Until My Heart Stops

The prescription bottle sits on my kitchen table like a tiny white bomb.

Digoxin. 0.25mg. Take once daily for heart rhythm abnormalities.

I stuff it into my purse before Finn gets home from his part-time job at the hardware store. He can't see this. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

My phone buzzes with a text from Mrs. Harper: Take the weekend off, honey. You've been working too hard.

If only she knew that work is the only thing keeping me sane right now. The smell of fresh flowers, the simple routine of arranging bouquets, the customers who smile and tell me about their anniversaries and birthdays. Normal things. Beautiful things.

Things I won't be around to see much longer.

I hear Finn's truck pulling into the driveway. Quick footsteps on the porch. I grab a cookbook and flip it open to a random page, trying to look casual.

"Hey," he says, dropping his tool belt by the door. His hair is dusty from work, and there's a small cut on his knuckle. At eighteen, he's already taller than Cole ever was, but his hands are still gentle when he washes them at the sink.

"How was work?" I ask, not looking up from the cookbook.

"Fine. Old Mrs. Patterson came in asking about garden hoses again. Third time this week." He grabs a water bottle from the fridge. "You okay? You look tired."

I force a smile. "Just need to pick up some vitamins. Iron supplements. Dr. Rodriguez thinks I might be a little anemic."

The lie tastes bitter in my mouth.

Finn frowns. "Anemic? Since when?"

"Since always, apparently. That's why I've been tired lately." I close the cookbook. "Nothing serious. Just need to take better care of myself."

He studies my face for a moment, those blue eyes too observant for an eighteen-year-old. But then he nods. "Want me to drive you to the pharmacy?"

"No, I need the walk. Fresh air and all that."

Another lie.

The truth is, I can't have Finn see me talking to Grace Mitchell. Not yet.

Main Street is quiet this Friday afternoon. The pharmacy sits between Henderson's Hardware and the old barbershop, its green awning faded from years of sun. A small bell chimes when I push open the door.

Grace looks up from behind the counter. For just a second, her professional mask slips, and I see something that looks like relief. Then it's gone.

"Afternoon," she says, voice neutral.

"Hi." I dig the prescription out of my purse. "I need to pick this up."

She takes the paper, her fingers careful not to touch mine. Her eyes scan the prescription, and I watch her face change. The slight tightening around her eyes. The way her lips press together.

She knows what this medication is for.

"I'll need to check our stock," she says quietly.

I wait by the vitamin display, pretending to read labels while she disappears into the back room. The pharmacy smells like antiseptic and old paper. Nothing like the flower shop, which always smells like spring rain and possibilities.

When I was twelve, Mom's perfume smelled like vanilla and cigarettes. I remember that smell clinging to my clothes the morning she left.

Grace returns with a small white bag. "That'll be two hundred dollars."

I blink. "Two hundred? I thought my insurance covered most of it."

"Insurance company changed their coverage. This medication isn't on the preferred list anymore." She doesn't quite meet my eyes.

Two hundred dollars. That's half of what I make in a week at the flower shop.

"Is there... a generic version? Something cheaper?"

"This is the generic." Grace's voice softens slightly. "The brand name would be four hundred."

I stare at the bag. Two hundred dollars I don't really have. Money that should go toward Finn's college fund.

"I can't—" I start.

"Wait." Grace taps something into her computer. "I forgot. There's a manufacturer discount program. For patients without adequate insurance coverage." Her fingers move across the keyboard. "It brings it down to eighty-five dollars."

I know there's no discount program.

She knows I know.

But we both pretend this is perfectly normal business practice.

"Thank you," I say, pulling crumpled bills from my wallet.

When I hand her the money, our fingers brush for just a moment. Her skin is warm, and she has the same scar on her knuckle that I do, from when we both burned ourselves on the same oven when I was eight.

She remembers that day too. I can see it in her eyes.

"Take these with food," she says, her voice carefully professional. "And if you experience any unusual symptoms, call your doctor immediately."

What she really means is: Please take care of yourself.

What I hear is: I still care about you, even though I have no right to.

"I will," I promise.

What I really mean is: Thank you for still loving me.

What she hears is: I forgive you for leaving.

I turn to go, but at the door, I glance back. Grace is watching me through the window, her hand pressed against the glass. For a moment, she looks exactly like she did twelve years ago, standing at our kitchen window as I climbed into Cole's truck for the first time.

She'd been crying then too.

The walk home takes fifteen minutes, but I stretch it to twenty-five. I need time to think, to prepare my face for Finn. Time to practice being normal.

The medication bag feels heavy in my purse. Heavier than it should.

Each pill represents one day closer to goodbye. One day less with Finn. One day further from the future I'd planned.

Cole used to say that tomorrow was just another word for hope. But Cole never had to count his tomorrows on a prescription bottle.

I turn the corner onto our street and see the warm glow of kitchen lights through our front window. Finn's silhouette moves around inside, and I can smell something cooking.

Something that smells like corn and comfort.

Like home.

I take a deep breath and practice my smile one more time before opening the front door.

"Finn?" I call out. "I'm back."

"In here," he calls from the kitchen. "I made dinner."

I walk into the kitchen and stop short.

There on the stove is a pot of corn chowder, steam rising from its surface. The same recipe Cole used to make for me when I was sick. The same recipe I haven't had the heart to make since he died.

Finn stands at the counter, ladling soup into two bowls. His movements are careful, deliberate. Like he's trying to get something exactly right.

"Where did you learn to make this?" I ask, my voice smaller than I intended.

He doesn't look at me when he answers. "Cole taught me. Before the fire. He said it was your favorite."

The medication bag slips from my hands and hits the floor.

Finn finally looks up, concern creasing his forehead. "Ember? You okay?"