Things We Know by Heart (2 page)

 

“The heart has its reasons, of which reason knows nothing: we know this in countless ways.”

—Blaise Pascal

THERE ISN'T A
place to turn around on this road, even if I wanted to. Just a steep drop down a hillside of moss-covered oak trees that rise up out of the tall, summer-gold grass. The road goes on for miles like that, winding its way all the way to the coast, where he's been all nineteen years of his life. Thirty-six miles away.

When the trees finally give way to the wide blue expanse of ocean and sky at the edge of his town, my hands are shaking so badly, I have to pull into the scenic overlook on the shoulder of the highway. A thin swath of fog clings to the cliff's edge, melting beneath the morning sunlight that spreads over the water beyond. I turn off the car but don't get out. Instead I roll down the windows and breathe. Slow, deep breaths in an attempt to calm my conscience.

I've been here, to Shelter Cove, lots of times before. Driven past this spot and headed into the little beach town on countless spring and summer days, but today feels different.
There's none of the giddy anticipation that used to bubble between me and my sister, Ryan, in the backseat as we drove over with Mom and Dad, our trunk packed full of beach towels and boogie boards, cooler bursting with all the junk food we were never allowed to eat at home. There's no thrill of freedom that came when Trent first got his license and we'd drive over in his truck for the day, feeling grown-up and romantic. Today there's just a grim sort of determination, and the tense feeling that comes along with it.

I look out over the water, and a startling thought occurs to me. I wonder if, any of those times I've been here, I ever saw Colton Thomas. If Trent and I ever walked past him on the street, eyes catching for half a second before moving on without another thought, the way strangers do. Completely unaware that one day there would be this link between us. Before everything. Before Trent's accident, and writing letters, and meeting the others, and before I spent so many nights hoping to hear back from Colton Thomas and wondering why I never did.

It's a small town. Small enough that we could've seen each other at some point on one of my trips over. But then again, maybe not. He probably didn't spend his summers the way the rest of us did. I've studied the careful time line his sister kept on her blog, which is what eventually led me to him. Though she didn't start it until he was put on the transplant list, I know that he was fourteen when his heart
began the excruciatingly slow process of failing him. He made the transplant list by the time he was seventeen. And he would've died had he not gotten the call in the eleventh hour of his eighteenth year. On the last day of Trent's seventeenth.

I push away the thought and the heavy feeling that comes along with it. Take another deep breath and remind myself how careful I need to be with this. I've broken too many rules already, written and unwritten, protocols meant to protect both the donor families and the recipients from knowing too much. Or expecting too much.

But when I found Colton, and his whole story out there for anyone to see, I replaced those rules in my mind with a new set. Rules and promises that I've repeated over and over, that have gotten me this far today and that bolster me enough to pull back onto the road as I repeat them: I will respect Colton Thomas's wish for no contact, though I don't think I'll ever understand it. I just want to
see
him. See who he is in reality. Maybe then I can understand. Or at least make peace with it.

I won't interfere with his life. I won't talk to him, not even to hear the sound of his voice. He won't even know I exist.

I park across the street from Good Clean Fun and shut off my car, but I don't get out. Instead I take a moment to
absorb the details of the shop, like maybe I'll see something that can tell me more about Colton than all his sister's posts have. It looks just like it did in the pictures I've seen: perfectly stacked paddleboards and kayaks fill the racks on either side of the door, bright splashes of yellow and red against the otherwise gray morning. Behind them I can see through the front window, where an assortment of wet suits and life jackets hangs in neat rows, ready for the day's adventure-seeking customers. Nothing beyond what I was expecting. Even so, it's strange to see it now, a shop I must've walked by more than once and never paid any attention to. Today it's a place I feel like I know, with a history made up of so much more than the equipment on the racks.

The shop's not open yet, and the street is mostly empty; but up ahead, where the pier juts out into the choppy gray ocean, the locals are out, beginning their days. Surfers dot the water on either side of the mussel-covered supports. A fisherman baits his line before he casts over the railing. Two older ladies in tracksuits walk at a brisk pace along the water, chatting and pumping their arms enthusiastically as they go. And in the parking lot next to the pier, three guys in board shorts and flip-flops lean against the railing, watching the waves as steam curls lazily from the coffee cups in their hands.

I decide coffee might be a good idea. If nothing else, I could use a cup to hold in my own hands. Maybe that
would be enough to steady them. And finding some would give me something to do besides sit across the street from the shop waiting, and becoming less and less sure of myself by the second.

A few doors down on my side of the street is a sign that looks promising:
THE SECRET SPOT
. I give the closed rental shop one more quick glance, then get out of the car and head down the sidewalk, trying to look comfortable and relaxed, like I belong here.

The air is thick with morning fog and the salt smell of the water, and though the day will heat up, it's still cool enough that goose bumps rise on my arms as I walk. When I push through the door of the café, the smell of coffee wraps around me, along with the mellow notes of acoustic guitar that come from the small speaker over the door. My shoulders relax the tiniest bit. I almost feel like if I wanted to, I could just get a coffee, maybe take a walk on the beach, and leave without crossing any more lines. But I know it's not true. There's too much wrapped up in this, and in him, for me to be able to do that.

I startle at the voice that comes from behind the counter.

“Morning! Be right with you.” The voice is warm. Easy, like a smile.

“Okay,” I answer, aware of how stiff I sound in contrast. Like I'm out of practice interacting with people. I try briefly to think of something else to add but come up blank. I step
back and look around the café instead. It's a cozy place, with deep-turquoise walls that make the black-and-white surf photos on them stand out. Above me, colorful old surfboards hang side by side, suspended from the ceiling by loops of weathered rope. Next to the counter another surfboard—this one with a jagged bite taken out of it—leans against the wall, serving as the hand-painted menu board.

I'm not hungry at all, but I scan it anyway, looking for a breakfast burrito out of habit. Trent's favorite, especially after morning swim practice. If he got out early, and we had time before school, we'd go downtown and grab one to share at our own little secret spot: a bench hidden away behind the restaurant, overlooking the creek. Sometimes we'd talk—about his next meet or mine, or our plans for the weekend. But my favorite times were the ones when we'd just sit there with the soft sound of water flowing over rocks and the comfortable quiet that comes with knowing each other by heart.

A guy with wild blond hair and bright-blue eyes steps through the doorway from the kitchen, drying his hands on a towel. “Sorry about the wait,” he says, flashing me a smile that shines white against his tan. “Help hasn't showed up yet. No idea why.” He nods at the chalkboard reporting the day's surf conditions:
6 ft south swell, offshore breeze . . . get out there!

When he glances out the window toward the beach and
shrugs, I get the idea he's okay with it.

I don't say anything. Pretend to examine the menu. The silence is a little awkward.

“Anyway,” he says, clapping his hands together, “what can I get you this mornin'?”

I don't really want anything, but I'm here, and it feels too late to duck out now. Plus he seems nice. “I'll have a mocha,” I say, not sounding entirely sure.

“That's it?” he asks.

I nod. “Yes.”

“You sure you don't want anything else?”

“Yes. I mean no thank you—I'm sure.” My eyes drop to the ground, though I can feel him looking at me.

“Okay,” he says after a long moment. His voice gentler now. “I'll bring it over to you in just a minute.” He gestures at the five or six empty tables. “Plenty of seats—take your pick.”

I do, a table tucked deep in the corner, facing the window. Outside, the sun melts its way through the morning gray, infusing the water with light and color.

“Here you go.”

The café guy sets down a steaming, bowl-sized mug and a plate with a giant muffin. “Banana chocolate chip,” he says when I look up. “Tastes like happiness. You seem like maybe you could use a little this morning, so it's on the house. The coffee, too.”

He smiles, and I recognize the careful way he does it. It's not just this morning. It's the same smile people have given me for a while now, a mix of what looks like compassion and pity, and I wonder what it is he sees in me that makes him think I need it. My posture? Expression? Tone? It's hard to guess after this long.

“Thank you,” I say. And then I try for a real smile back, to assure both of us that I'm okay.

“See? It's working already.” He grins. “I'm Chris, by the way. Let me know if you need anything else, okay?”

I nod. “Thank you.”

He goes back to the kitchen, and I lean back in my chair, hot mug cradled between my hands, feeling a little calmer already. Though I can still see the kayak shop across the street, this feels like a safe, reasonable distance. Like I haven't done anything wrong by being here. A surfer walks by on the sidewalk, and I catch a glimpse of green eyes and tan skin that sends my eyes away quickly, down toward the foam of my mocha. He's striking. It's startling to notice, and doing so doesn't come without a twinge of guilt.

A moment later the door swings open, and he strides straight toward the counter without seeing me in my corner, dings the bell five times fast. “Hey! Anybody working here today, or you all out in the water?”

Chris comes back from the kitchen, a smile of familiarity on his face. “Well, look who decided to grace us with his
presence this morning.” They high-five and pull each other into one of those guy half-hugs over the counter. “Good to see you, man. You surf already?”

“Watched the sun come up from the water,” says the one with those eyes. “Just came in. It was good—why didn't I see you out there?” He reaches for a cup and fills it himself.

“Somebody's gotta run the place,” Chris says, taking a sip from his own cup.

“Somebody's priorities are all wrong,” the other one deadpans.

Chris sighs. “It happens.”

“I know. When you're not looking,” his friend says simply. He blows gently over his cup. “That's why you gotta be here now, so you don't miss that stuff.”

“That's deep, dude.” Chris smiles. “Any more wisdom you want to lay on me this morning?”

“Nope. But this swell's supposed to hold up. Sunrise session tomorrow?”

Chris tilts his head, reordering his priorities.

“Come on.” His friend smiles. “Life's too short. Why would you
not
?”

“All right,” Chris says. “You're right. Five thirty. You want grub?”

When a tiny part of me hopes he answers yes so he'll stay, I realize how intently I've been following their conversation. And him. Self-conscious, I raise my mug to my
lips, more to have something to hide behind than to take a sip. I force my eyes back to the street outside the window.

“Nah, I gotta go get the shop opened up. I got a family of eight coming in to rent kayaks right now, and I promised my sister I'd be there to get 'em set up.”

His words, casually spoken, hit me quick, like a volley of arrows:
kayaks
,
rental shop
,
sister
. My stomach does a flip at the all-too-real possibility that this is
him
. Standing right there, just a few feet away. I inhale sharply at the thought and immediately choke on my coffee. Both guys look my way as I sputter and reach for the glass of water on the table. I knock over my mug instead, sending it to the ground with a crash. Coffee splatters in every direction.

The surfer takes a step toward me as I jump up, out of my seat. Chris tosses a rag over the counter to him. “Colt, catch.”

My heart drops right out of my chest, taking all the air in the room with it so I can't breathe.

Colt
.

As in Colton Thomas.

 

“Scientists have identified individual neurons, which fire, when a particular person has been recognized. Thus, [it is possible that] when a recipient's brain analyzes the features of a person, who significantly impressed the donor, the donated organ may feed back powerful emotional messages, which signal recognition of the individual. Such feedback messages occur within milliseconds and the recipient [may even believe] that [he] knows the person.”

—“Cellular Memory in Organ Transplants”

COLTON THOMAS WALKS
over to me, dark brows creased with concern, rag in one hand, the other reaching across the puddle of spilled coffee. “You okay?”

I nod, still coughing, though I'm far from it.

“Here, step over this way. I'll get it.” He takes my elbow lightly, and I tense at his touch.

“Sorry,” he says, dropping his hand quickly. “I . . . you sure you're okay?”

He's standing there, right there in front of me with a dishrag in his hand. Asking me if I'm okay. This should
not be happening. This isn't what was supposed to happen, this—

I look away. Cough once more, then clear my throat and take a shaky breath in.
Calm down, calm down.
“I'm sorry,” I manage. “So sorry. I just . . .”

“It's okay,” he says, like he might laugh. He glances over his shoulder at Chris, who looks like he's already making me a new cup.

“Fresh one on the way!” Chris calls.

“See?” Colton Thomas says. “No worries.” He gestures at the closest chair. “I got this. You can sit.”

I don't move, and I don't say anything.

He crouches down to sop up the coffee with the rag but then looks back up at me and smiles, and it shocks me because of how different this smile is from the weak one in so many of his sister's pictures. Because
he
doesn't look like he did in the pictures. I don't think I would've guessed he was even the same person. Maybe not even if he'd walked right into his parents' shop.

The Colton in the pictures was ill. Pale skin, dark circles, puffy face, thin arms. A smile that seemed to take effort. This person kneeling down in front of me is vibrant, and healthy, and the one who—

I want to look away, but I can't. Not with the way he looks at
me
then.

His hand stills and hovers above the sticky floor like
he's forgotten what he's doing. And then, without taking his eyes off me, he stands slowly until we're face-to-face and I can see the deep green of his eyes as they search mine.

His voice is softer, almost tentative, when he finally speaks. “Are you . . . have you . . . do I?”

His questions float, unasked, in the space between us, and for moment they hold me there. And then panic comes rushing in.

The reality of what I've done—or come dangerously close to doing—hits me, sends me past him with a bump to his shoulder and out the door before he can say anything else. Before we can look at each other a moment longer.

I don't look back. I walk as fast as I can down the sidewalk to my car, driven by the certainty that I shouldn't have come and that I need to leave
now
. Because mixed up with the knowledge that I've done something horribly wrong is the overwhelming feeling that I want to know this person better. Colton Thomas, with green eyes and tan skin, and a smile like he knows me. Who seems so different from the person I thought I'd find.

The sound of the door behind me, and then footsteps, makes me want to run.

“Hey,” a voice calls. “Wait!” His voice.

Those two words.

They make me want to—stop and wait, turn, and just look at him again. But I don't. I walk faster instead. Away.
This was a mistake, a mistake, a mistake
. I jam my hand into my pocket and click the unlock button on my key over and over, near frantic now. Just as I step off the sidewalk and reach for my door, his footsteps come right up behind me, close.

“Hey,” he says again, “you left this.”

I freeze, fingers curled tight under the handle.

My heart hammers as I turn, slowly, to face him again.

He swallows hard. Holds my purse out to me. “Here.”

I take it. “Thank you.”

We stand there, catching our breaths. Searching for more words. He finds his first.

“I . . . are you all right? You seem like . . . maybe you're not?”

Tears well up instantly, and I shake my head.

“I'm sorry,” he says, taking a step back. “That was—it's none of my business. I just . . .” His eyes run over my face, searching again.

This is more than a mistake. I yank up on the handle and swing the door open, duck inside, and close it behind me with a shaky hand. I need to leave right now. I fumble with my keys for the right one, but they all look the same, and I can feel his eyes on me, and I just need to leave, and I should never have come, and— I find the right key, jam it into the ignition, and turn it. When I do, I look up in time to see him take a startled step out of the way, back onto the
sidewalk. I shove the gear into drive, turn the wheel, and hit the gas. Hard.

The impact is sudden and loud. An insult that comes out of nowhere. Metal and glass crunch. My chin smacks into the steering wheel. The horn blares, and in the stillness of the moment it sinks in, what I've just done. Everything I've just done. I close my eyes, hoping feebly that somehow none of it happened. That I just dreamed it, the way I dream about Trent, where everything is so clear and real, until I wake up and realize that I am alone and he is gone.

Slowly, I open my eyes. I'm afraid to do anything else, but my hand moves automatically, puts the car in park. And then my door swings open.

Colton Thomas is not gone. He's right there, looking at me with concern and something else I'm not sure of. He leans in and reaches across me to shut the engine off.

“Are you okay?” There's worry in his voice.

My mouth throbs, but I nod my head, avoid his eyes, bite back tears. I taste blood.

“You're hurt,” he says.

He raises his hand, just barely, like he might brush the hair away from my face, or wipe the blood from my lip, but he doesn't. He just keeps looking at me.

“Please,” he says after a long moment, “let me help.”