Page 87 of Counting Down To You

I press my fingers to my temples and massage. Robyn means my brother here, of course. There’s not an explicit reference to him, but I imagine she was hoping that once I called James I’d be able to work toward forgiving him. Like Robyn had been able to forgive her mum, for not being there for her, by the end.

It’s not James I think of, though.

But there’s no way I can forgive Leo for lying. There’s no way I can forgive him for having my best friend’s heart. And, yes, that is an ugly, awful thought, because I know, logically, that it is not Leo’s fault that he was more compatible, that he jumped ahead of Robyn on the list, or that Robyn got too ill, after that, to survive surgery. But knowing it’s not his fault doesn’t make it feel any less of a betrayal to Robyn. And it doesn’t take away from the fact that he knew all this time and didn’t tell me.

So, no, I can’t forgive him. And Robyn wouldn’t have been thinking of Leo when she wrote this challenge. There is no possible way she could have guessed that I would end up knowing him. Would end up feeling…No. Best not to go down that road. Whatever I felt, or was starting to feel, it’s done.

But Robyn met him. They were in the same hospital. Even though the hospital was the leading heart and lung transplant center in the UK, it still feels insane. Robyn is the reason I met Leo—because we were both at the fundraiser that day, and because her challenge made me take a photo with him. Leo is the reason she even thought to send me to Châtel in the first place, because he told her about the place. The three of us, knotted together, in a way that feels confusing as hell.

I pick up my phone, turning it round and round in my hands and staring into space for a long time. Then I stop, take a breath, and scroll through my contacts. Because, although forgiveness seems like a bit of a stretch right now, there is still a different challenge waiting to be accomplished.

I dial my brother’s number, trying not to think too hard about it, and trying to ignore the knot of anxiety in my chest.

“James?” I say as he answers. “It’s me.” I realize then that we’ve not spoken in so long, he might not know who “me” is. “Ali,” I add.

“Yeah, Al. I know, I…” His voice is the same. It’s funny, isn’t it, how you can not speak to someone in years, but still recognize the exact tenor of their voice. “Wow. I…How are you?” He knew it was me and he answered. That’s a start, isn’t it?

“I’m…” I blow out a breath. “That’s a bit too complicated to explain, to be honest. But what about you?” It feels stilted, awkward. “How are you?”

“I’m…Yeah. I’m okay, Al.” A pause. “I met someone.”

“Yeah. Mum said.”

“I think you’d like her.”

I’m not sure what to say to that. How would he know? That’s my first, slightly bitter thought. He hasn’t spent any time with me for years, so how does he know who I’d like?

“I’m coming back to the UK for a bit,” he continues. “I don’t know if Mum…”

“She told me, yeah.”

“Right.” He clears his throat. “Well, I land tomorrow.”

“Are you staying at Mum’s?” Because a call is one thing, but sharing space is another.

“For the first couple of nights, no—Steph’s not been to London before so we’re going to get a hotel, spend a few days in central. We’ll spend Christmas with Mum, though.”

“She’s not been to London?”

“She’s Australian.”

“Ah.” Then I frown. “Where even are you right now?”

James laughs, though it sounds a little tired. Tired or sad? I can’t be sure. “We’re in Amsterdam at the moment. We’ve been making our way back from Singapore, where we were working for a bit, but stopping off at a few places.”

“Sounds glamorous,” I say.

“Parts of it,” James agrees.

We both go quiet. I should probably ask where and how he met this Steph. But he beats me to it.

“Look, what are you doing tomorrow night?”

My immediate temptation to lie. I hedge instead. “Not sure yet.”

“Would you meet me for dinner?”

“Why?” It’s out before I can temper the suspicion.