“I’d call you confident and commanding. But those are good things.” I really can’t think of any bad things about Holly.

“You’re sweet, Ben. I—”

My breath stops, on pause until I hear her speak again.

“Sorry. I just realized my stop is next. I should go.”

My good mood dims, but I keep the disappointment out of my response. “No problem.” And, because I’m fucking stuck on her, I tack on what I hope sounds like a casual thought. “The offer about my car still stands. If you don’t want to take the bus next time.”

“Noted. Night, Ben.”

“Good night, Holly.”

She cuts the call off on her end first. I lay the phone on the armrest and stare at the TV screen, not really watching. Instead, I replay our conversation, remembering how her laugh sounded and the warmth her voice brought to my chest.

How is it that Holly can take my mind off a shitty situation like no one else can?

The second half of my treatment is almost over, and I didn’t even notice being hooked up once her voice was in my ear.

This is bad.

Holly is starting to feel like a lot more than just my donor. I want her around me all the time, not just on the day of my surgery.

I don’t just want her kidney. I think I want all of her.

5

HOLLY

Air whistles in and out through my nose because my teeth are clenched too tight for me to gasp in through my mouth the way my lungs want me to.

1. Don’t cry.

2. Don’t throw up.

3. Don’t panic.

4. Repeat.

Over and over, I run down the list in my head as Dr. Williams draws multiple blood samples from my inner elbow. My mind reels at the pinch of the tiny metal needle sliding through my skin. I have a living inside a horror movie amount of fear coursing through me.

Rain pounds on the window, pairing perfectly with the torment in my head and chest. Maybe, if I can focus on the streams of water flowing down the glass, I won’t feel the sharp, cold needle puncturing my vein.

Nope. Not working.

1. Don’t cry.

2. Don’t throw up.

3. Don’t panic.

“Deep breath, Holly. We’re all done,” Dr. Williams speaks kindly as she secures gauze to my arm with a bright purple wrap.

I try to do as I was told, but my jaw locks up.

“You did good. We’ll give you a call in a week or so when we get your results back from the lab, but as long as nothing has changed since last time, we can move to the next step.”

I should say thank you or smile. All I can manage is a nod before I stiff-leg my way out of the exam room, down the hall, through the waiting room, and straight into the restroom where I lock myself in a stall. I don’t even take a second to wipe down the seat before I collapse onto it and stick my head between my knees, fighting off the dizziness and nausea.