Five minutes later, he got back in the car.

“That smells awesome,” she breathed. “I’m hungrier than I thought.”

Noah waited until he pulled back onto the street. “Who was on the phone?”

“I called the transplant center.”

“And?”

“I can drive down tomorrow to meet with the coordinator and get tested.”

“On a Sunday?” His air vacated his lungs. “They’re not wasting any time, are they?”

If she caught the sarcasm in his tone, she ignored it. “My appointment is at one.”

“Then I guess you’d better get some food into you and some decent sleep tonight.”

He peeled his hand from the steering wheel and offered his pinkie. This was what she needed from him. Friendship. Nothing else. No matter how she looked at him.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Alexis left for Huntsville just before eleven the next day after stopping at the café to make sure everyone was settled and able to handle things without her. Before pulling out into traffic, she hammered out a quick text to Noah.

     On my way.

 Call me if you need me.

She plugged in her music, turned it up loud, and tried to focus on driving, not the destination. Because she had no idea what awaited her. The transplant coordinator said the blood test itself was simple and wouldn’t take long. But she first wanted to meet Alexis to go over how the entire process worked.

Whenever anxiety gripped her, she used the calming technique her therapist had taught her. Focus only on what she needed to do now, not what she needed to do when she got there or tomorrow or the day after. She could only control this moment and her reaction to it.

Normally, it worked. But her mind wouldn’t cooperate this time, and not just because of where she was going and why. She’d almost kissed Noah yesterday. Again. And as hard as they’d both worked to pretend things were normal between them, things definitely were not.

Finally, her GPS directed her to take the next exit to the hospital and transplant center. She parked in a visitor lot, paused to check her reflection in the rearview mirror, and then got out. From the outside, the hospital looked more like a college campus than a renowned medical center. Inside the lobby, she stopped at the information desk for a visitor pass, and the receptionist—a volunteer who called her dear several times—directed her to a bank of elevators that would take her to the transplant floor.

She emerged into another lobby, this one sterile and staffed by nurses. They pointed to a waiting room and said someone would come for her.

Ten minutes after she sat down, a woman in street clothes walked in and called Alexis’s name. When Alexis stood, the woman approached and held out her hand. “I’m Jasmine Singh, your transplant counselor.”

She spoke over her shoulder as Alexis followed her back through a set of large automatic doors. “This will take roughly an hour. We have some paperwork for you to fill out, and some documents to sign. But mostly we’ll be talking. Sound good?”

Alexis nodded.

“No need to be nervous,” Jasmine said with a reassuring smile. “This is simple stuff.”

They reached a small office. Jasmine held open the door and waited for Alexis to enter. Her desk dominated one half of the room. On the opposite side was a seating arrangement with a small couch and two upholstered chairs. A coffee table sat in the middle. The nameplate on the desk had the letters NCC after her name, which meant she was a certified counselor as well as a registered nurse.

“Make yourself comfortable,” Jasmine said. “Can I get you anything to drink? I have water and coffee.”

“Water would be great,” Alexis said, sitting on the couch.

Jasmine opened the door of a mini fridge wedged between two file cabinets. She returned with two bottles of water, which she set on the coffee table before claiming a chair facing Alexis.

“How was your drive here? You find it okay?”

“Fine,” Alexis said automatically. “It’s a simple drive from Nashville.”

Jasmine crossed her legs and smiled. “If you have any questions at any point, don’t hesitate to ask them. There are no stupid questions, and it’s my job to make sure you have everything you need to make this process as smooth as possible for you.”

She had an easy way about her. Friendly without being fake. But there was also a rote efficiency to her, as if she’d held this meeting a thousand times before. Probably, she had.

Jasmine picked up a black binder from the coffee table. “The way I prefer to do this, if it’s okay with you, is to cover some of the logistical things first. Get some paperwork out of the way, get the signatures we need, and go from there. Is that acceptable?”

“Of course.”

The woman flipped open the binder, set it back on the coffee table, and turned it so Alexis could read it. “Most of this is yours to keep, but originals of some of the documents you sign will stay with me.”

Alexis leaned forward as Jasmine flipped through the pages. Pre-surgery checklist. Post-surgery checklist. What to bring and not to bring. What to expect on the day of surgery.

“This seems a little premature,” Alexis interrupted. “I haven’t even taken the blood test yet.”

Jasmine nodded. “Normally, yes, we would wait on these things. But as you know—”

“He doesn’t have a lot of time.”

Jasmine’s smile this time was sympathetic. “I know this must be difficult.”

Alexis didn’t have a response to that, so she looked at the binder again. “What else is there?”

Jasmine flipped a few more pages. “This last section deals with the financials of the surgery. In most cases, the recipient’s insurance will cover all costs associated with the transplant itself—the testing, the pre-surgery prep, and post-surgery care. However, any future health issues associated with the surgery would be covered by your own insurance. You indicated that you do have insurance, correct?”

Barely. Like most small-business owners, Alexis bought her own insurance through the federal marketplace, but the coverage wasn’t great.

Jasmine misunderstood Alexis’s nonanswer. “There are many programs available to provide financial assistance to donors. But that isn’t something we can guarantee or have any authority over, so I do need a signature from you indicating that you understand your financial obligations associated with the transplant.”

Alexis signed where Jasmine indicated.

The woman flipped the binder shut and slid it closer to Alexis. “We recommend that you keep that handy and have it with you during all prep work. There are pockets where you can add information as you get it. But I’m always available for questions or clarifications.”

Alexis smiled, or something like it, and opened her water.

Jasmine scooted back in her chair. “You should also know that part of my job is to assess that you are doing this of your own free will without any financial or emotional coercion.”

Alexis paused and lowered the bottle from her mouth. “What does that mean?”

Jasmine’s face softened into the kind of expression that always spelled discomfort on the horizon. “You’ve had a lot going on in your life.”

“You googled me?”

Jasmine did that calm smile again. “Tell me how you handle stress.”

“Caffeine, therapy, and a relentless pursuit of justice.”

Jasmine laughed. “Any therapy after the incident?”

“Of course. I also host a yoga class for survivors.”

Jasmine nodded and made a note in her file. “I understand you weren’t aware that Mr. Vanderpool was your father until recently.”

Alexis set the bottle down on the table. “What does that have to do with the surgery?”

Jasmine adopted a calm, neutral expression. “It’s my job to assess your emotional well-being. Finding a father you never knew would be a heavy emotional load.”

“It was a shock,” she finally said.

Jasmine waited for Alexis to continue, prodding with nothing more than encouraging silence.

And for some reason, Alexis acquiesced. “I mean, I knew I must have had a father somewhere at some point.”

“But you never thought about finding him?”

Alexis shrugged. “It never seemed important. I had my mother, and we were a perfect family just the two of us.”

“And now that he has found you, can you tell me how you’d feel if the surgery didn’t work?”

Alexis started. “Didn’t work? In what way?”

“His body could reject your kidney.”

“But isn’t that what all the tests are about? To make sure his body won’t reject it?”

“Of course. But there are never any guarantees.”

“But there are, aren’t there? If he doesn’t get a kidney, he will die. Right?”

The woman tilted her head. “He will need a kidney to live. Yes. But another donor might be found. He’s on the transplant list.”

“But the chances are better for survival, aren’t they? If he gets a kidney from a relative instead of a stranger.”

“Statistically, yes. Recipients have a longer life span post-surgery when they have a living donor who is a relative.”

“Then it should be me.”

Jasmine leaned forward. “Alexis, do you want to do this?”

“Yes.” Her answer surprised even herself with its certainty, its forcefulness.

“Why?” Jasmine asked.

“What do you mean why? Because he could die if I don’t.”

“Wanting to protect someone from dying is different from wanting someone to live.”

Alexis sat back against the couch. “That’s a horrible thing to say.”

“Alexis, what you say to me stays with me. Mr. Vanderpool will never know what is said here today, so you can be honest.”

Annoyance prickled along her spine. “I am being honest. Are you trying to talk me out of this?”