This Old Heart of Mine Read online

  I’m so busy consuming the view that I’m not paying attention to where I’m going. Without warning, one ankle twists in front of the other and trips me up. I extend my palms, bracing myself for the impact of the ground. Clenching my eyes shut, I wait for my palms to scrape against the concrete, but it doesn’t happen.

  Instead, they land on a damp, heaving chest. Mortified, I open my eyes and bring my gaze up, taking in a pair of tanned, muscular calves peeking out of long, black workout shorts and a tight-fitting black T-shirt.

  My sweaty skin flushes further when I look up into a pair of light grey eyes, the color of morning mist. I clear my throat and take a step back, breaking the stranger’s firm grip on my waist. His fingers brush against my sides on their way down.

  I pull my earbuds out and smile. “Thank you. It’s way too early for my daily dose of embarrassment.” Shaking my head, I chuckle at my own clumsiness and awkward joke. The man’s brooding stare doesn’t crack; if anything, it darkens at my words. He crosses his bulging arms and huffs.

  “Are you okay?” His deep voice is smoky with an accent I can’t quite place.

  “I’m fine, thanks. Nothing hurt but my pride.”

  “You should have been paying attention.”

  I bristle at his sharp tone. Still trying to keep my voice light, I gesture at the view. “I was paying attention, just to something different.”

  “To the wrong thing.”

  I shrug, my smile fading. What is this guy’s problem? “That’s your opinion. Personally, I think this view is worth paying attention to.”

  “You should be more careful. Look where you’re going next time.”

  I frown at the reprimand. From the faint lines by his eyes, he looks older than me. I’d guess around late-twenties or early-thirties, but that doesn’t give him the excuse to act like the dad I never had.

  He’s also very handsome with olive skin, exotic almond-shaped eyes, and wavy black hair that curls around his ears. But that doesn’t give him a license to be so rude, either.

  I haven’t just gained a new heart over the past year; I’ve gained a backbone, too. One that is getting stronger every day thanks to the changes in my life. Pulling myself up by that steely spine, I straighten to my full height. I only reach his chin, but it’s an improvement.

  A lock of sweat-slick hair falls in front of his eyes. He brushes it away with an impatient swipe of his hand and continues to stare me down.

  I put my hands on my hips and match his scowl with one of my own. With my mousy features, I’m sure I don’t look that menacing, but I give it a try. “Listen, thanks for helping me, I really do appreciate it, but my clumsiness isn’t your concern. If I want to trip and embarrass myself a thousand times, I will. We are in the land of the free, after all.”

  His eyes burn into me and he opens his mouth to say something else, but I’ve heard enough. This is my favorite part of the day. I’m not going to allow anyone to rain on my parade, no matter how attractive they are.

  “Thanks again for your help. Have a nice day.” I wave and jog off back in the direction I came, trying extra hard not to stumble and ruin my amazing exit. It would be classic Ava if I did, and right now I’m new Ava.

  I don’t turn around, but I can feel his glare burning into my back. For some reason, it makes me smile. I put my earbuds back in and turn my head to stare out at the view. I can’t wait to tell Gia about this. I know she’ll be so proud.

  I’m proud of me, too. Not just for standing up for myself, but for how far I’ve come.

  My life is now my own; every success, failure, and stumble.

  “Morning, Grumpelstiltskin. We meet again.” I slow my pace but keep running past the rude man from yesterday.

  He catches up to me and frowns. “Grumpelstiltskin? What does that mean?”

  “You know the fairy tale, Rumpelstiltskin?” He shakes his head. “Ah. Well, it’s a play on the guy in that.”

  “He’s a good man, this Rumpelstiltskin?”

  I bite my lip to hide my smile. “Um, not exactly.”

  He scowls. “I see. You are making a joke at me?”

  “No. I’m, um, laughing with you. Not at you.”

  His lips twitch by just a fraction. If I weren’t looking at them, I wouldn’t have noticed. “But I’m not laughing.”

  I chuckle. “I didn’t think you knew how to.”

  “You’re a professional comedian, yes? This is your job?” I take the slight tilt of his lips as a victory. It’s not quite a smile, but it’s close.

  His amusement makes me bold. I grin. “No. My jokes are free. It’s my gift to the world. You’re welcome.”

  He looks down at his sneakers and I can’t help but wonder if he’s smiling at the ground. His usual blank stare has returned when he looks back up. Not wanting him to catch me watching, I turn my head forward.

  We continue to jog side by side in silence for several yards. I like that it’s not awkward. Perhaps I should be more guarded, but his energy makes me comfortable straight away, just like Gia’s did.

  “Where are you from?” I break the quiet. “In the two words you’ve grunted, you didn’t sound like you were from around here.”

  He flicks his eyes in my direction before looking straight again. “Argentina.”

  “Oh, wow. I’ve always wanted to go there. It’s high up on my list of places I’d love to visit. Where in Argentina are you from?”

  “A small town just outside of Buenos Aires.”

  “Lucky you.”

  “Lucky?”

  “Not that I don’t love this city, but I’d pick warm weather any day. How does an Argentine end up in San Francisco?”

  His lips thin. “Work.”

  “Oh? What do you do for work?”

  “Do you always talk this much when you run? You should be saving your breath.”

  I release an exaggerated sigh. “There you go again, trying to boss me around. Also, I’m shocked you’ve spoken a full sentence instead of just grumbling.” Smiling to myself, I ignore his narrowed gaze on my profile.

  He takes so long to answer that I think he’s not going to. It’s strange. I’m enjoying his ornery company, but he’s hard work. I’m already busy trying to figure out life; I have no interest in doing any more puzzles. This guy is made up of a million pieces, and if I had to guess, I’d say several were missing so I’ll never get the full picture.

  “I’m a poet.”

  I twist my head at his quiet words. His jaw is clenched, as if he resents telling me. I continue to jog while I digest this new piece of information.

  “What kind of poetry do you write?” I ask.

  He glances at me. “I write about a lot of things. Life. Love.” He waves his hand in a dismissive gesture.

  “I’d love to read your work. Anyone who’s able to make a living out of being a poet must be good. What’s your name?” I realize I’m getting to know him backward.

  “Gabriel Cruz.” The smooth words slip out of his tongue and caress the air. The name fits him. He reminds me of a brooding dark angel.

  “Nice to meet you, Gabriel. I’m Ava.”

  He doesn’t acknowledge my name. I don’t know what charm school he went to, but it’s clear he dropped out before they taught the lesson on politeness.

  “Lovely to meet you Ava,” I mutter, causing a quick smile to flash across his face. He doesn’t say anything in response, but seeing his amusement makes his rudeness feel less personal.

  We run the rest of the way in silence, but awareness of his body next to mine stops me from being lost in thought. I slow down when I reach my usual finish point. Gabriel looks at me for the first time in twenty minutes. I brace my sweaty palms on my burning thighs and try to catch my breath. Looking up at him, I explain. “This is where I get off the ride. I have to go to work.”

  He nods, but doesn’t say anything else. Gabriel’s lips part as I stand up straight. Adjusting my ponytail, I wait for him to say something, but his mouth closes and presses
into a firm line. With another nod of acknowledgement, he turns around and starts to jog away from my bemused figure.

  Waving at his retreating back, I shake my head as his body shrinks further into the distance. Then I turn around and focus on my own path.

  Like I said, I don’t have time for puzzles.

  For the next two weeks, we fall into a routine of sorts. Although I try not to look or wait for him, Gabriel always ends up joining me at some stage of my daily jogs. An unspoken agreement exists between us. We don’t speak. We don’t acknowledge each other. We don’t say hello or good-bye. But we run side by side in silent companionship.

  It may just be my imagination, but every day, the turbulent energy surrounding him seems to calm. The air between us lightens with each exhaled breath. Even though I’m sure he’d never admit it, I think he enjoys being my jogging partner. Hopefully as much as I do.

  This morning, however, I’m almost an hour into my run and Gabriel still hasn’t shown up. I force my head to stay straight and not twist around. Instead, I focus on my breathing and pace, keeping both slow and steady.

  He’s still not shown up by the time I’m doing my cool down stretches. I ignore the annoying twinge in my chest. We don’t even know each other, and we owe each other nothing. It’s possible he’s sick, or busy, or has just decided not to run anymore.

  Still, even though he never speaks, my run this morning was quieter somehow. If only because my heart wasn’t beating as loud as it does whenever Gabriel is around.

  One of the many things I have an appreciation for post-transplant is weekends. Before, time grinded to a halt and the days blended into one another. But now, I’m able to experience the beauty of Saturdays.

  I smile at a street vendor selling tie-dyed T-shirts as I walk down Telegraph Avenue. I love this street. All of Berkeley’s quirky residents and visitors seem to congregate on this long stretch of road. Young hipsters rub shoulders with old hippies in a melting pot of vibrant color and sound.

  Finn and I love to stroll and take it all in, but today, I’ve come with a purpose. A bell jingles as I enter the old bookshop. It sounds crazy, but calm floods my senses. Being a bookworm, I feel safe, surrounded by old friends. As far as I can see, the only dangers of being in a bookshop are paper cuts and spending too much money.

  I look around, trying to spot someone on duty. The only other person I can see is a guy of around my age with a beanie hat, tortoiseshell glasses, and thick beard standing on a ladder, stacking books. His skinny jeans strain as he reaches up. It’s hard to identify the staff from the customers in a place like this. I approach him and smile. “Excuse me, do you work here?”

  He pushes up his glasses, looking down at me. “Yes.”

  “I was wondering where the poetry section is?”

  He sighs and rests the books on one of the ladder steps. “Follow me.”

  “Oh, I don’t want to bother you. If you just point the general direction, I’m sure I’ll work it out.”

  “It’s fine.” His tone suggests it’s not, but he’s already rushing ahead of me. Jogging to catch up, I don’t have time to take in the hundreds of books we pass. This place is like a maze; one I’d be only too happy to get lost in. He stops and signals an aisle with a sardonic hand flick.

  “Thank you.”

  “Anything in particular you were looking for? Or did you just want to browse?” His nose wrinkles.

  “Um, a bit of both. But I was wondering if you had any poems by Gabriel Cruz?”

  The guy looks at me like I’m crazy. I shuffle my feet and tug on the sleeve of my sweater. Maybe he writes under a different name than the one that he gave me.

  The shop assistant rolls his eyes and sniffs. “Of course we do. Some of the books may have had previous owners, but we have all the greats here. We have high standards for what we choose to stock.”

  I can’t help but smile at how seriously this guy is taking himself. He walks down to a separate bookcase and nods at it. “Here you go. Did you have a specific collection in mind?”

  My eyes widen. “This whole section is his?”

  I receive another look that speaks more words than all the ones in the bookstore put together. “Yes.” He draws out the word as if I’m stupid. “This part holds all the collections in the original Spanish, whereas this section is for the translated English versions.” He gestures to the higher part of the bookshelf with disdain, and then turns the same look on me with a patronizing smile. “You should probably start there.”

  My eyes narrow. I hate people who think they’re better than others. Underneath our clothes and skin, we all bleed the same. We all hurt and hunger for something greater.

  I raise an eyebrow. “How do you know I don’t speak Spanish?”

  I don’t, but he has no way of knowing that. And it doesn’t make me stupid because I don’t. A blush spreads to his cheeks as he stumbles for an answer.

  Point proven, I smile and cross my arms. “Thanks for your help. I can manage from here.”

  He lowers his head and brushes past me. I hope he’ll think twice before being so rude and judgmental to a customer next time. I want to laugh at my thoughts. I don’t know who this girl is who talks back to strangers in the park and puts rude people in their place, but I like her. She can stay.

  “Okay, Gabriel, let’s see what you’ve got.” I walk up to the shelf and stare at all the different titles. There have to be at least thirty different collections in the translated shelves alone.

  Glancing around to check the rude shop assistant isn’t watching, I run my fingers over the spines, looking at the different titles. Gabriel was right when he said he wrote about life and love. One title in particular stands out to me, 50 Ways to Say ‘I Love You.’

  Rising on my tiptoes, I pull it out. The beautiful cover features what I assume is fifty hearts, all outlined with words from the poems within. I’m a sucker for a good cover. I’m also easily sold on a book based on the title alone. The nurses always used to joke that I was the most well-read kid in the hospital because I consumed every book they had in their library.

  Like a drug addict, I glance over my shoulder again, before raising the book to my face and inhaling the smell. It’s intoxicating. I don’t know if it’s possible to get drunk off the smell of old books, but the buzz humming through me is better than I imagine the one you get from alcohol is.

  Satisfied with my high, I take a closer look at the book. The spine is creased and crinkled, and the pages are curled up in the corners. Whoever owned this book made good use of it.

  The thought makes me smile for Gabriel. I’m glad people treasure his words.

  Continuing my inspection, I gasp when I turn the book over. “Wow,” I say reading the blurb. Gabriel is a Pulitzer and Nobel Prize winning poet. I guess all that brooding makes for deep introspection.

  I flip through the book. It seems each poem is a love letter of sorts, a way of describing love without always using the words “I love you.” The hidden romantic inside me is moved by the beautiful concept. Although I have the incredible love of my mom and Finn, I’ve only experienced romantic love in books.

  Deciding to buy it, I also browse through several others. One collection written in both languages catches my attention. Each poem in A Love Like This, A Man Like Me has the English translation side-by-side with the original Spanish text. Maybe this will be a good way to learn a new language.

  Happy with my decisions, I prepare to take the two books to the counter, before an idea strikes me. Thinking of the shop assistant, I turn back, pull out one collection written entirely in Spanish, and add it to my stack.

  I have no idea what the title means, and I won’t understand any of the text, but I’m determined to one day. I bring the pile of books up to my face to hide my laughter as I walk toward the counter to pay. It may be petty, but the stubborn side of me won’t let him have the last laugh.

  Like love, some things never get lost in translation. The chastised expression on the shop
assistant’s face as he scans through the Spanish book is easy to understand in any language.

  So is my radiant smile as I leave the store.

  Later that evening, I’m tucked up in bed with a cup of chamomile tea like all good twenty-three year olds. Finn is out with some friends from work. Putting on my reading glasses, I reach over to my bedside table and pick up the copy of 50 Ways to Say ‘I Love You.’

  For some reason, my stomach is unsettled and my breathing unsteady. My fingers trace the illustration on the cover before I take a deep breath and open the book to the first poem. My reading glasses fog up as I begin to read.

  1. You Are The Rain

  You, to me, are rain.

  Timeless, priceless, weightless, endless,

  You slip through the tiny cracks in my trembling hands,

  Soothing the desperate man I am,

  As I raise my cupped palms to the sky.

  I wait with patient impatience for the heavens to open,

  Trying to catch any drop of you that I can,

  On my skin,

  On my tongue,

  On my soul.

  One drop of you is far too much, darling,

  But it will never be enough to sustain me.

  I thirst for your rain,

  I hunger,

  I burn,

  I die,

  I live,

  For just one drop.

  I would stand with open arms and wait for years,

  For you.

  For you,

  For the rain,

  I would wait a lifetime.

  And I would dance for you, darling,

  If it would make you appear, and keep you with me always.

  And when I cry,

  It’s you that I want hiding my tears.

  I wonder if you know,