Page 22

JENNA

M y stomach lurches again and I bolt for the bathroom. After emptying what little remains in my stomach, I splash cold water on my face. The mirror shows dark circles under my eyes, worry etched into every feature. Mom has to make it through this surgery. She's all I have left.

Guilt mixes with the nausea. I should have taken her to the hospital. But how? If I get fired, how can I take care of her?

My phone buzzes against my hip, and I fumble to pull it from my pocket.

Your mom is heading to surgery. She’s in good spirits.

Blaise’s text loosens the knot in my stomach just a fraction. I type back with trembling fingers.

Thank you. For everything.

The words feel inadequate. How do you thank someone for potentially saving your mother's life? For being there when you need them most?

Another wave of nausea hits, but this time it's different, more like butterflies than sickness. Is this what real love feels like? Not the painful yearning I felt for Ronan all those years, but this bone-deep certainty that I've found someone who sees me, who shows up when it matters most?

I know he’s disappointed in me for not taking my mom to the hospital. Clearly, he doesn’t have to worry about losing his job if the fancy dinner and hotel the other night are any indication. It’s a reminder of how much I still don’t know about him.

I force myself back to work. The Keans seem extra tense lately and want this engagement party for Ronan to go well.

I try to keep that in mind as my resentment grows for making me choose between my job and my mother.

The Keans took us in after the fire, gave us a home, jobs. But today… today, something shifted.

The garden has always been my sanctuary. Now it feels like a prison. Every flower I tend reminds me that I'm here while Mom faces surgery alone. Well, not alone, thank God for Blaise. But I should be there.

With my head down, I work and work. Hours pass until I’m almost done for the day. But each minute of those hours, I’m worried sick about my mom.

Finally, my phone rings with the hospital's number. Fear steals my breath. I send a silent prayer that everything is fine.

“Hello?”

"Ms. Hart?”

“Yes. This is Dr. Wallace. Your mother made it through surgery. So far, everything is going as expected. She’s in the CICU where she’ll be for the next five days or so if everything progresses well.”

My legs nearly give out from relief, even as I know it’s early days. Still, she survived the surgery.

“Can I see her?”

“She’ll have a breathing tube and be unable to talk. We’ll remove that tomorrow. But you can come and sit with her.”

“Thank you. Thank you so much.” Mom's alive. The transplant worked. After years of watching her fade away, there's hope.

By the time I finish cleaning up my work area, my workday is done. The drive to the hospital is a blur. I park haphazardly and practically run toward the entrance.

“Kendra Hart,” I ask the nurse at the desk.

She gives me the room number and floor, telling me to check in at the nurse’s station. I take the elevator up, my body a bundle of nerves. Until I see my mom, there’s a part of me that worries.

When the elevator doors open, the smell of antiseptic hits me and my stomach revolts. I barely make it to the nearest trashcan before losing what little I have in my stomach.

"Are you alright, Miss?"

I wave off the concerned security guard, mortified. My cheeks burn as I wipe my mouth with a tissue. What's wrong with me? Mom's okay. I should be celebrating, not throwing up from stress.

But as I straighten up, another wave of nausea hits. The enormity of everything crashes over me—Mom's surgery, the Keans' threats, Blaise's condemnation of my choice to work. It's too much.

I grip the edge of the trashcan, taking deep breaths to pull myself together. Mom needs me now.

“Can I help you?” a nurse asks when I finally straighten.

“I’m sorry. It’s nerves. I’m here to see my mother. Kendra Hart. She just had a heart transplant.”

She studies me. “If you’re unwell, now isn’t a good time to visit. Your mother's immune system is vulnerable after the transplant. We can't risk any infections."

My heart sinks. Of course. How could I be so selfish? Mom needs a sterile environment, not her mess of a daughter potentially making her sick.

"I… I didn't think." My voice cracks.

“Do you have a temperature?”

I shake my head. “I’m just under a lot of stress.”

The nurse looks at me with sympathy. “We could check you out. Just to be safe. And if it’s only stress, you can see your mom.”

I nod numbly, following her down the sterile hallway.

"When did the nausea start?" the nurse asks.

"Not long. Mom’s illness and events at work… It’s been a lot.”

“Anything else? Fatigue? Aches and pains?”

“I am tired, but no aches or pains.”

She takes my blood pressure, which is a little high. I have no temperature. “Let’s order a couple of tests.”

I wait anxiously, desperate to see Mom but knowing I need to make sure I won't harm her.

It seems like forever before she returns. “Well, you don’t have anything contagious.”

That’s a relief. “I can see my mom?”

“Well, yes, but you should know your symptoms aren’t from stress.”

I blink, wondering what she could be talking about. "Ms. Hart, you're pregnant."

The room tilts sideways. "What?"

“I take it this is unexpected.”

Maybe I’m sleeping and all this is a dream.

"Have you been using any form of protection?"

Heat floods my cheeks as I realize Blaise and I never discussed it. Not once. I'd been so caught up in the romance, the excitement of being desired. What an idiot.

“I… ah…” I don’t want to admit I was too lost in love to think about birth control.

She launches into a speech about prenatal care and options, but her words blur together. All I can think about is Blaise. What will he say? We haven’t known each other for long. I don't even know if he wants children.

My hands drift to my stomach. A baby. Blaise's baby. The thought sends a fresh wave of panic through me. I'm barely keeping it together caring for Mom. How can I possibly handle a pregnancy too?

“As far as seeing your mother, you can. As part of the regular protocol, you’ll need to wear a mask, gown, and gloves.”

“Of course.” I need my mother now more than ever.

The nurse leads me to the ICU, which is quiet except for the sounds of monitors and breathing machines.

“It’s important that we keep your mother comfortable. Try to avoid saying or doing anything that might upset or excite her.”

I suppose a pregnancy fits that bill.

Mom looks so small in the hospital bed, tubes and wires everywhere.

“I’m here, Mom.” I carefully take her hand, noting a restraint about her wrist.

“That’s for her protection until she comes fully out of sedation,” the nurse says. Then she reaches over to an over-table near Mom. “Your mother insisted on writing this before surgery."

My heart stalls, unsure whether I want to read it.

To my baby girl,

In case things don’t turn out, I want you to know that I love you and that I’m happy you found Blaise. He hardly knows me and yet, he’s the reason I’m having this surgery so quickly.

To be honest, I don’t condone his method and I feel guilty going out of turn, and yet, I want to live.

Blaise reminds me of your father, so willing to move heaven and earth to protect those he loves. I've never seen you happier than you've been these past weeks with him.

I know the timing of this transplant seemed miraculous. Now you know why. Your Blaise made it happen.

All my love,

Mom

Tears blur my vision as I fold the letter, trying to understand.

Blaise did this? How? What was his “method” that is questionable?

Did someone else lose their chance at a heart so my mother could live?

What if their family is grieving right now because Blaise pushed my mother ahead in line?

The guilt gnaws at me. I've always tried to do what's right, to be good and fair.

Yet I can't bring myself to wish he hadn't done it. Does that make me a terrible person?

I watch the steady rise and fall of Mom’s breathing. Blaise made this happen. He gave my mother a second chance at life.

How do you thank someone for something like this? A fruit basket and a thank-you note seem laughably inadequate. I owe him everything. My mother's life. Our future together. The chance for her to meet her grandchild…

The steady hum of machines fills the silence as I watch Mom's chest rise and fall.

I want to tell her everything about the baby, about my fears, about how deeply I've fallen for Blaise.

But the breathing tube makes conversation impossible, and it might upset or excite her.

So instead, I squeeze her hand gently, hoping she can feel how much I love her even in her sedated state.

I’m already picturing her well again. Tending the garden again. Being a grandmother. And Blaise is there too. My heart swells with emotion at the thought of being a happy family.

I rest my free hand on my stomach, where our child grows. Maybe this baby is a gift I can give him in return for my mother’s life, though I know that's not how it works. Still, the timing feels like fate, like everything in my life is aligning in ways I never imagined possible.

But other moments nag at me. How he deflects questions about his past. The tension in his shoulders whenever I bring up the Keans.

That night at the hotel, he practically shut down when I suggested speaking to the press about how good they've been to us.

He was rougher, darker with me. At the time, I thought it was passion.

Now I wonder if it was something else. Frustration? Anger? At me?

The baby changes everything. I need to know if what we have is real, if his love for me is as deep as mine for him because there is something in his eyes sometimes, a darkness that doesn't match his tender touches and sweet words. Like he's fighting some internal battle I can't see or understand.