Things We Know by Heart Read Free Page B

yes so he’ll stay, I realize how intently I’ve been following their conversation. And him. Self-conscious, I raise my mug to mylips, more to have something to hide behind than to take a sip. I force my eyes back to the street outside the window.
    â€œNah, I gotta go get the shop opened up. I got a family of eight coming in to rent kayaks right now, and I promised my sister I’d be there to get ’em set up.”
    His words, casually spoken, hit me quick, like a volley of arrows: kayaks , rental shop , sister . My stomach does a flip at the all-too-real possibility that this is him . Standing right there, just a few feet away. I inhale sharply at the thought and immediately choke on my coffee. Both guys look my way as I sputter and reach for the glass of water on the table. I knock over my mug instead, sending it to the ground with a crash. Coffee splatters in every direction.
    The surfer takes a step toward me as I jump up, out of my seat. Chris tosses a rag over the counter to him. “Colt, catch.”
    My heart drops right out of my chest, taking all the air in the room with it so I can’t breathe.
    Colt .
    As in Colton Thomas.

CHAPTER THREE
    Â 
    â€œScientists have identified individual neurons, which fire, when a particular person has been recognized. Thus, [it is possible that] when a recipient’s brain analyzes the features of a person, who significantly impressed the donor, the donated organ may feed back powerful emotional messages, which signal recognition of the individual. Such feedback messages occur within milliseconds and the recipient [may even believe] that [he] knows the person.”
    â€”“Cellular Memory in Organ Transplants”
    COLTON THOMAS WALKS over to me, dark brows creased with concern, rag in one hand, the other reaching across the puddle of spilled coffee. “You okay?”
    I nod, still coughing, though I’m far from it.
    â€œHere, step over this way. I’ll get it.” He takes my elbow lightly, and I tense at his touch.
    â€œSorry,” he says, dropping his hand quickly. “I . . . you sure you’re okay?”
    He’s standing there, right there in front of me with a dishrag in his hand. Asking me if I’m okay. This shouldnot be happening. This isn’t what was supposed to happen, this—
    I look away. Cough once more, then clear my throat and take a shaky breath in. Calm down, calm down. “I’m sorry,” I manage. “So sorry. I just . . .”
    â€œIt’s okay,” he says, like he might laugh. He glances over his shoulder at Chris, who looks like he’s already making me a new cup.
    â€œFresh one on the way!” Chris calls.
    â€œSee?” Colton Thomas says. “No worries.” He gestures at the closest chair. “I got this. You can sit.”
    I don’t move, and I don’t say anything.
    He crouches down to sop up the coffee with the rag but then looks back up at me and smiles, and it shocks me because of how different this smile is from the weak one in so many of his sister’s pictures. Because he doesn’t look like he did in the pictures. I don’t think I would’ve guessed he was even the same person. Maybe not even if he’d walked right into his parents’ shop.
    The Colton in the pictures was ill. Pale skin, dark circles, puffy face, thin arms. A smile that seemed to take effort. This person kneeling down in front of me is vibrant, and healthy, and the one who—
    I want to look away, but I can’t. Not with the way he looks at me then.
    His hand stills and hovers above the sticky floor likehe’s forgotten what he’s doing. And then, without taking his eyes off me, he stands slowly until we’re face-to-face and I can see the deep green of his eyes as they search mine.
    His voice is softer, almost tentative, when he finally speaks. “Are you . . . have you . . . do I?”
    His questions float, unasked, in the