The Anatomical Shape of a Heart by Jenn Bennett Page A

seeing my dad for years, he might be an hour away, just across the Bay.
    I flipped over the hanging tag. Telegraph Wood Studio. A quick Internet search pulled up the contact information, including an email address for inquiries. I doubted artist mannequins sold like hotcakes, and surely whoever carved it would remember the name of the client. The studio might even have an address on file. What harm could it do to ask?
    Before I lost my nerve, I sent a quick email.
    There. Either they knew Dad’s address, or they didn’t. And if they did? Well, I’d cross that bridge later.
    It was past midnight when I climbed into bed, mulling over everything that had happened that day. My session in the anatomy lab. The aftermath. The calm and patient way Jack had coached me to breathe. How warm his leg had felt pressed next to mine …
    My phone buzzed with an incoming text message. Jack. Already? I halfway expected him to follow the usual pattern—that is, I wouldn’t hear back from him for days.
    Msg from Jack Vincent, received 12:33AM: *taps mic* Is this thing on?
    Me: Maybe.
    Jack: Just wanted to make sure you got home okay.
    Me: Safe and sound. You?
    Jack: Safe but not sound. Still sorry about earlier.
    Me: If you apologize again, I’m going to have to shiv you with a pencil.
    Jack: Yes, ma’am. Hey, Bex?
    Me: Yeah?
    Jack: Despite the vomit and face full of tea, was still the best night I’ve had in a long, long time.
    I pressed a grin into my pillow before typing an answer:
    Me: I’ll be back at the anatomy lab on Thurs. Bring bottled water?
    Jack: Okay, but this time I get to keep YOUR wallet.
    Me: Deal. Good night, Jack.
    Jack: Good night, Bex.
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    He didn’t text me again that night, or on Wednesday. By the time Thursday afternoon rolled around, my brain was once again conjuring crazy reasons why. Like, maybe when he said he couldn’t stop doing the Golden Apple graffiti, it was because he was being forced by the notorious local Westmob gang to spray-paint inspirational words around the city to antagonize their rivals, Big Block.
    Or maybe that Sierra chick really was the girl he was visiting in the hospital. And even though he said they were “just” friends, now I couldn’t stop thinking about her “more than” correction and what exactly that might mean. I had a vivid imagination, and the more vivid it got, the more jealous I became.
    On the train ride to the anatomy lab, I texted him the building number and the time of my drawing session. But he didn’t respond. Not then, and not after I got off the train and headed along the same pathway we’d walked two nights earlier. But halfway down the path, I spotted his lithe frame striding down a sidewalk that crossed mine.
    â€œJack,” I called out to his back. When he didn’t stop, I jogged closer and called him again.
    He turned his head in both directions. He looked dazed.
    â€œHey,” I said, stopping in front of him. “I texted you a little while ago.”
    â€œBex.” His voice was shot to hell and back. Crap, his eyes were red, too. Either he’d developed a very un-Buddhist-like drug habit or he’d been up all night. “My phone died yesterday, and I haven’t been home to recharge it.”
    â€œWhat’s the matter?”
    He shook his head back and forth several times and scrubbed the crown of his head, mussing his hair worse than it already was. That’s when I noticed how wrinkled his clothes were, and that he had the faint shadow of unshaved whiskers darkening his jaw and chin.
    â€œJesus, Jack. What’s going on?”
    â€œIt’s going to be … I think the worst is … I don’t know. I haven’t slept, and I need a shower. I wanted to call you, but no one needs this level of heaviness in their life and—”
    â€œWhy don’t you let me be the judge of that? Tell me what