That sex can be this: neither mind-blowing nor deeply disappointing, feels like an odd kind of milestone.
* * * *
Elan formally ends his relationship with Clean Clothes through a tersely worded letter from Tim George. I never hear from him again. Clean Clothes is quietly acquired by a Swedish clothing-retail company. I only get the details of this when I finally convince Vivian to meet me for coffee. She pushes a piece of paper my way. It’s a check. For just under six thousand dollars. “Your shares,” she says. “What was left of them.”
“No.” I push it back. “I can’t take this. Not after everything that happened.”
“Take it. You need it. And you earned it.”
I stare at Vivian’s small, precise writing.
It’s almost the same amount as Elan’s commission.
* * * *
And just like that, it’s December.
56.
* * *
December
“They say I might say some weird shit when I wake up from the anesthesia,” I tell Steph, the phone jammed under my ear while I wipe down my kitchen counter for the fiftieth time.
“What kind of weird shit?”
“Unclear. You’ve seen all those videos of kids after the dentist. I just hope I’m whimsical and amusing and not gross or overtly bitchy.”
Steph chuckles. “You sure you don’t want us to come with you to the hospital? Or I can leave the missus here and come by myself.”
I toss the sponge in the sink. My studio has never been cleaner. I keep trying to tell myself that a recovery staycation will be fun and cozy, but honestly, it’s going to be pretty cramped with my sister and, after a few days, Storm. It’s a crash pad, not a real home. I only have one coffee mug, one frying pan. From the bed you can see every inch of the apartment except the bathroom. In its current state of violent cleanliness, the studio resembles one of those progressive Scandinavian prison cells.
“I’m good. Mara will be here at six.” My buzzer sounds. “Shoot, gotta go. Nude photo shoot lady is here.”
“Ooh, lovely,” Steph says. “Hope I get to see those, she said, in a nonpervy way. See you tomorrow. Love you.”
“Love you too.” A new thing we’ve started doing. I rather like it.
I adjust my kimono in the mirror. Bee recommended this photographer, I don’t know her personally. Serena is her name, and I’m just in the process of checking my phone and seeing a message from Serena that starts with I’m so sorry when the doorbell rings and Cooper is standing in front of me.
He looks dazed. “Hi.”
He’s supposed to be in Germany. Shock bounces around my body. “How— What are you doing here?”
He’s staring at me. An overnight bag at his feet. “Can I come in?”
Silently, I stand aside. He enters, slowly, looking around. He’s never been to my apartment before. My pulse is tapping quickly, my skin awash with heat. I am extremely naked under my kimono. I tighten the sash. “Coop, what the hell are you doing here? Did something happen with the job?”
“I . . . had to come back for a conference. Last-minute. Just for today.”
I can’t believe he’s here, here, in my apartment.
“I’m flying back tonight.” Wild eyes lock on mine. “Come with me.”
“What?”
“I know this is crazy, and sudden, and crazy, but I was sitting in the hotel bar drinking some wine and there were these two Germans next to me talking about toy poodles. You know, the dogs?”
“Poodles? Cooper, what the hell are you—”
“And it was just so funny”—he’s pacing, babbling—“the way they were saying toy poodle in their German accent was just so funny and they had Alfredo pasta on the menu, which I know you like, and—” He exhales hard, and looks right at me. “It just suddenly hit me how much I wanted you there. With me. All the time. As my girlfriend.”
I goldfish my mouth a few times. “But . . . you live in Berlin.”
He grabs my hands, eyes wide behind his glasses. “Come with me. They’ve put me up in a huge apartment and are paying me a stupid amount of money.”
“Coop, I can’t.” I pull my hands away. “My surgery.”
“Get it there.” He steps closer again. “I’ll take time off to look after you. All the time you need, I’ll be there.”
“You can’t, you just started a new job!”
“Well, we’ll figure something out!”
I don’t step away. Of course I can’t, I absolutely can’t . . . can I? I want to travel. I want to see the world.
And, I want Cooper. “My stuff—my apartment—”
“The company will ship all my partner’s things. I’ll pay for you to break your lease. I don’t care about the money.” He cups my face with both hands. I’ve never been this close to someone radiating so much serious, directed, devoted energy. “I want to be with you and I don’t care how much that scares me. It doesn’t scare me anymore. I feel so alive when I’m with you, like I could do anything, go anywhere. I want to make you happy. I want to make you pancakes. I want to make your life amazing. You inspire me.” His gaze is deep, soft, and unflinching. “You’re the one for me, Lacey Whitman. You always have been.”
I stare back at him, stunned. I feel like I’ve just discovered a secret world under my bed. None of this feels real. And while the possibility of Coop’s declaration being a colorful presurgery delusion is exceptionally strong, I know it’s not.
Cooper is here. And he wants me to go to Germany with him. He wants . . . me. “I don’t speak German.”
“Everyone speaks English!”
“But my job—”
“You don’t even like your job. You could get work there easily. I know people.”
“Steph, Mara—”
“They can come visit!”
“Cooper!” I spin away, laughing deliriously. “I can’t go to Germany with you!”
He follows me. “Call me crazy, but I think you can. I think you’re thinking about it. I think you want to.”
“Stop thinking. I can’t.” I look at him. Really see him. Scruffy hair. Good heart. “I care about you, Coop. Even though this year was nutso, I do, I care about you, a lot. But I care about me more.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning tomorrow morning my sister is taking me to the hospital, where a very nice surgeon will be removing every inch of breast tissue from my body so I don’t get cancer and die. And that’s more important to me than anything anyone could possibly offer.” I put my hands on his chest. His heart is jackhammering underneath his T-shirt. “I gotta save my own life, Coop. You get that, right?”
He deflates, his entire body contracting. “Yeah.” He blinks and rubs his eyes, as if just coming back into himself. “Sorry if this seems insensitive or insane. It all just came out.”
“I’m glad it did.” I slide my arms up around his neck. I’m smiling. “As far as grand gestures go, that was quite impressive.”
He takes a long moment to study my face. “You’re so beautiful, Lacey. I almost forgot how beautiful you are.”
I don’t say, “No, I’m not!” I don’t say, “Just good lighting.” I just feel it: his kindness. His love for me.
His hands slide to the small of my back. I feel the warmth of his skin through my robe. “Should I quit my job? And stay?”
“No,” I twist my fingers into his hair. “If it’s meant to be, we’ll work it out. There’s always next year.”
“And the year after that”—his mouth moves toward mine—“and the year after that”—closer still—“and the year after that.”
I smile as he kisses me. I could be thinking about so many things. How I feel when he walks out that door. What’s happening tomorrow. But all I feel is his mouth on mine, his body pressed to my chest, his hands sliding to cup the curve of my waist. It’s a sweet kiss, but it has weight. It’s a kiss that says, You mean something to me. It’s a kiss that says, I hope this isn’t the end for us.
/> But it might be. Because I made the choice I had to make.
My kimono slides open. In a way that seems languid rather than tentative, he slowly slides his hands inside my gown. His fingertips skim my stomach, summoning a scatter of goose bumps up my arm. “You’re so soft,” he whispers.
I draw in a breath as his hands find my breasts. Cupping them, weighing them, feeling every inch of them. His eyes are heavy with desire, looking down at my chest to wonder at me. His thumbs run over both nipples, quick, almost playful. A shiver of pleasure. Then he pinches them, slowly, deliciously slowly. The sensation shoots down my spine, all the way to my clit.
This is the last night I’ll feel this.
We break apart. His pupils are dilated, his breath ragged. “Should I go?”
I shake my head. “Stay. Just for tonight.”
It’s sex unlike I’ve ever had before. More tender than fucking, less serious than making love, more loving than a hookup. I don’t feel shy about telling him what I want, what I like. I close my eyes and focus on my breasts, on the sensation of having them stroked and nibbled and squeezed. An altar, soon to be artifact. We take our time, both explorers with the same luxurious mission: to discover this glorious body we’re lucky enough to be in bed with. We pause to talk and laugh and tease. I stay in the moment. I savor every bite. When I arch my back as he slides inside me, it’s not a show. It’s not for him. It’s for me. It’s how I feel. I don’t feel sad when it’s over. I don’t feel happy. As Cooper’s breathing deepens into sleep beside me, I feel alive: conscious and very present of being in existence, on this day, this week, this year. In New York City, on a continent of planet Earth.
The screen of my phone reflects my body back at me, my skin shimmering pale.
My breasts look beautiful.
I look beautiful.
I take one photo. One photo to complete the nude photo shoot, number two on my bucket list: the list that caused so much drama. And heartache. And fun. And sex. And . . . everything else.
Through my window, a suggestion of gray.
A new day is dawning.
Part Three
* * *
57.
* * *
Hospitals are a different country. Passing through the sliding glass doors is a border crossing into a world where hope and despair are mediated by people in pale blue scrubs with patient smiles. I’ve been afraid of this: returning to the scene of the crime that took my mother’s life. But it’s not as bad as I anticipate. In fact, it’s almost underwhelming. It’s oddly ordinary. After all, I’m here under vastly different circumstances.
I’m not dying.
After signing in, I change into disposable underwear and a robe, and wait for the doctor squad. My skin smells like the sickly disinfectant I was instructed to wash with this morning. Not my smell. It makes all this seem even more . . . weird. I’m reminded of the original meaning of the word (one of the few things I remember from high school English)—having the power to control destiny.
I FaceTime Bee. She answers from a darkened bedroom, sleepy. “Babe.”
“Babe.”
“Today’s the day, huh?”
“Yup.”
She sits up. A pink eye mask with Fuck off in cursive script is pushed into her blond hair. “You got this. You so got this. Is your sister there?”
“Getting coffee.” I frown, realizing something. “Wait, where are you? That’s not your bedroom.”
“Shhh.” Bee giggles, putting her finger to her lips. “You’ll wake—uh—him.” A whisper. “Shit, I forgot his name. I picked him up at that open mic night.”
“You did it?” I wasn’t sure if she’d go through with her plan to sing a few cabaret songs at a local bar.
“Oh, I did it. I brought the house down, honey! They want me back. Regular slot.”
“That’s amazing!”
A muffled groan, out of frame. A man’s voice, “What time is it?”
“Shut the fuck up,” she tells him. “It’s my friend; I’m talking to my friend.” Then to me, grinning but sincere. “You’ll be fine. I believe in you. I can’t wait to see your new titties.”
I warm with the feeling of her support. It’s wonderful and strange how tragedy brings you such unlikely bedfellows. Bee and I would most likely never have become close in our ordinary lives. But I feel certain that we are, as the forums say, BFFs: breast friends forever. And for that, I am beyond thankful. Silver lining, indeed. “See you on the other side.”
Mara returns with her coffee. None for me till after it’s all over. She smooths stray strands of hair into my hair net. “How are you feeling?”
Afraid. Determined. Strong, sad. “Ready,” I say. “I feel ready.”
She takes my hand in hers. It is dry and calloused, nails bitten to the quick. It feels like home.
Dr. Williams and Dr. Ho greet us warmly. I’d seen both of them a week ago for my last check-in, the same day I’d come into the hospital for presurgical testing: checking of my heart rate, blood test, a pregnancy test. Now they’re in scrubs, asking if I have any final questions.
“How much will it hurt?” I ask.
“Everyone’s pain thresholds are different,” Dr. Williams says. “But you’ll have plenty of medication to manage the pain.”
“Right,” I say. “But how much will it hurt?”
“Don’t worry, Lace,” Mara says. “You’re going to be doped up till New Year’s.”
“And I’ll also have my meds, right?” I’m making a joke, but apprehension gnaws at me. This is happening. This is real. I’m anxious and low-key terrified. And I’m grateful. Grateful that these smart, kind doctors are able to help me feel powerful in a situation that renders me powerless. I want to express this, but all I can say is, “Thank you.”
Dr. Ho smiles. “Ready?”
I don’t realize I’m holding my breasts until I’m wheeled into the OR and guided to the table. It’s brighter than a CVS at midnight, and freezing. My nipples are hard and sensitive and I don’t want to think about how they’ll feel when I wake up. Everyone around me is busy, moving in a ballet of checklists and coordinated movement. No chitchat now, just a clear sense of order. Some of the women on the forums described being given a mild sedative before this point, something that made you feel like you’ve “had a few glasses of wine,” but I am stone-cold sober. I wish someone had bonked me on the head as soon as I came into the hospital. I don’t want to be conscious for any of this.
I won’t be for much longer.
IV in my arm. The friendly anesthesiologist makes small talk about God knows what.
The lights above me are so bright. Everyone is smiling.
And now . . . I’m floating; delicious sunshine, warm summer days. I’m counting down from ten.
Nine.
Eight.
Se—seven . . .
* * * *
Me and my mother, who is actually Meryl Streep, are bra shopping in a giant department store. The only bras I can find are the wrong size and crazy colors: neon yellow, lime green. “But where are they?” I keep saying, wading through the endless, mismatched racks. “Where are my boobs?”
“Here,” Meryl/Mom says. She holds out Mara’s photo album.
Relief. I take it.
In the change room, I pull aside a curtain. Donald Trump is already in there, trying on my bras. He looks embarrassed and covers his chest. His hands are very, very small. Rage, like a freight train. “I hate you!” I yell. “I hate President Trump!”
Someone tries to soothe me, as I continue to scream at him.
* * * *
Can’t see. Black gauze over my eyes. Through slivers of vision, a nurses’ station. A window. I moan.
An underwater voice I don’t recognize. “You’re fine, honey. You’re good.”
I’m being dragged under by something as powerful as the ocean. Opening my eyes, a Herculean feat. “Mom?”
Someone near me. “You want some ginger ale, baby?”
It’s only after I throw it up that I realize I’m thirsty and that I was drinking something and I’m nauseous. Jumbled time. Someone’s wiping my mouth saying, “It’s okay, baby. It’s all okay.”
I mumble something like, “Feel . . . fucked . . .” and then the ocean envelops me.
* * * *
The next time I wake up, I actually wake up. I’m in a low-lit hospital bed in a hospital room. Key word: hospital. To my left, an empty bed, to my right, an older Hispanic woman is snoring lightly. Dark outside. An elephant on my chest, planet-size pressure caving it in. My back muscles are screaming. I’m wrapped up like a freakin’ mummy.
Mara is slumped in a chair at the end of my bed. When I try to move, her head snaps up. Her face is so familiar, it’s like looking in the mirror. It almost brings me to tears.
“Hey, there you are.” She’s by my side, face flooded with relief. “Welcome back.”
My croaked greeting sounds like something you’d steer clear of in a swamp.
“Ready for this?” A plastic cup of water.
I gulp it down. “What time is it?”
“About seven. Luna and Steph just stepped out to get coffee.” She skims my cheek with her finger. “How are you feeling, sweet girl?”
IV in my arm. My chest is strapped in bandages, a compression bra, tubes everywhere. It doesn’t feel like my body. It doesn’t feel like anything. “How did it go?”
“Perfectly,” Mara says. “They were done early. Something to do with you being young. Everything as it should be.”
The Bucket List Page 32