A Mess of a Man

by A. M. Hargrove

  “What’s so funny?” Lauren asks.

  When I share my image with them, we all snort-laugh. Then the shooters come out. And I brace myself for what is coming next.

  Berkeley asks, “So what happened with Ben?”

  Silence hangs heavy like lead in the room.

  I groan, saying, “Do we have to talk about it?”

  “Yes,” Berkeley insists.

  So I give them all the dirty details of how we were having sex when he discovered the lump. “He froze and I didn’t know what was happening. He backed away from me like I was some sort of contagious thing. And the look on his face.” I can’t stop the shudder that rips through me. “But the worst thing of all was when I told him about my family history, he pretty much accused me of being a shitty person. Called me a liar. And then, fool that I was, I told him I love him and asked him if that made a difference. Obviously, it didn’t.” And a riot nearly breaks out. God, I love my girls, but I’m not in the mood to handle this tonight.

  “I say we lead a brigade to his home and beat the shit out of him,” Britt suggests.

  I’m shocked. “Britt, I can’t believe you would encourage such a thing, being the peacemaker that you are.”

  “He destroyed you, Sam, in your worst nightmare. He’s a fucking bastard.” I can’t contain my shock. This is so unlike Britt. “In my opinion, that’s worse than fucking around on someone.”

  “Oh, holy shit,” Berkeley says.

  “She’s right,” Hayley agrees. “He inflicted a mortal wound. It’s a disgrace and he should be ashamed of himself.”

  I hold up my hand, palm facing toward them. “Whatever he did was bad, but that’s that. I’m not leading a charge against him. It won’t do anything but worsen things.”

  “He’s going to go forward in life then with no accountability whatsoever?” Hayley asks.

  I shrug. “I guess so. Look, I don’t really want to talk about this anymore.”

  “I know,” Lauren says. “But you have to face these facts and not defend him.”

  “I told you all why he did what he did.”

  “You’re too nice. I still can’t believe you defend his actions, Sam,” Lauren says, giving me the saddest look.

  “Okay. I know. End of story. Let’s move on. Can we have more alcohol?” I ask with much more enthusiasm than I feel.

  They all eye me with suspicion, but that’s okay. I just want off this topic.

  Berkeley sets us up another round of tequila. Eventually, I’m smashed, and weaving around the house like a car with a flat tire.

  “I think it’s time for me to go to bed.” I try to focus on one of the two Laurens I see. I say goodnight to everyone and crawl into my bed, but before I pass out, I decide to text Ben.

  Me: I’m so sorry for holding out on you but I sware I mean to tell you. I relly did. I was tryng to find the rite time. I guess I waited too long. I have an appointment on Friday to get cheked out. Ben, im so scarred. Why does if have to be me? I hate that my boobs are sick. I ment what I said when I told you I loved you. Im so sory.

  My finger hovers over the send button, but then I hit it and it’s gone. I lay my head on the pillow and close my eyes.

  The morning comes and along with it a throbbing headache. Why did I drink that crappy tequila on top of vodka? Oh yeah. To forget what I’m facing. I barely remember climbing into bed last night. What I need right now are two Advil. When I move to stretch, I push my phone out from under the covers. Picking it up, it opens to my text messages and that’s when I see it. Oh, fuck. I drunk texted Ben last night. But he didn’t respond. No surprise there.

  A reread the sent message several times and decide to text him again, explaining.

  Me: Hey. Sorry about that text last night. The girls came over and filled me with a lot of tequila. Anyway, I thought an explanation was in order. I am totally and completely sorry for not telling you about my issue sooner. I didn’t do it to withhold information. I did it because I was waiting for the right time. I didn’t expect you (or me even) to find a lump. Please believe me. I’m not in the habit nor do I make a practice of lying. Sorry, I didn’t mean to have diarrhea of the mouth—fingers. And I do love you. PS. I do have an appointment tomorrow and I am scared. Out of my mind.

  I hit send before I lose my nerve. I wait. And wait. And wait. No response. Did I expect one? Yes, I suppose I expected something. Anything. I thought he would at least tell me not to be scared. Or that he hoped everything would turn out okay. I’d be the worst liar now if I told myself it didn’t matter, if it didn’t bother me. Because the truth is, it does. Horrifically. I’ve bared my heart to him twice now—three times if you count my drunk text, and he hasn’t even told me he hopes things turn out okay. It cuts deeper and harsher than anything I’ve ever been through.

  The throbbing in my head makes me get out of bed. I down two Advil and drag myself into the shower. It’s there I let my tears flow again. Is this how I’m going to be for the foreseeable future? I hope not because this is miserable.

  I don’t know if I can function enough to go to work. I go through the motions of drying my hair and then I call my sister.

  “How’s the office?”

  “I have it under control. Nancy is awesome and your other employees are doing great. I have you covered for today, too.”

  “Oh, Laney, thank you! I don’t think I can make it in today. You’re my savior.”

  “I’ve got it covered, baby sis.”

  My day passes in slow motion but I cannot recall what I’ve done. It’s as though my brain has gone to sleep even though I’m awake. It’s a strange sensation, one I can’t remember experiencing before.

  During the day, I try to call Ben, but he doesn’t answer. I try again that night, and again it goes to his voicemail. I end the call before leaving a message both times.

  In the morning, my stomach feels like I’m riding the rollercoaster from hell. I’m so nauseated any thought of food has me running for the bathroom.

  “How about a cup of hot tea?” Lauren asks.

  “Maybe that would help.”

  Lauren makes one using our Keurig and one sip has me gagging.

  “It’s my nerves. I’m so scared.”

  “It’s going to be fine, sweets. I have a feeling right here.” She lays her hand over her heart. “You just had that ultrasound. You’re not going to suddenly develop a tumor. It’s probably a cyst or that fibrocystic stuff.”

  “You’re right. I’m trying to stay positive, but it’s so hard when I carry the gene.”

  Her arms hug me tight. “I know.”

  “And I wish Ben were here. I need him now.”

  “And that’s why he’s such a jerkface douche.”

  “I know.”

  “What time are they picking you up?” She’s referring to my mom and sister.

  “Nine thirty.”

  “Good. I’m ready for you to get this behind you.”

  “Me too,” I say.

  I walk into my room to finish getting ready. While I’m in there, I decide to send Ben another text, although I don’t know why.

  Me: I’m getting ready to go to my appointment. Please answer me. I’m so damn scared right now. I could use your support. Please help! :/

  I wait but get nothing. I guess he truly is showing his colors. I know he struggled with Drew, but I’m not asking him to go through cancer with me. All I want is a simple text of encouragement. How can he do this? Was I really that terrible to him? Am I that horrible of a person?

  My whole body trembles as I dress. I tug on my jeans and even zipping them is difficult. Hooking my bra proves impossible. I fall back on my bed and force myself to take deep breaths. Inhale. Exhale. After a few more, I try my bra again, and still no luck.

  “Lauren, can you come in here, please?”

  She comes in and sees me sitting there.

  “What’s up?”

  I hold up my bra in tears. “I can’t get this hooked. I’m too shaky.”


  She presses her lips together and takes the bra from me. “Stand up.”

  I do and slip it on so she can hook it behind me. “Thanks.”

  “You bet.”

  I just pull my T-shirt on when Mom and Laney pull up. I inhale and force one foot in front of the other as I make my way to the car. When we get to the doctor, they usher me straight to the ultrasound room. Since this isn’t a new experience for me I know what to expect. The gel is cold and I shiver when she starts. It’s not long before the girl is finished.

  “You can get dressed and have a seat in the waiting room.”

  They must have put me on the rush list because I barely put my ass in the chair when Dr. Hastings calls us to his office.

  All three of us are his patients so he knows us.

  “Please, sit.”

  Once we’re seated, he begins. “So, Samantha, everything appears to be fine, but I stress the word appears. I’m about ninety-five percent sure it’s benign. But we won’t know without a biopsy. It looks like a cyst or a cluster of microcalcification. With that being said, we have two options, remove the lump, or do the mastectomies. You already know my opinion on this, and I believe you’ve gotten other opinions as well. I would suggest whatever you decide that we get this scheduled as soon as possible.”

  I blow out a huge breath and say, “I’m going to have the surgery. The bilateral preventative mastectomies.” This is the only viable option for me and the abject fright I’ve lived with over the last couple of days has formed this decision. Though I hate it, it’s almost liberating to get it behind me.

  “I think you’re wise, given the fact that you carry the gene.” Then he launches into the most detailed description of my nipples that I end up tuning him out for half of it. The medical jargon makes my head spin with the facts in trying to make a nipple decision. If I keep them, there’s still a slight risk of getting cancer.

  “Laney?” I ask.

  “I kept mine,” she says. “They are slightly numb but I figured I could always have them removed later, if necessary. But I have ultrasounds every six months.”

  “Okay. Let’s do that.”

  “Samantha, I realize this is a big step, a huge decision you’re making. But remember one thing. You’re choosing life over your breasts,” Dr. Hastings says.

  “I know. I realize that now. This lump has scared me to death.”

  “Let’s get you set up with your surgery and reconstruction then.” I’ve opted to have it all done at the same time.

  Again, relief and worry flood me. The logical part of my brain knows this is the right thing to do, but in actuality, I’m scared shitless to go through with it. My sister senses my fear and grabs my hand. “It’s going to be all right. You’re going to be all right, Sam.” I squeeze her hand back.

  We walk out and head to the surgery scheduling office with Dr. Hastings. He gives the admin all the information so she can get things started. When we leave, I have an appointment with Dr. Wilson, the plastic surgeon, on Monday and my surgery is set for a week from today.

  Before we go to the car, I excuse myself to use the restroom. While there, I send Ben another text.

  Me: Please call me. I have news. I’m leaving my appointment and I have surgery scheduled in one week.

  Optimistically, I text him the time and place of my surgery.

  On the way home, I ask my sister, “Laney, what do you like best about your new boobs?”

  “The thing I like about them the most is I don’t think they’re going to kill me like my old ones were going to.”

  I wake in a pool of my own despair to the sound of my front door unlocking. For a second, I think it’s Sam coming back to me, only the sound of Mom’s voice sending me scrambling to hide the evidence of my rock bottom.

  “Benjamin.”

  She moves into the kitchen and hasn’t caught sight of me yet. I slide the last empty bottle under the couch before I say, “Mom, what are you doing here?”

  My voice, catching her off guard, makes her jump out her skin.

  “There you are.” She sets a heavy bag on the counter and heads my way. “Your dad said you called out sick. I brought some food including some homemade soup.”

  She bends down and lays her cool hand on my forehead like I’m still a kid.

  “Mom,” I say shaking her hand away. “You can’t just show up. What if I had someone over?”

  Someone? Is that how it is now? I ask myself.

  “You look like hell, Benjie. And I don’t see anyone here. Is Sam coming over to take care of you?”

  The question burns in my chest like a motherfucker. I shake my head stiffly.

  “Well, then you need me,” she declares, getting back to her feet. “So what’s happened now?”

  I can hear the disappointment in her voice. She knows I fucked up.

  “Nothing, but I need my key back.”

  She spins around, a frown wrinkling her forehead.

  “Ben,” she pleads.

  I shake my head again. “You and Dad can’t just show up when you want. I’m a grown man.”

  When I’d bought this place, giving my parents a key considering I had been a bachelor seemed like a good idea. But Dad making himself at home several weeks ago and Mom showing up unannounced has changed that idea to a bad one.

  I hold out my hand. She sighs and fishes in her pocket to produce a key she lays in my palm. Then she turns and sees the TV screen frozen with Drew’s teenage face along with mine.

  Her face softens as she draws her own conclusion. “Is that what this is all about?”

  There’s no way to answer without spilling my guts, which I have no intentions of doing.

  “The two of you were inseparable. He was the brother you didn’t have. We all miss him, Ben. Have you considered talking to someone?”

  I don’t look to see the video Mom made for our high school graduation party. It’s the scene with Drew and me and our arms slung over one another looking like we’re ready to conqueror the world, frozen in time.

  “Mom, I don’t want to talk about this. Thanks for the food. I need to get up and hit the shower.”

  She kneels back down and pushes hair out of my face. “Oh, Benjie, promise me you’ll at least eat something.”

  I nod and she bends to kiss my forehead. And as much as it makes me feels like a child, there is comfort in her touch.

  “You should call your sister. She’s bound to show up if you don’t,” she says while getting to her feet. Good thing Jenna doesn’t have a key. “I’ll put away the food, then I’ll leave.”

  “Before you go, what day is it?”

  She’s startled by my question, but quickly smoothes away her distress, no doubt putting together how far gone I am.

  “It’s Friday afternoon.” Friday? I’d lost two days by drinking all I could. “You realize there is broken glass by the door.”

  If I want to pretend that two nights ago didn’t happen, I can’t answer. So I listen to her getting the broom out of the closet and sweeping it up. I push at my hair and turn to bury my face in the cushions forgetting the horrified look on Sam’s face as she left me.

  After Mom’s gone, I sit up and gather the bottles I’d hastily shoved under the couch. There is no way Mom didn’t see them. I manage to get them all and pull myself to my feet. I drop them unceremoniously into the recycle bin, creating a melody of breaking glass.

  My heads pounds as I make my way to my bedroom. The bed sits unmade as it had been when Sam left. I crawl on it only to rustle Sam’s fragrance. And damn if that doesn’t jerk my cock to life with the image of her sprawled naked burned into my brain.

  Still horny as fuck, it takes mere seconds with me doing nothing other than lying on my dick to send it shooting ribbons of cum on my bare chest as I roll over. Cock in hand, I finish the job, longing to be inside her.

  You should call her, asshole. I find my phone near the bed. When I turn it on, I get a flash of a text message from Sam before my phone goes dark. I d
on’t get a chance to read it, but I’m certain she’s calling me every name under the sun, none of them good.

  I head to the shower, something I haven’t seen the inside of in days. I’m surprised Mom didn’t mention how rank I must smell. My headache continues to pound away and I don’t deserve relief. I want to be there for her, but something stops me. What am I going to say? Will I have to lie to her like I lied to Drew? The memory is faster than I can stop it.

  I’d driven hours to reach his place. His call had scared the shit out of me. Drew was always the optimist. And his words had freaked me the fuck out.

  “Drew,” I called out.

  “Here.”

  I glanced over to see him sprawled over the couch like a wayward blanket.

  “What’s going on?”

  I planted myself before him on the coffee table.

  “What do you think? I’m going to fucking die.”

  “No, you’re not. You’re going to beat this.” Whatever this was. Had he gotten the results back? “Where’s Cate?”

  “Cate’s in school where she should be. Where I should let her stay.”

  “What the fuck, man? What’s up with all the doomsday talk?”

  “I have Ewing Sarcoma.”

  “Yeah, and?” Because I had no idea what that was. It didn’t sound good.

  “My chances of surviving this are somewhere between nil and none.”

  “That’s not true,” I said, even though I had no idea.

  “Okay, you’re right. If I were say ten to fifteen years younger, I would have a fighting chance. But at my age, the prognosis is far worse.”

  For a second I watched him stare at the ceiling with fate kicking his ass. But I wouldn’t let him give up. “You said worse, not no chance. You can beat this thing. Have you told Cate yet?”

  That’s when the first water drops leeched from his eyes. And fuck if I had to grit my teeth to not break down myself. There were only a handful of times I’d seen Drew cry. And most of them were before we were out of elementary school.