Page 99 of Heartbeat

“Um—Jonas, Summer, Emma, Alex—”

“Who’s Alex?”

“Emma’s boyfriend,” I said, then added, “You and this Kim girl, hopefully—”

She raised a single brow.

“Also, some friends from my new school.” I answered the question she wasn’t willing to verbalize.

“Friends? Which friends?”

“Sam, Blake, Adam…Ethan…”

“Huh.” She ran the tip of her tongue along the side of her thick, red lips, seemingly amused.

“What?”

“Nothing.”

“Okay.” I couldn’t take it anymore. “Look, Marcy, I know you hate me right now. I know you blame me for what happened, but at the moment, I can’t really do anything to change that. Only, this isn’t about you and me. This is about Noah, and I know you care about him—”

“I love that kid.”

“I know that. It’s why I’m here… I—I owe him. So, whatever problem you have with me, can’t you just keep in mind that I’m not asking anything for me?”

“Why?”

“Jesus, Marcy…” I sighed in frustration.

“I mean, why do you owe him?”

I was getting so tired I didn’t even think before blurting out, “He found me, dude.”

She instantly widened her eyes.

“He found me, and I have no idea what it’s done to him. It took him weeks to be able to look me in the eye; I still can’t really look at him—” I shook my head. “And I can’t change that. Just as I can’t change a lot of things, but I can at least try to make certain things easier on him.”

I didn’t mean to raise my voice. I really didn’t.

We were interrupted by a waiter, bringing us a blueberry muffin, which he placed in front of Marcy, and a stack of pancakes, which he put in front of me.

She knew—as did Summer, Emma, and Jonas—that though I rarely had breakfast, the only thing I could ingest in the morning was pancakes. It was an incredibly Marcy thing to do. She’d always been prone to those small yet incredibly kind acts that were like tiny holes in her armor, brief moments in which her anger would subside and one could get a glimpse of what was actually a very lovely heart.

“Thank you,” I told the waiter, but looked at her.

“I thought you might be hungry.”

“I am,” I lied.

She didn’t start her muffin until I’d cut the first piece of my enormous tower of golden discs.

“I don’t hate you, Tommy.” She picked out a single blueberry and brought it to her mouth.

She had this habit of not actually eating a muffin, instead taking tiny pieces of whatever fruit or filling it had and eating only that.

“I hate him,” she said.

“Why?” I couldn’t help but ask.

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