She’s so tight, so hot, squeezing me in a decadent rhythm. Even better than I remember. I plunge in, pulling out, and then drive into her again, touching her deeply. I smother her cries with my mouth. Her hips match mine stroke for stroke, arching upward to meet my thrusts. Her hands clutch and knead my butt, keeping me trapped inside her.
I drag my lips from hers, nuzzling at her neck, inhaling the sweet, fruity scent of her skin mingled with the sweaty musk of sex.
I grab her wrists and pin her hands above her head, thrusting harder and deeper into her. Faster and faster until we both cry out. I collapse onto her, then roll over and pull her sweat-slicked body into my side. I’m spent and ridiculously satisfied. She falls asleep in my arms, and I soon follow.
***
Thea
The room is pitch black when I wake up, my legs tangled in the sheets and my hair sticking to my face, a dribble of drool on the pillow…
Drool!
I dart up straight in bed, but find I’m alone.
Good that he didn’t see the drool.
Bad that he’s not here. Where is he?
I climb out of bed and throw on a tee shirt and pajama shorts from the basket of clothes I’ve needed to put away since last week.
From the hall, I hear a hushed voice. His voice, the soft tones of his whisper.
Not husky like earlier. A concerned urgency laces his words.
He paces in front of the couch, wearing a path in the dark brown carpet. Between him and Bennie, I’ll have to replace the carpet or get charged when I move out.
He glances over when I flip the kitchen light on, raising his hand in acknowledgement. I pour a glass of water and offer him one. He shakes his head.
The clock on the microwave reads 1:27 a.m. What’s going on at this hour?
My thoughts would normally kick into overdrive, with self-doubt plaguing me like it does almost every day.
But not tonight, not with Shay. No doubt, no shame, no hesitation. Everything feels so right.
Except the black cloud of “omission” hanging over my head.
They all need to be told.
I’ll tell him as soon as he gets off the phone and then tell Daddy when I drive out to Fayetteville Sunday evening for family supper.
Shay hangs up and walks into the small kitchen, sliding in behind me, wrapping one strong arm around my waist and resting his chin on the top of my head. I finish my drink and put the glass on the counter before leaning into the hard wall of his chest.
“Is everything okay?” It’s none of my business, but he’s rubbing his temples, making me think something serious is going on.
“It’s Mac. He’s been having some issues the past few weeks. I won’t bore you with the details, but his old therapist passed away a month ago, and they’d built up a strong relationship the past five years. Seeing someone new has him in a tailspin. He took off a few hours ago, and no one could find him.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yeah. He wouldn’t answer the phone when Mom called. I heard my phone buzzing when I got up to use the bathroom, and I had a dozen calls from her and Da. She wanted me to call, see if he would answer for me. Luckily he did, and I talked him home. Mom said he’s asleep now, but she’s still worried.”
“I’m sorry. That’s got to be tough being so far away.”
“Yeah, when I was at Miami the drive was a few hours. Not being able to rush back when they need me sucks. But I can’t fix everything for Mac. We’ve always been close, especially since my ma…the suic…you know. He’s depended on me. He’s a good kid, and I love him, but he needs to depend on himself now.”
“I understand.” I only have my sister, but I would do anything for her. Though our mother didn’t commit suicide and try to kill us, life without her hasn’t been easy.
I wish I could talk to her right now. She’d tell me exactly what I should do about everything.
At least that’s what I wish. She’d most likely tell me to follow my gut, listen to my heart, and tell my head to take a hike.
Gut says get the surgery, heart says keep Shay around for as long as I can.
These two things are in conflict with each other, and I have no idea how to resolve the struggle.
I do know I can’t tell him about the mastectomy tonight, with everything going on with Mac.
I turn in his arms and paste on a wide smile.
“I know everything will be alright with Mac. He’s lucky to have your mom and dad and uncle to support him. You can’t take care of everyone.”
But he sure did take care of me earlier. My face heats at the memory.
I lay my head on his chest, the slow, steady thrum of his heart soothing.
“I’m sleepy. Let’s go back to bed.”
We settle on the mattress, but sleep doesn’t happen.
He needs me to take his mind off of family problems, and I need him to take my mind off of my impending surgery.
Though he doesn’t know why, we meet each other’s needs perfectly, making it even sadder that one day soon we might say a final goodbye.
Chapter 13
Thea
“So I guess you’re studying today.” I take a bite of the buttery ham and cheese croissant at Campus Edge Café, then sip my water and wait for his answer.
He stirs some sugar into his black coffee and drinks. “Not so much. I was thinking about catching up on some sleep today.”
He grins, dimples framing his mouth. My fingers are drawn to the deeper dimple on the left side of his mouth, and as I touch him, I act as though I’m brushing crumbs away.
After all of the things we did to each other last night, I don’t need an excuse to touch him. Old habits and all. They tend to linger even when they should be kicked to the curb.
“What’s on your agenda?” He takes another drink from his steaming mug and points at me. “Rendering anyone else useless today?”
His smile tells me he’s joking, but I still defend myself. “I told you in Florida, this,” I wave my hands back and forth between us, “is not something I make a habit out of.”
My tone is much harsher than I intended, and he draws his head back, eyes wide. “I didn’t mean…”
I hold my hand up. “I’m sorry. Family day. Makes me a little testy.”
True. It’s only family supper, though, and I’m free all day until about 3:00 o’clock. Five hours from now.
The things I could do to him in five hours…
“Did you tell your parents about me?”
Parents.
I never told him about my mother and the cancer. “My mama passed about six years ago. She had breast cancer. My sister, too. She’s recovering from chemo. Remember I told you she was sick?”
Now the family history is out there.
“Wow, I’m so sorry.”
At least he didn’t say, “I understand,” because our mothers’ deaths were so different. Equally horrific, but different.
One death was quick. The other, drawn-out, ugly, agonizing. That’s the kind of pain I want to keep my family from going through with me, and that’s why I’m opting for the PBM.
I nod. Tears threaten to spill if I say a single word. Time heals, but sometimes a single word, or look or touch, can rip the delicate scabs right off.
I take another drink of water and clear my throat. “Ready to go? I need to get to the store to pick up dessert.”
“Yeah, sure.” He flips over the check and pulls out his wallet to pay, refusing my money.
He’s so handsome in his clothes from last night, even though they’re a little rumpled. I think the phrase “would look good in a potato sack” was created for guys like him.
We walk back to my place and hop into the truck. I drive the ten minutes back to his apartment. I don’t pull into a space—that would invite a drawn out farewell—and instead pull up in front of the sidewalk leading to his building, sitting behind a few other cars.
“Can I call you tonight?”
So adorab
le.
I nod, even when my stupid brain is screaming “no way, not ever again.”
Go the fuck away, conscience, at least for now.
Let me enjoy him for another couple weeks.
Then I’ll tell him.
***
Thea
I don’t need to leave for supper for a couple hours, which gives me time to prep for my group therapy session tomorrow. One of the activities that my therapist, Dr. Luther, suggests for our pre-op counseling sessions is to keep a journal, or write a letter. To my breasts. Telling them goodbye. So weird.
I understand, though, why the exercise might help. When you’re angry with someone, you can yell or call or write them a letter to express your feelings, regrets, and so on. I sit down on the couch with my journal—the letter is so personal, and typing on the laptop so mechanical—and start writing. The end product surprises me.
My darling girls,
I can’t believe our time is coming to an end. We’ve been together for such a short time, but wow, fun times. You’ve certainly caused me some grief as well, but mostly it’s been an unbelievable ride. Especially our time in Key West. But the potential harm you could cause in the future makes this radical step necessary. So I say:
“Goodbye to you, boobs.”
My prophylactic double-mastectomy is scheduled for a few weeks from now. I’m scared shitless. So much pain. So much scarring. Most of all, there will be second-guessing.
There hadn’t been any of the latter until I met him. The god. Apparently of Irish origin, not Greek. But hot. Like J. Crew-model hot. Hotter, even. His name is Shay Kelly. He loves you. He likes me, but you? He can’t keep his hands off of you.
This would be so uncomplicated if I’d been able to leave him behind in Florida, but as ass-kicking fate would have it, he’s going to med school now—at my college. After I ran into him at the university hospital, I was dumbfounded and speechless, like the first time we met. But he still asked me out. A wonderful, romantic date and more after that.
And the sex. The mind-blowing, toe-curling sex. This guy is perfect. Gorgeous, smart, and ambitious. He doesn’t know you’ll be leaving soon. The one thing he hates more than anything is being lied to, the way people lied to him for years about his mother. Now I’m lying, by colossal omission. How do I tell him? Hell, I haven’t even told Daddy. He’s still mourning Mama’s loss to breast cancer six years ago and helping my older sister with her kids while she undergoes chemo.
So {gulp} I need to figure out a way to tell Shay…and find the strength to watch him walk away.
Deep down, I guess I’ve struggled with this outward loss of my femininity. Shay’s presence, and imminent loss, brings those feelings bubbling to the surface, and I don’t like it all. I’m in charge here, and you’re still going, no matter how much joy you’ve attracted these past weeks.
I’ll miss you, but I must say goodbye. Adiós. Au revoir. Ta-ta, forever, ta-tas.
The joke doesn’t seem so funny now that I have even more to lose.
~Thea
Wow. The letter is less angry than I thought it would be. More sad than anything else. I wish my words were more hopeful. I can’t force the optimism.
Having the mastectomy is the best decision, albeit the most difficult, ever. For me, any other way is passive, and I’ve decided not to live life submissively. To go after what I want instead of hoping it comes my way.
Maybe that’s why I don’t want to tell Shay about the operation. I’ve got what I want, and refuse to relinquish it, at least not right now.
I don’t need to tell him. I could back out quietly. Become too busy to see him. Move away, or back home.
So much for living life actively.
What a way to wuss out.
Though my decision to prevent getting breast cancer is brave, I can’t find a way to channel that bravery into the rest of my life.
I better find a way. Soon. Before I hurt someone I care too much about, knowing he may never forgive me for damages already done.
Chapter 14
Thea
I haven’t heard from Shay for a few days. He's busy with classes and studying and prepping to start his internship next week, so I hung out with Jen and read up on my reconstruction options.
I didn’t talk to Daddy and Jen about the surgery, though, and I need to work some things out in therapy before I do.
I’m in group therapy now, surrounded by women who have undergone, or will undergo, a mastectomy. Some had cancer; others are like me, hoping to prevent the disease. I don’t often speak out in group, but today I need to hash out some things.
“I thought vacation was supposed to be fun, Thea. We talked about this. Not forgetting about what’s happening, but at least for a moment, living life like you want to when the threat of breast cancer is eradicated.”
Dr. Luther’s right.
“Yeah, I know. But Bennie and Leesh kept pushing me about my ‘one last fling’ for the girls.” I cup my hands over my breasts, and the group laughs. “I met this guy, and had one of those vacation flings that sticks with you. I can’t forget a guy like him.”
A few “mmmm hmmmmms” and “I know that’s right,” and then I drop the bombshell: “You can’t forget a guy from vacation when he ends up moving to your city to attend med school.”
“Say what?!” That’s Gina, one of the other group attendees. She always makes me smile.
I snort. “Yeah. Ran into him at the hospital last week, and we, uh, kinda went on a couple dates since.”
“Thea, do you think this is someone you could be serious about? Did you tell him yet?” Dr. Luther jots down something on her notepad. In our private sessions, we’re role-playing to help me cope with how to tell my family.
I avoid her gaze and stare down at the pink-tipped toes peeping out of my sandals.
“I…no. I adore him. I like how normal things are because he’s clueless. I’m afraid. Will he leave?”
Gina speaks up again. “If he does, honey, he doesn’t deserve you.
I sniff and dab at my eyes with a tissue from the box provided at the entrance to the office. “I know. Maybe he won’t leave. Right now. Or maybe he’ll treat me differently, like I’m fragile and needy, which may be worse than him walking away.”
Dr. Luther interjects. “He deserves the truth. Consider your own reaction if your parents withheld your mother’s diagnosis from you six years ago.”
I would have spit nails. Shay will be furious, too, especially since he’s still bitter about his family hiding the real cause of the car “accident” from him and his brothers for so long.
Geesh, he’s going to be madder than a wet hen in a tote sack.
“This is different,” I insist.
“How so? You’re taking away his ability to make an informed decision about being in a relationship with you. You may not like his decision, but he should be the one to choose. What’s going to happen after surgery and he shows up? You’ve got the Jackson-Pratt drains in, and you tell him what?”
UGH.
It all makes perfect sense.
“You’re right. I’ll see him this weekend. I’ll tell him.”
Dr. Luther looks pleased. “Would anyone else like to share?”
Voices mutter in the background, but all I hear clearly is the mock conversation in my head, the one I hope to have with Shay.
“Hey, guess what? I’m getting my boobs cut off to prevent getting cancer.”
“Oh, well, preventing cancer is important. I’ll help with whatever you need. What do you want for dinner? I’m in the mood for Chinese carry-out.”
Ha. That would be the “in your dreams” conversation.
Scuffing chairs wake me from the daydream, and I stand up to leave. Gina comes over and touches my shoulder.
“It’s hard sweetie, but you’ve got to tell your young man the truth. You remember when you first started coming here a few months ago? I’d just been diagnosed.”
Gina’s wearing a scarf on h
er head today and her eyebrows are penciled in, dark crayon arches over big brown eyes.
I swallow back tears. “I remember.”
“I’d started dating this man a month before I found the lump. To be honest, honey, he found the lump.” Her playful grin cheers me up.
She continues, “I called him right after the diagnosis. Told him over a cup of coffee. Expected him to walk away.”
Gina hadn’t mentioned him, so I suspect he ditched her.
“Girl, we got engaged. He proposed to me a few days ago, and I agreed today. Not sure why I waited two days to decide. What man takes on the responsibility of holding a cancer patient’s hair as she pukes up her guts and stays in bed for days? The good kind. You need to find out if yours is the good kind. Tell him, honey. As soon as you can.”
I grab onto Gina and sob into her shoulder. She’s right. Maybe I’m lucky and found the guy like she did. She pats my hair and squeezes me tight, and for a minute it’s like Mama’s here reassuring me.
I pull back and swipe at my tears. I need the encouragement right now.
I’m telling him. When he comes over this weekend, the first thing I’m going to do is sit him on the couch and lay out all my cards.
Whatever the outcome, I’ll survive, no matter what.
***
Shay
Thea’s out of sorts again. I’m not sure why, but she’s flitting around and running to the kitchen to grab me a beer, or to throw something away or getting a drink of water.
The buzzer on the washing machine sounds and the dryer goes off, too. She runs to pull clothes from the dryer and put the last load in. I’d asked her if I could bring my stuff over to wash, so I could spend time with her instead of in my building’s laundry room.
She insisted on doing my clothes, but I’m uncomfortable watching her. I’ve been washing my own clothes since high school. Mom insisted we start doing it to learn “valuable life skills.” I ended up washing Liam’s too, since his pile of sweaty socks and uniform pants from football practice would pile up in our shared room in the old house, emitting a pungent, funky odor.
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