“Look, Cayenne. We make a great team. We have a ton of fun and all that. But I’m not into long-term commitments. This is getting way too real for me.”
“Oh, that’s right.” I wipe my chin, because now the tears are literally rolling down my cheeks and dripping off my chin. “You’re the fun boyfriend. You’re the guy who’s all about having a blast, and not about anything real. I cannot believe I just offered to have sex with you.”
I stand up, blindly searching for my bra, which has somehow gotten tangled with my shirt on the floor. I don’t want to stand here and wrangle with my clothing in front of him, so I stumble to the bathroom. There’s a freaking flood pouring out of my eyes. I try not to look at myself in the mirror, but I catch a glimpse by accident. My nose and eyes have puffed up. Wet cheeks. Blotchy skin. My flesh is raw, fresh, young . . . my breasts full . . .
I hook my bra, yank my shirt over my head, and grab my crutches. I storm out of Axel’s apartment, still grasping my shoe in one hand, which is hard to do while also holding the crutch steady. I’m not supposed to put weight on the splint, but it’s so tempting. I hobble down the apartment steps and propel myself down the sidewalk as fast as I can.
I get about two blocks before the blisters begin on my left foot and under my armpits. My ribs protest against the extra pressure from the crutches. Since I still have my shoe in my hand, I ease myself down on someone’s lawn to put it on. My angry ribs make this descent awkward, painful, and probably hilarious to watch.
I text Saff. Ride, please? Fight with Axel.
It’s suddenly raining. I duck my phone under my shirt, but the fabric soaks within seconds. Wait, not raining . . . sprinklers! The water transforms the lawn into a grassy puddle. I ease myself up and onto the sidewalk as fast as I can to protect my phone.
I text Micah. You busy?
Never too busy for you.
Can you pick me up? I’ll pay you gas money.
No way.
When those words appear on my screen, it feels like the water from my shirt is permeating my skin, drowning my insides.
I mean “No way” about paying me gas money. “Yes way” about picking you up.
Glad you clarified. It may take a while for my waterlogged heart to wring itself out.
Where are you?
I survey my surroundings. 263 Blossom Street.
On my way. You’re lucky I’m just sitting around, messaging my roommate-to-be.
I feel ten miles from lucky. If anything, “unlucky” has sucked onto my forehead like a parasitic leech.
Saff messages me back five minutes later. You okay? Fletch and I are watching the kids, and I don’t have any car seats. You want me to send Fletcher?
No, it’s okay. Micah is coming.
Sorry you had a fight with Axel.
He’s an ass.
Agreed. She responds so quickly that I feel like she’s just been waiting for an opportunity to trash Axel.
Why do I like such an ass?
You are one of the world’s greatest mysteries, Cayenne.
Chapter 33
Micah spends a good ten seconds laughing at me when he pulls up to the curb. I’m sitting on the sidewalk, comically miserable. My wet shirt still clings to my skin, and my hair’s matted around my face.
“This is way more entertaining than messaging a stranger or working on my econ paper.” He hops out of the car and comes around toward me, offering me a hand up.
“Gee, how flattering.”
As soon as I’m standing face to face with him, his amusement fades. “What’s wrong, Cay? You’ve been crying.”
Something about the way his tone softens and his brow furrows causes tears to spring back into my eyes.
He pulls me into a bear hug. I haven’t hugged him in so long that I stiffen at first. But the thing with bear huggers is that they go in for the squeeze full force, and they hang on. He keeps me wrapped between his arms, pressed against his chest, despite the dampness of my shirt. I thaw there, and finally hug him back.
“You don’t have to tell me what’s going on.” He speaks into my hair, his arms still around me.
“Thanks.” I feel a little weird about still hugging him but also don’t want to pull away.
We stand there for a little while, until he asks, “Want to go?”
“Yeah. I think I’ve been loitering in front of this family’s house for long enough.”
He releases me and leads me to the passenger side door. “Where to? Home to change?”
“Not home. Let’s go somewhere else.”
“I know just the place.” Micah grabs an old beach towel out of the trunk and spreads it over my seat. “No offense. Just—you’re pretty wet.”
Micah waits to start the engine until I’ve strapped on my belt. I relax into the beach towel, turning my head toward the window. The scenery blurs past. Micah plays some tunes, quiet though, and I close my eyes. I may have fallen asleep, because when I open them, he’s parked in the shade, the windows rolled down. A light breeze brushes my cheeks.
“You up?” He asks. “You kind of crashed.”
“Yeah.”
“I grabbed you a caramel latte.”
“Thanks.” I make a feeble attempt to smooth my knotted hair and my still-damp shirt. I take a sip of the latte, and it slides down my throat, coating it with warm sweetness. “Where are we?”
“My favorite beach. The waves suck here, so no one ever comes. But it’s quiet and the breeze is just right. You wanna go out and sit, or stay in here?”
“We can go out.”
Managing my splint and crutches in sand turns out to be challenging, so halfway there he deems this a ridiculous attempt and guides me to a smooth rock that I can perch on and angle my ankle against. He returns carrying my latte and his own warm drink.
“What’re you having?”
“Uh, none of your business,” he says nicely enough, but he doesn’t sit.
“Maybe not. I’m just making conversation.”
“Okay, if I tell you, you must guard this secret with your life.” He theatrically examines his surroundings as if there are spies hiding behind the rocks.
“Got it.” I pat the rock next to me, in case he wants to join me.
“It’s vanilla milk.” He leans forward to whisper this.
I have to laugh. “Weirdo. You don’t like any of those sweet coffee drinks?”
“Nope.” He straightens up and sits next to me. “I’m a vanilla milk kind of guy.”
“Is it hot?”
“Yep—steamed milk and vanilla syrup. You want a sip?”
“Sure.” I reach for his paper cup and take a tiny sip. “Oh, that’s good. It makes me think of cut-out sugar cookies.”
“Yes. I’m a child. I sleep with the bathroom light on too.”
This makes me want to hug him again. “You might be in trouble when you go to college. Your roommate could prefer pitch-black.”
“True. I’ve been thinking of sending myself to darkness-sleep-training but they won’t let me bring my teddy.”
I sock him in the arm. “Maybe you should just stay home. You might be able to convince me to go to community college with you.” I don’t tell him that I’ve already been considering community college options.
We sit in silence for a really long time, just listening to the comforting sound of waves crashing on the shore, the birds squawking above, and the gentle shushing of the breeze. I try to find a pattern in the way that the waves crash, but they’re each unique, like cobwebs and snowflakes. I’ve drunk most of my latte when I finally speak again. “How’d you know caramel lattes were my thing?”
“Asked your sister.”
“Oh.” I wonder how much else he knows. “Did she tell you what’s going on?”
“Some of it.” Micah picks up a rock and turns it over in his hand. “That you and Axel had a fight. And . . . about the cancer gene.”
“Yeah, that pretty much sums it up for today.” I put my latte to my lips but
don’t take the last sip. “At least I don’t have the bubonic plague.”
“True. Way to look on the bright side. And at least you don’t have a broken ankle.” He nudges me and smiles. “Oh, wait, you do.”
I smile back. “Hey, that’s my move.”
“I know. I pulled a Cayenne—I turned something that sucks into a joke that sucks.” He wraps his fingers around the rock. “But seriously. I’m sorry, Cay.”
“Me too.” I reach over and peel his fingers away from the rock. It’s smooth. “Honestly, the gene mutation just tells me what I already knew. Big surprise—Saff and I’ll probably get cancer. I could’ve told you that without a stupid blood test.”
Micah offers the rock to me. “Yeah, but this gives you a statistical probability. I’ve been researching it online. It’s kind of a big deal.”
“I know.” I accept the rock. “And I’ve always kind of thought I’d die young, so I might as well cram as much fun in my life as possible. I just—I didn’t want Saff to have to deal with all this.” My voice catches. “She thinks we should do the surgery now. Mostly because she’s afraid I won’t follow through if we put it off till later.” I extend my fingers, with the rock flat on my palm.
“It doesn’t have to be like that.” Micah squares off so that we’re nearly eye to eye. “There’s a middle ground. You’re eighteen years old, come on. You could probably make a plan to monitor closely for the next few years. If you had the surgery before thirty, that’d be plenty proactive. I bet most people don’t do it until much later.”
“It just . . .” Perhaps it’s the topic or the fact that his nose is nearly touching mine, but I’m having trouble finding my words. “It will color every decision I make. I wasn’t really planning on having kids . . . but now I’m not sure I’m ready to rule it out completely. I don’t know that I can decide now for forever.”
“Saffron’s going to hate me for saying this, but don’t decide now.” Up close, his eyes are gray with flecks of amber. “Start planning now, sure. But give yourself a chunk of time to grow up and then you can decide.”
“Look who’s talking about growing up, vanilla milk boy!” I twist away as if we’re done with this conversation. “And you’re a stealth milk consumer too, hiding it in a coffee cup. For shame.”
“Yeah, yeah. I know.” He slings his arm around me and squeezes my shoulders.
Now that we’re not facing each other anymore, I feel brave. “I have a strange question for you.”
“Go for it.”
“So you’re a guy,” I start, twisting even farther from him.
“I’ve been under that assumption for the last eighteen years.”
“A guy who’s into girls.”
“Definitely.”
I let my eyes travel along the coastline, while I ask what might possibly be the most awkward question in the history of womanhood. “So . . . would you date a girl who didn’t have breasts?”
“Hmm.” I can tell my question surprises him but doesn’t scare him. “I do like breasts.” He drums his fingers on the rocks. “Would this hypothetical girl be completely breast free? Like no reconstruction or anything?”
“Possibly.” I watch a lone bird soar, then dip down toward the water.
“Would this girl have a fun personality—some sarcastic wit, a bit of a prickly exterior but a secret sweet side?”
“Okay, let’s give her that.” I allow myself to edge back into his line of vision, because I want to see his expression. His lips are flat, but there’s a subtle humor in them. “Good personality, intelligent . . . let’s say you’re attracted to her . . . just no breasts.”
“You want honesty here?” he asks, and he waits.
I peek back at his gentle eyes, and they are full of warmth. “Yes. Total honesty.”
“If I loved her, it wouldn’t stop me for a second. If I thought her breasts could kill her, I’d want them gone. I wouldn’t want her to be impulsive about it, I’d want her to think it through and find the right time for herself, but I would support her no matter what.”
Now that I can see his face again, it’s harder to ask these questions. I force myself to go on. “What about a girl with no ovaries? Would you marry someone who couldn’t make babies with you?”
He examines his fingernails, but just for a moment, and then he’s back. “You’re asking hard questions.”
“I need to know. You’re a guy. You know how guys think.”
“I know how I think. I can’t speak for other guys.” He hesitates. “Okay, so for me—I want to have kids someday. That’s important to me. So ideally, I’d want to marry someone who could have kids. But I’d be totally okay with her like freezing her eggs or something. Or with getting rid of her ovaries after we had a couple kids.” He stops, but I can tell that he’s not done, that he’s just pulling his thoughts together. “But . . . if I fell in love with someone who already didn’t have ovaries, it wouldn’t be a deal breaker. There are other ways to have kids. And a lot of couples can’t get pregnant for all kinds of reasons. So if my wife and I couldn’t, we’d adopt or something. I mean, there are so many ways to be a parent. Like just because Aunt Tee didn’t give birth to you doesn’t mean she’s not a mother to you.”
I nod, absorbing what he’s said. “Yeah.” And suddenly I’m so grateful for his openness—his thoughtfulness. “So . . . is it weird to be having this conversation?”
“A little,” he admits, smiling. I focus on his dimples, fighting the urge to stick my finger in one. “But hey, we’ve known each other our whole lives. My mom’s got some photos of us in the bathtub when we were toddlers.”
I groan, picturing that. “Yeah, well, it’s awkward for me too. But thank you for being honest. It’s helpful to get your perspective.” I place the rock back in his own hands, but my fingers linger. “Just so you know, I wasn’t asking if you’d want to date me, or anything. It was just a hypothetical.”
He doesn’t pull his hand away. “Well, just so you know, I would.”
“Would what?” I’m confused, and I pull back.
“I would date you. With or without breasts. With or without ovaries.” He says this with a straight face, and a tenderness I haven’t seen before.
“You would?” If I’d known the conversation was going to veer off in this direction, I’d have made a point to be examining my fingernails or something. But I didn’t.
“I would.” He shuffles the rock from one hand to the other, absentmindedly. “But I don’t think I’m your type. And that’s okay. I don’t take offense at that.” He chuckles. “Based on your boyfriend, I’m not sure I want to be your type.”
“Not a fan, huh?” I ask. My voice sounds convincingly light, but my heart rate has gone haywire. Did Micah really just say he’d date me? And why does that sound so appealing?
“Nope, not particularly a fan of Axel. He doesn’t seem like a bad dude, just kind of self-absorbed. You deserve better.” Micah checks his phone. “Your sister just messaged me. I better get you home. Is she always this much of a stress case?”
I don’t want to leave this moment. The serenity of the beach has balanced out the awkwardness of our conversation, and I just want to stay in this safe spot with Micah forever. But real life beckons, so we make our way home.
✱✱✱
That night I lie in the dark, thinking. Saffron has been super emotional all evening. I guess this whole gene thing is really messing with her, even more than I’d have thought it would. I texted Fletcher after dinner and asked him if he could come keep her company, even though he was just over this afternoon. He didn’t hesitate—just called out of work to spend the evening with her.
So what is it about Saffron that leads her to pick a guy like Fletcher? And what is it about me that makes me love a guy like Axel? Yes, Axel’s fun. Exciting. And we have chemistry. But if he doesn’t care enough to want what’s best for me, then is our connection anything more than an adrenaline rush?
And what is it about Micah that’
s so intriguing? He’s safe, I guess. Reliable. Kind. Not my type, true. But isn’t my “type” allowed to change over time?
I take out my phone to text Axel. You’re right. Let’s take a break, I type, and I press send before I can change my mind.
I wait an hour for him to send an apology text, saying he wants to stay together after all, but he doesn’t. That opens up an empty pit in my stomach. I thought for sure he hadn’t meant everything he said back at the apartment. I mean, of course it’s a huge decision to make a baby, and it should be mutual, and I know I shouldn’t have been so pushy and impulsive about it. But he didn’t have to abandon me completely! I haven’t even gotten a basic acknowledgment—no “Glad we’re on the same page” or “Okay, take care.” Nothing. What did the last year mean to him?
My hands start to shake as I think about the fact that I almost had sex with him and he doesn’t have the freaking courtesy to respond to my text.
My thoughts spiral: What if we’d had unprotected sex, and I’d gotten pregnant, and I’d had the baby? What kind of father would Axel have been? Better or worse than Ryan Channels?
What choices would I have made for myself, for my kid, if I’d found myself in that position? Better or worse than my mother’s choices?
Luckily I don’t have to find out. But the near-miss of it unnerves me. I was so certain about Axel—so certain and so completely wrong.
My mom’s words from the journal filter back to me. I want to give you permission to make mistakes. Mistakes are how we learn. So give yourself a break here and there.
I settle down with a sticky note and write my next journal entry response.
The Big News —Cayenne
I forgive you, Mom, for being human.
I forgive you, RyanDad, for being human.
I will try to forgive myself too.
I will, at the very least, understand that I am still evolving.
I am a work in progress.
How to Live on the Edge Page 19