a bit more. “Nothing from the transplant team?”

Why is his face so grey? What does he know that I don’t? I kind of figured I’d got all the bad news back in January?

“Ankles swelling?”

“No, just the usual tingles.” I answer honestly and he sweeps a swift glance over me, reading my previous lie.

“We need to decide whether to operate on the valves again.” He perches on the end of the bed and it’s a death bell of warning.

“Again? You said before that it wouldn’t work again.”

With a thoughtful nod, he puts my clipboard to one side. “And I can’t say it will. I’m just wondering if it’s worth the risk.”

“What’s the risk?” I push up higher on the creaky bed.

“It could make things worse; the heart could be put under just too much pressure.”

“Then what?”

“It really depends how the heart reacts. It’s a strong machine, Julia, but it’s only an organ. The stress of the anaesthetic could put you into arrest.”

“A heart attack?” I gasp.