“Um…hello? Are you two talking now? Like, on the regular?”
“We’re”—he paused, resting his elbows on the table and steepling his fingers under his chin—“worried about you.”
I rolled my eyes. “Bullshit. She’s worried about me. You’ve seen me at least half a dozen times since my date with Porter and haven’t said anything. You’re worried about her being worried about me.”
The corners of his lip twitched as he confirmed, “And that.”
I set the wine back on the table and caught the eye of the waitress, silently asking for a check.
Tom reached across the table and covered his hand with mine.
My heart stopped and somehow exploded all at the same time. It wasn’t an odd gesture for Tom. It’s just that it was a very Porter gesture from Tom.
I snatched my hand away. “I’m fine.”
He narrowed his eyes and slanted his head. “See, I’m not thinking you are.”
“Okay, well, you’re allowed to think whatever you want. But worrying won’t change anything. I’m fine. Seriously.” I did my best to ignore his scrutinizing gaze by lifting my purse into my lap and digging through my wallet for my credit card.
His voice was rough and pained as he said, “I’ve been there, Charlotte.”
I jerked my head up to look at him. “What?”
He leaned toward me and whispered, “People. We get stuck in a rut and begin to believe the rut is how it’s always going to be. But it’s not. You just got to find your way out.”
“I went on one date with a guy, Tom. We mutually agreed not to see each other anymore. That rut you think I’m in isn’t even a divot.”
He shook his head and tsked his teeth. “Got my hopes up. Thought you’d finally done it.”
“See, this is why I don’t tell Mom anything. I go on one date and you two are out shopping for wedding china.”
“We saw you,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “Shit, Char. You were smiling and laughing. I have never in my life seen you like that. Your mother burst into tears, cried all over a fifty-dollar steak.”
My mouth fell open as I abandoned my search-and-rescue mission for my credit card and set my purse aside. “What are you talking about?” Though it was pretty damn clear. I’d only been to one place recently that served fifty-dollar steaks.
“I finally drew up the courage and asked her out. Managed to swing a late reservation at The Porterhouse. Walked in, your mom on my arm, feeling like a goddamn king. Then we saw you.” He chuckled. “For the next hour, I paid nearly two hundred dollars on wasted food to spy on you from a booth across the way.”
Of course they had seen me with Porter. There were at least a thousand restaurants in the greater Atlanta area. Obviously, they would pick The Porterhouse. Karma wouldn’t allow it any other way.
“Fantastic,” I deadpanned.
“Yeah, Charlotte. It really was.” He stood and pulled his wallet from his back pocket. Then he threw a stack of bills on the table. “You’re not okay. No fucking way you’ll ever convince me of that. Not after I saw that woman at the restaurant.”
And then he was gone.
I groaned as he disappeared around the corner.
He was right. I had been okay that night with Porter. I felt it all the way down to my bones. But maybe that was exactly the problem I was having. I’d gotten a taste—the tiniest sampling—of happiness and I couldn’t seem to settle back into my life of isolation.
I jolted awake at the sound of my cell phone vibrating across my end table. It was dark outside and my body screamed, objecting to the wakeup call. God. How long had I been asleep? It’d been pouring when I’d left the restaurant, so I’d gone home to wait it out before heading up to the park. Though, the second I’d hit my couch, exhaustion had won out.
After snatching my phone up, I pressed it to my ear. “Hel—” I paused to clear my sleep-filled throat and tried again. “Hello.”
“Dr. Mills? It’s Patty.”
I shot straight up, my tired body suddenly coming fully awake as a blast of adrenaline shot through my veins.
“What do you have?” I rushed out, jumping to my feet.
“The transplant team is being called in. Caucasian male. Dilated Cardiomyopathy. A-pos…” She continued to rattle stats off as I tied my long hair into a ponytail.
After sliding my shoes on, I weaved a hurried path through my small apartment and snagged my keys off the bar. “How old?” I snapped, a sharp pain of anticipation piercing me. She didn’t immediately answer, so as I attempted to lock the door with shaking hands, I repeated, “How old, Patty?”
One word.
“Ten.”
My throat closed and I stared at the front door while blinking tears back.
One word.
“Lucas,” I breathed, rational thought fleeing my system almost as fast as hope filled me.
“Dr. Mills, if I may—” Patty started, but I didn’t have the time or the desire to hear her out.
“I’m on my way.” I hung up.
The rain poured down in sheets, soaking me to the bone as I jogged to my car. The leather seat of my BMW was cool, but that wasn’t why a chill traveled down my spine. I hit his number on my favorites and then lifted my phone to my ear.
“Detective—” he answered, but I didn’t let him finish.
Throwing the car into reverse, I yelled, “I found him!”
“Come again?” Tom said.
“I need you to meet me at the hospital. There’s a kid,” I told him, speeding out of my apartment complex.
“Son of a bitch. I knew it. You aren’t all right. Go home, Charlotte. I’ll meet you there.”
My voice shook as my anxiety grew. “He’s ten. Caucasian. Dilated Cardiomyopathy. A-pos. All just like Lucas.”
“And just like the last three kids you’ve dragged me up to the hospital to see over the last ten years. You promised me you’d stop doing this shit.”
I had. I’d been managing my hopes well over the last few years. Keeping them so low that they were almost nonexistent. In that time, I’d turned down two middle-of-the-night calls from Patty and the transplant team. Each time, I’d still swing by recovery the next morning, just to be sure it wasn’t him. It was never my son though.
But I’d been spiraling out of control over the last few weeks, and I’d actually convinced myself that maybe this time was different.
“This shit is finding my son!” I bit out, gripping the steering wheel tight as I floored it through a yellow light.
“No, Charlotte. This shit is you punishing yourself.” He quieted before taking a needle to my bubble of happiness. “It’s not him.”
My frustration flashed to rage. “You don’t know that! If Lucas is still out there, he’s going to end up on that operating table one day. And goddamn it, Tom, I’m going to be there when he does.”
“Sweetheart,” he said gently.
I sucked in a deep breath, refusing to allow his negativity to extinguish the only strand of optimism I’d had in years. “It’s him,” I said resolutely.
“It’s not—”
“But what if it is? Isn’t it at least worth checking out?”
He laughed without humor. “What are we checking out, Charlotte? A kid? Who is about to get a transplant? You want me to show up there and interrogate his terrified parents? Slap them in a pair of cuffs and haul them down to the station because their son happens to be the same age and blood type as a baby that was taken ten years ago?”
“Yes! That’s exactly what I want you to do!” I yelled, knowing how irrational it sounded but completely unable to stop myself.
“Well, it’s not going to happen. Everyone in the world with a kid on the donor registry is not a suspect.”
That was where Tom and I disagreed. As far as I was concerned, they should have been. The cardiac team at the Emory Transplant Center knew me well. I’d called in favor after favor to get the heads-up when a patient matching Lucas’s description was brought in. I despised the pity-filled glances they gave me when I’d show up frantic and haggard, but it was well worth it to get those precious phone calls.