Vital Sign by J. L. Mac

Soon. I’m wanting to meet a few of my husband’s organ recipients. I hope that you’re interested, but if you aren’t, please don’t feel obligated. I don’t have to meet you. Please consider and let me know what you’d prefer. Or don’t. Either way.
    -Sadie Parker
    I had read her email at least a dozen times , thinking that some part of me should feel bad. But something about this woman—the way she spoke so freely, so plainly—made me curious about her and glad that I had someone to talk to. Did all widows talk that way? Surely there’s more to her than what she gave away in the email. Who is Sadie Parker, [email protected] ?
    The emails that we exchanged fed my curiosity. Something in those emails sounded so familiar. She reminded me of myself , in a way, so it was no surprise when I sat by my laptop refreshing my inbox every five minutes hoping for another email from her. Something about this woman had me wanting to get in my Jeep and take my ass back home to Atlanta. When I had mentioned the heart patient thing in my email, it ran her off. I could tell. I could almost feel her withdraw. She probably hates me for it. I hate me for it too. My parents should have left well enough alone, but instead I got a new heart and a mountain of guilt to go along with it. Sadie seemed to help though. She took my mind off of it and for a shadow of a second I even thought I felt relief that I’m still alive.
    Never in my wildest fucking dreams would I have expected that I’d end up meeting her sooner rather than later.
    I’d stood there in front of my sliding glass doors with my vegetable juice in my hand, groaning to myself about just how bad I wished that vegetable juice could be a Bloody Mary when I saw something moving along the beach south of where my house stands. I hurried to the counter and grabbed my binoculars, popping the lens caps off as I strode back to the glass door. I always made sure to keep them handy. They proved to be useful pretty regularly.
    Sliding the door open, I stepped out and brought the binoculars up to my eyes. I peered out , wondering who the fuck was intruding on my personal little slice of the world now.
    “ Hmph.” I furrowed my brows, curious why some woman in a white dress was edging up to the water. Her long brown hair fluttered wildly in the wind. “What the fuck are you doing, lady?” I whispered to myself.
    I adjusted the magnification on the binoculars and brought them back up to my eyes. She was knee deep in the water and seemed like she was in a goddamn trance. I thought maybe she was in trouble, or stupid, or insane, or drunk; maybe all of the above. I’d be the one to know.
    I groaned throatily then hurried inside , slamming the binoculars back onto my counter and slipping on my flip flops. It took all I had in me not to let irritation send me spiraling out of control. All I knew was that some crazy person was intruding on my personal space and it was more than likely a trap of some sort. Some photographer was probably lying in wait, ready to capture me playing lifeguard.
    I could see the fucking tabloid headline in my head — Alexander McBride accosts beachgoer —as I skipped in a hurry down my wide stairs.
    I never expected this. I never expected to find her.
    Her.
    I damn near lose my grip on her when I work at fishing her up out of the water. She flings her thin limbs around and fights against me. She’s stronger than I’d imagined; I swear, the spirit of a warrior radiates from her small frame. I tote her feathery light, soaked body to the sand and set her to her feet. She teeters and I get a look at her while I hold her in place and then I feel like I’m the one teetering.
    Damn.
    Fuck , she’s breathtaking. Her thin white dress clings to her skin and the mortification she’s wearing only makes her wide chocolaty eyes wider, her plump lips parting, forming an O just before she tries explaining her little excursion into the Atlantic. She searches for