Yours: A Standalone Contemporary Romance by Jasinda Wilder Page A

a place as any, especially since his parents didn’t live here anymore. They were up in northern California somewhere, and I couldn’t stand to be near them. Ollie sounded like his father and looked like his mother, and both of them tore my heart to shreds.  
    Being in Ardmore was another way of holding on to him, of being alone with him. Another way of keeping him as close as I could. Feeling him. Seeing him. He’d gotten milkshakes at the diner, bought his first pair of Tony Lomas at the outfitter a few blocks down. Took his first girlfriend to the movies at the theater across from the town square. He’s all over this town, and that’s equal parts comforting and cutting.  
    I don’t cry myself to sleep at night.
    I stopped doing that months ago.
    I don’t whisper his name when I’m lonely, because I’m lonely all the time.  
    I don’t get the shakes anymore, because I don’t do anything more dangerous or traumatic than stitching up the occasional boo-boo. I quit MSF, of course. I couldn’t go back, not after losing Ollie. I couldn’t face any of them. I couldn’t face Africa again, not without him.  
    I can’t face life without Ollie.  
    I don’t know how.  
    I know what I’m doing is unhealthy. I’m not moving on. I’m not healing. I’ve grieved, but I just can’t seem to stop grieving. I can’t stop needing him. I can’t breathe without him, and he’s gone, so I can’t breathe.
    So here I am, in Ardmore, Oklahoma.  
    Alone.
    The only thing I know how to be.  
    At least I’ve got Pep.

Wandering the city streets

    Trinidad, California

    “I’m sorry, but I can’t share that information with you.” The voice on the other end is quiet but firm, and the call ends with a click.  
    “Goddammit!” I toss the phone across the room where it lands on the bed.
    I’ve been trying like hell to find out whose heart I’ve got in my chest. I don’t know why, but I’ve got to know.  
    I’ve got to know.
    And no one will tell me.
    So as much as I hate to do it, there’s only one person left to call. So I call him.  
    “Hello?”  
    “Howdy, Larry.”  
    “Lachlan. To what do I owe this pleasure?” Larry Carter, family attorney, and well-paid bulldog.  
    “I need a favor, Larry.”
    “Well I can’t make any promises, but tell me what you need and I’ll see what I can do. Usual rates apply, of course.”
    “No shit.” I hesitate, blow out a breath. “I need to know who my organ donor was.”  
    “I—what?” This is the first time I’ve ever heard Larry caught off-guard. As the go-to attorney for several ultra-wealthy clients, he’s used to all sorts of requests.
    “The heart in my chest. I need to know who the donor was. No one will tell me, and if anyone can get the information it’s you.”  
    “I’ll see what I can do. It can’t be that hard to get that kind of information. I’ll get back to you.”  
    “Thanks.”  
    “Sure thing.” A pause. “How have you been—?”
    “I’m fine, Larry. Just find out who the donor was, yeah?”
    “Yes, sir. Shouldn’t take long.”  
    “Good.” I hang up, and go out on the deck.
    I’m drinking Perrier. I’m drinking a lot of Perrier these days. I gave Gregor all my Lagavulin, and Mom watched me do it. She searched the house herself, made sure I was really giving it all away. I’m not sure what to think about this, because I never thought of myself as an alcoholic. I didn’t drink all day every day, and rarely to wild excess.
    Okay…maybe that’s a lie.
    I did drink a lot, now that I think about it.
    Most days.  
    By noon, most days.
    To blackout, some days.
    I never saw a reason to quit, though, you know? I was gonna die anyway, so what did it matter if it was liver failure or heart failure? Something was going to give out, and it was gonna be my heart. So might as well drink up while I could.
    But now that it matters, now that I’m aware of the importance of not drinking, it’s really, really fucking hard