The Bucket List

by Georgia Clark

My sister decided to get tested for the BRCA1 gene mutation three weeks before her thirty-first birthday. Originally, she didn’t want to see a genetic counselor. After an hour of passionate negotiation, I convinced her to meet with Judy-Ann to talk through both possible outcomes, and then take the test with her: what I should’ve done in the first place. She insisted on going alone, so I waited for her in the café next door. When she met me afterward, she looked pale. I could tell she’d been crying. But she didn’t look broken. She looked resolute. “I’m glad I did it,” was all she said. “Now we wait and see.”

  It’s not her own health she’s most worried about.

  It’s Storm’s.

  I’ve been thinking a lot about family these past few months. What we pass down and what gets passed down to us. The gifts we’re given and the cycles we work to break. It wasn’t until I had my mastectomy that I realized how much anger I was carrying. Anger directed at my father, but also at my mother. I was angry they’d left me, one purposefully, one not. I was angry at the ways I was like them: in my genetic makeup and in my personality. I was angry because I felt vulnerable. I was scared. Scared of being alone. Being abandoned. Being left behind in a city like New York. And while that fear has not magically evaporated, recognizing it and looking it in the face has helped dissipate it. I don’t feel as scared anymore. I feel more sure of myself as an individual. I am the child of two complicated people but I am my own person. I have agency. I feel sure of my friends. I feel sure of my community. I feel sure of my sister, sitting beside me, holding my hand with an iron grip.

  “Whatever happens,” I say, “I’m here for you. We’ll get through this, okay?”

  I was feeling strong this morning, confident that Mara would be negative. But as we sit in the waiting room, tension fills my body. My chest—a site of many strange phantom pains these past few months—is a new kind of tight.

  I’m more than just scared for her. I’m terrified. I know what this knowledge brings. I know what it puts you through.

  My diagnosis was out of the blue. The anxiety about hers has been building for weeks.

  Mara is breathing shallowly. I can feel her heartbeat. She’s sitting ramrod straight. Every muscle is tense. I’d always associated this posture with my sister’s anger: I thought it meant she was mad. Now I see, she’s just scared.

  Judy-Ann sits across from us. She has a large white envelope in her hands. We watch her pull a single sheet of paper out. She looks up at us, speaking in her calm counselor voice. “I have your test result here.” Her tone is neutral: neither celebratory nor watchful.

  Mara lets out a small whimper.

  I break out in a sweat. My teeth are chattering. I clench my jaw.

  Please don’t let her have it. Please, please, please.

  Judy-Ann clears her throat. “Mara, you have tested negative for the BRCA1 gene mutation.”

  My sister lets out a strangled cry. Her entire body collapses forward. “Oh my God,” she moans. “Oh, thank God.”

  Hot tears spill down my cheeks. I’m shaking. “Are you sure?” I demand. “Are you absolutely sure?”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Judy-Anne smiles. “A completely clear test.”

  My sister starts sobbing, her face buried in her hands. “I don’t have it. She doesn’t have it. She doesn’t have it.”

  “That’s right,” Judy-Ann says. “There’s no way you could have passed this down to your daughter.”

  “She’s safe,” Mara weeps. “She’s safe. My baby’s safe.”

  I’m crying now, my arms around my sister. I can’t quite feel where my breasts touch her: that part of my chest is numb now. But I feel everything else. “You’re safe too, Mar! You’re safe too.”

  “I’m safe,” Mara says, her body shaking with sobs. “I’m safe and she’s safe and so are you. Oh, thank God. Thank God.”

  We sit there together, crying and holding each other.

  My sister is safe. And she is here, with me.

  60.

  * * *

  June

  In the Luxembourg Gardens, Parisians sits on mint-green metal chairs facing the beds of red and yellow tulips. The manicured grass lawns are dotted with hundreds of sunbathers in barely-there bikinis. The park was built in 1612, the biggest in Paris, and like everything in this city, is beautiful and romantic and utterly dreamy on a summer’s afternoon. I’ve been coming here most days with a café au lait and pain au chocolat, to sit in the fragrant, dappled sunlight and watch the world go by.

  Beyond the grand limestone buildings and twinkling Eiffel Tower, Paris is full of delightful eccentricity. Like the tiny elevators that only fit two people or the fact you get a baguette as a side with everything, even burgers. In the supermarket, the cashiers sit on stools and they have an entire aisle devoted solely to yogurt. Cops on Rollerblades whiz past rows of tiny cars packed bumper-to-bumper on narrow streets. Everything opens after midday and closes after midnight. Everyone smokes, even the chic mothers pushing frilly strollers. Everyone downs daily double espressos, including me, drunk side by side with the office workers crowded at the café counter. Yesterday, I listened to someone play a piano in the subway (the Métro de Paris) for half an hour. In the morning, the cool air smells like butter and freshly baked bread. By the afternoon, it’s sweat and camembert.

  Paris is sophisticated and sensual. Or perhaps, that’s what it brings out in me.

  The sun is warm on my skin. I’m wearing sunscreen but no foundation: I see freckles when I look in the mirror now. I close my eyes and inhale slowly, trying to still my heartbeat. Usually, I bring a book or magazine to read in the Jardin du Luxembourg. But today, I’m jittery. I can’t drink my coffee.

  I’m excited.

  I’m waiting.

  I’ve been here for a week on my own. A week of strolls along the Seine and getting lost in the Louvre and taking in the afternoon with a cheese plate and a chilled kir, like the locals drink. But today my solo adventure ends.

  He’s coming to meet me.

  We promised to do summer in Paris together, after all.

  “Are you sure?” Steph had asked, watching me pack with obvious concern. “It’s a long way to go, if things don’t work out.”

  “I’m sure,” I’d replied. “One thousand percent.”

  It was always going to be him. Everyone in the world could see that.

  And there he is. Right on time.

  The sight of him, so effortlessly sexy in a white T-shirt and wire-rimmed glasses, makes me want to laugh out loud. I want to throw myself on him, devour him whole. But I don’t need to rush this. I almost want to see how long I can last before I need to kiss him.

  “Hallo,” I call as he approaches. “Schön dich hier zu sehen.”

  Cooper laughs, and it is such a beautiful sound, I want to hear it every day. “You’re learning German. Of course you are. I bet you’ll pick it up really quickly.”

  “Why do you think that?”

  “Because you’re smart,” he says. “You’re really clever; it’ll be easy for you.”

  We stare at each other, amazed idiotic grins on our faces. I start laughing. I’m just so happy.

  He pulls me close, wrapping my arms around his torso. He feels strong and solid, like he always does. My nose on his T-shirt, I breathe in his scent. I want every part of us to be touching, always. “How’d I get so lucky?” he murmurs, running his fingers through my hair. “To meet a woman who’s smart and beautiful and crazy enough to move to Germany with me.”

  I can’t wait anymore. I pull his mouth to mine, and we kiss. It’s hungry and passionate and very, very French. It’s been so long since I’ve seen him, been able to touch him. And now, I get to see him and touch him every day. Because yes, I’m moving to Germany with Noam Cooper. It is the single most daring thing I have ever done, and that includes everything on my bucket list, and the reason for it. But I don’t feel afraid. I feel alive.

  I’m leaving a lot behind. I’m leaving Steph and Mara and Storm and
Bee. I’m leaving New York, my tiny studio snapped up within hours of being back on the market. I’m leaving my job and I don’t have another one. I don’t know what I’ll do for work in Berlin, and that is the most un–Lacey Whitman thing about all this. It wasn’t an easy decision. I’m nervous about being in a new city with no support system outside one person. But I have faith. In Cooper. In us. And most importantly, in myself. I used to see the future as something I could master, through hard work and sacrifice. Now, I don’t have as many expectations. I’m curious about the future. A little apprehensive, but open to whatever happens.

  Cooper’s fingers graze the side of my foob. I can’t really feel the sensation of his fingertips on my breasts anymore. But I feel a lot more than I used to. My body and my heart are both wide-awake.

  On the back of my hotel door, a dress is hanging. Black stretch jersey with a plunging neckline all the way to my torso. It’s the last thing on my bucket list: my boobs-on-parade dress, the sexiest thing I have ever owned. When I tried it on this morning, in anticipation of the decadent Michelin-starred dinner date I’m taking Cooper on later tonight, I noticed a few inches of pale pink scar circling under either breast. But I don’t care that you can see the scars, or that I’m a few pounds heavier than I was this time last year.

  My body feels like a triumph to me.

  My scars are beautiful. They’re just another part of me.

  We break apart. Everything in me is on fire.

  Cooper grins, an open and easy grin. “I love you.”

  “Whoa.” I take a step back.

  His grin broadens, completely unfazed. “Does that scare you?”

  I think about it. “No,” I say. “I love you. I think.”

  He laughs. “You think?”

  “I’m pretty sure. It’s a distinct possibility.”

  His voice is low, almost a tease. “Let me convince you.” He kisses me again. This time, it’s slower. Gentler. As if I’m the only woman in the world. Because that’s what I feel like right now, standing here in the Luxembourg Gardens, with all my worldly possessions waiting for me in a foreign country I’ve never even been to. I am confident and brave. My body is mine to enjoy.

  I feel like a woman.

  We break apart. Sunlight slants across our skin, turning us golden.

  I smile at my boyfriend. “I’m hungry,” I say. “Let’s go find something to eat.”

  Arm in arm, we move forward into the afternoon, in search of our next great adventure.

  Acknowledgments

  While reading a novel is a private experience, writing one is very much a collaboration. Here are the fine folk who helped dream this book into being.

  I’m so very grateful to my powerhouse editor, Emily Bestler of Emily Bestler Books, for taking a chance on my “sexy mastectomy” novel. Huge thanks to everyone at Atria/Simon & Schuster, especially the lovely Lara Jones, superstar publicists Stephanie Mendoza and Alison Hinchcliffe, and cover genius Kelly Blair.

  I’m lucky to have the best agent in the biz, Allison Hunter at Janklow & Nesbit, whose diehard enthusiasm for this novel started with an email entitled OH MY GOD IT’S SO GOOD and only grew from there. Thanks also to Clare Mao for thoughtful notes/spreadsheets/Instagramming. To the fantastic Chelsea Lindman for getting the ball rolling. To Stefanie Diaz for foreign rights.

  Sarah Cypher, will you always be my freelance editor and never leave me?! Collaborating on our third book together has been, as always, an absolute dream. Your ability to see the big picture and break it down for me in a way that’s understandable and achievable is something I am so, so grateful for. Ready for the next one?

  Thanks to Jason Richman at UTA, and his right-hand man, Sam Reynolds. Always so fun to have an excuse to come to Beverly Hills and pretend to be fancy!

  I’m thrilled to have the chance to work once again with the irrepressible Crystal Patriarche and co. at BookSparks. Thank you for being so firmly on Team Georgia and spreading the word about my work far and wide.

  I am not at risk for hereditary cancer, nor have I had a preventive surgery. I was only able to bring Lacey’s story to life through the generosity and openness of those in the previvor and breast cancer community. It was an honor to enter this world, and be shown around by so many extraordinary individuals. Thank you to everyone who spoke with me and shared their experience. First up, my badass BRCA babes: Caitlin Brodnick, Cara Scharf, Grace Talusan, and Tina Moya Zotovich, who all shared stories of their preventative mastectomies, patiently answered my endless questions, and gave important feedback on early drafts. Thanks to Sue Friedman and Karen Singer at FORCE for trusting me enough to let me in. Dr. Andy Salzberg explained one-step mastectomies. Angela Arnold and Mary Freivogel introduced me to the world of genetic counselors. Dr. Neil Collier weighed in on the medical stuff.

  Thanks to Anneke Jong for schooling me on start-ups and answering “just one more question.” So fun to connect with Ellen Sideri and Lindsey Smecker at ESP Trendlab. I knew nothing about trend forecasting when I started this book, but you ladies soon changed that!

  Cheers to Nora Wilkinson for an insightful early read.

  I created the outline for this book at Ragdale, in Lake Forest, Illinois, and worked on the drafts at the New York Writers Room: both essential spaces for authors. I adore my extended writing fam: thank you to all my fellow scribes who are so quick to cheer me on or commiserate, whatever the twisty turns the life of the writer calls for. #Bookstagram crew: #blessed every time I’m a #currentread. Many kisses for my sweet pals in Brooklyn (especially Noz/JT/Foxy/Big D/Iz), and my friends in LA and Sydney. Big thanks to the loyal Generation Women community, especially Jessica Paugh and Camila Salazar, for helping create my dream storytelling night.

  Lindsay Ratowsky, the last book was dedicated to you, and even though this one isn’t, it kind of is, in that everything I do is dedicated to you. Sweet girl, I love you infinitely. Thank you for being my girlfriend, my best friend, my first reader, and my everything else. You delight me every single day; I’m so lucky to be yours. Also, hi, Chris, Craig, Justin, Erika, and all the Ratowsky fam. Love you guys!

  Thanks to my family: Mum, Dad, Will, Louise, and adorable Evie. The hardest thing about living in New York is being far away from you. I feel lucky that we have such a loving, peaceful, fun family.

  This book is dedicated to my dear friend, Nick “Nicki-Pee” Salzberg. A lover and a fighter, Nick passed away from complications related to T-cell lymphoma in January 2017. Nick was a part of the first family I made independent of my own, in Sydney, around the turn of the millennium. With his black eyeliner and razor-sharp tongue, Nick was a central part of every house party, every protest, every creative pursuit. He was political, funny, and fearless. The last time I saw Nick was at my Sydney book launch for The Regulars in August 2016. He had just started his fourth cycle of chemo and was very fragile, but he came, in a red scarf and blond wig, and sat in the second row. In the Q and A after the reading, he asked, with a shy, sweet smile, a question about the importance of queer visibility in my fiction. Nick taught me many things, but what resonates with me is his queerness, which felt unique and unapologetic. He was no cookie-cutter gay boy, as I doubt exists anywhere. To know Nick was to know someone grappling with the world, but not his sense of self. Nicki will always remind me to seek difference, in myself and in those around me. I love you, darling boy. You will always be with me.

  Don't miss any of Georgia Clark's "charming" (People) novels!

  "A twisted, modern-day take on Cinderella" (InStyle)

  The Regulars

  * * *

  ORDER YOUR COPIES TODAY!

  About the Author

  GEORGIA CLARK is a novelist, screenwriter, and performer living in New York City. She’s the author of The Regulars and the YA novels She’s with the Band and Parched. She’s also the founder and host of the New York Times-recommended storytelling night Generation Women. A native Aussie, she lives in Brooklyn with her girlfriend and a fridge full of chees
e. More at georgiaclark.com.

  EMILYBESTLERBOOKS.COM

  MEET THE AUTHORS, WATCH VIDEOS AND MORE AT

  SimonandSchuster.com

  Authors.SimonandSchuster.com/Georgia-Clark

  Facebook.com/EmilyBestler @EmilyBestler

  ALSO BY GEORGIA CLARK

  The Regulars

  Parched

  She’s with the Band

  We hope you enjoyed reading this Simon & Schuster ebook.

  * * *

  Get a FREE ebook when you join our mailing list. Plus, get updates on new releases, deals, recommended reads, and more from Simon & Schuster. Click below to sign up and see terms and conditions.

  CLICK HERE TO SIGN UP

  Already a subscriber? Provide your email again so we can register this ebook and send you more of what you like to read. You will continue to receive exclusive offers in your inbox.

  An Imprint of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  1230 Avenue of the Americas

  New York, NY 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2018 by Georgia Clark, Inc.

  All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever. For information, address Atria Books Subsidiary Rights Department, 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10020.

  First Emily Bestler Books/Atria Books hardcover edition August 2018

  and colophon are trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or business@simonandschuster.com.