by Nina Lane
My wife.
“You’re reading Pride and Prejudice?”
I look up at the sound of Kelsey’s voice. She’s standing at the door of my university office, dressed in a tailored gray suit with a folder in her hand. She walks to my desk and reaches over to pick up the paperback.
“Uh, yeah.” It takes me a second to process her question. “I mean, I was. I haven’t read any of it for a while. It’s one of Liv’s favorite books, and she got all bent out of shape because I hadn’t read it. So I was… I was going to surprise her.”
“Nice.” Kelsey sets the book back on my desk. “You still can.”
I shrug. In the time since I first opened the book to now, the idea of reading a book for my wife has become meaningless. It sure as hell won’t help her in any way.
Kelsey puts the folder on my desk and opens it to reveal a letter on university stationery.
“I can take over your seat on the Admissions Committee,” she says. “The provost already approved it, so you’ll have at least one less commitment.”
I scan the paper, my jaw tightening. “I didn’t ask you to do this.”
“I know.” Kelsey rests her hands on her hips, eyeing me with that all-knowing stare of hers. “But the last thing you need right now is to deal with more committee meetings.”
I crumple the letter into a ball and toss it in the trash. “What I need is for you to leave me the hell alone.”
“Whoa.” Kelsey holds up her hands, unfazed by my snapping. “You really think I’m going to leave you and Liv alone right now? You don’t have to be nice to me, but you do have to realize you can’t do it all, no matter how much you tell yourself otherwise.”
Goddammit. I don’t want to hear this.
“Thanks for the concern,” I tell Kelsey evenly. “But I can handle it.”
“By throwing yourself into work and research, I know,” Kelsey replies. “And you really think that’s the best thing you can do? Not only for yourself, but for Liv and your children?”
“Kelsey, get the fuck out of my office.”
The order fires out of me, harsher than I’d intended. Kelsey blinks and takes a step backward. Guilt slams me like a steamroller, but before I can say anything else, she turns and strides out, closing the door behind her.
I drag a hand down my face. There’s a cold, hard knot right in the middle of my chest. I know I should go after Kelsey and apologize, but instead I turn back to my computer.
A framed black-and-white picture of Liv sits right beside my computer—and the sight of her is both a torture and a comfort. Because she looks like she always does—soft, pretty smile, warm brown eyes, and tumble of dark hair spilling over a white, button-down shirt—but only I know that the shirt is mine and that Liv is naked underneath.
Only I know what happened right before I took the picture.
Only I know that Liv had been gasping and writhing underneath me, that she’d wrapped her legs around my hips and bitten down on my shoulder when an orgasm shuddered through her beautiful body.
Only I know how she’d arched her back and stretched against me when I slid my palms over her thighs, her torso, her breasts…
Only I know the jagged fear of how different things are between then and now. Back then, I’d never have imagined anything evil could ever happen to the beauty on the other side of my camera lens.
And if it did, I’d battle heaven and earth to protect her.
But now? I don’t know how. I don’t have a single weapon I can use to defend my wife. The realization runs through my head like a sick refrain: Nothing you can do, nothing you can do.
What the hell do I do when there’s nothing I can do?
More goddamned research.
Even if I don’t come up with any answers, at least I know how to look for them. And I’m still not convinced Dr. David Anderson is “the best” doctor we could find for Liv—he’s definitely not the most experienced—but she’s adamant he’s the one she wants.
We meet with him again to discuss the possible outcomes after surgery, and he supports Liv’s decision to have a lumpectomy. I watch my wife say something to the doctor, her hair falling over her shoulders to her breasts, which look soft and round beneath her sweater. My throat burns.
We don’t yet have a surgery date, but I want it over and done with. Not until the tumor is taken out will we get the complete pathology report telling us the exact kind of cancer, the size of the tumor, if it’s invasive and aggressive, if it’s spread to her lymph nodes, if she needs chemo, if… if… fucking if.
The comment from another doctor slithers into the back of my mind.
“If we discover the cancer has spread…
I rip the thought apart, crush it to pieces. Can’t go there. Won’t.
…the game changes.”
A bolt of remembered anger fires through me, a welcome relief to the terror. The game.
As if my wife is a pawn on a chessboard. To that fucker of a doctor, she obviously would have been.
I can’t yet tell what she is to Dr. Anderson, except a patient he wants to help. He doesn’t know how important she is—not only to me and our children, but to her friends, her co-workers, her employees, her customers. Hell, to the whole town.
He doesn’t know she can make a perfect meringue and roll fondant like a French pastry chef. He doesn’t know she once cooked and served a flawless five-course gourmet dinner to a group of European diplomats and scholars. He doesn’t know she’s a great artist, that Mr. Darcy is her favorite fictional hero, that she alphabetizes the cereal boxes in our cupboard and likes to put potato chips inside her peanut-butter sandwiches.
He doesn’t know she paints green leprechaun footprints on the kitchen floor the night before St. Patrick’s Day, or that she made me go outside at eleven on a freezing Christmas Eve to ring sleigh bells so the kids would know Santa was on his way, or that she spends the month of October hand-making Nicholas and Bella’s Halloween costumes.
This doctor doesn’t know Liv. And he doesn’t know that saving her life also means saving… everything.
Liv laughs suddenly. The sound is startling in the hushed atmosphere of a doctor’s office. A doctor who treats cancer. A doctor who is trying to kill the cancer inside my wife.
I blink, attempting to focus on why Liv would be laughing—now of all times—at something Dr. Anderson said. He’s still speaking, also looking amused, before he reaches across the desk to pat her hand.
“It’s a good plan, Liv,” he says. “Every case is different, and yours will be unique to you, but I’m optimistic. Once we get the surgery scheduled, we can move forward.”
“What… what’s so funny?” I ask.
Liv and Dr. Anderson both look at me.
“Funny?” Liv repeats.
“Yeah.” My tie suddenly feels too tight around my neck. “You were just laughing.”
“Haven’t you been listening?” Liv eases the mild reprimand by putting her hand on my knee. “I was asking Dr. Anderson about chemotherapy and losing my hair. He said it was likely I would, so I said I could start a new career as Sinead O’Conner. And he said, ‘Or a bowling ball.’”
I stare at her. My insides twist.
“You’re joking about losing your hair?” I ask.
Liv shrugs, the lingering amusement fading from her expression. “It was funny. I mean, obviously I don’t want chemo, and Dr. Anderson doesn’t know if I’ll need it yet, but… why are you so mad?”
“I’m not mad.” My fists clench and unclench.
“You sound mad,” Liv says. “You look mad.”
“I don’t think joking about cancer and chemotherapy is funny. Especially not with the doctor who’s treating you.”
I shoot Anderson an accusing look. He pales, looking aghast at the thought that he’d behaved unprofessionally.
“Dean, I apologize,” he says quickly. “I really didn’t mean to be offensive.”
“Well, you fucking were,” I snap.
“Dean!” Liv glares at me and turns toward the desk. “Dr. Anderson, you don’t have to apologize. I would much rather have a doctor with a sense of humor than one who acts like he’s sending me to the gallows. And Dean isn’t going to swear at you again.”
She looks at me as if to say, “right?” Anderson stands, his expression sober.
“It’s all right if you do, Dean,” he says. “I can take it. But I want you to know that, bad jokes aside, I’m doing everything I can to help Liv, and I’m deeply committed to her care. I’m fully on her side, and yours.”
I can’t muster up any words of thanks, but I manage to nod before turning and leaving the office. I stop in the hallway, holding the door open for Liv, hearing her voice as she speaks to Dr. Anderson again.
We walk to the parking lot in silence, Liv’s mood shifting palpably into one of tension. Now, in addition to being irritated by the doctor’s remark, I’m angry with myself for smothering my wife’s first real amusement since her diagnosis.
“Dean, come on.” She closes the passenger door and puts her hand on my arm. “I’m glad to have a doctor who doesn’t feel like he has to walk on eggshells around me.”
My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. This is about her, I remind myself. What I think or feel doesn’t matter one fucking bit if Liv is happy—or at least, satisfied—with the way things are going.
“Is this about you not liking Dr. Anderson?” Liv asks.
“What? No.”
She drops her hand away from my arm. I can practically feel her withdrawing, and my self-directed disgust intensifies. I start the car and back out of the parking space.
“He’s my doctor, Dean,” Liv says. “It would be nice if you both accepted that and realized he’s the one who can help me. Do you think for one second it’s remotely helpful for me to know you don’t like him?”
“I don’t dislike him,” I say, slamming too hard on the brakes at a stop sign. “He’s not as experienced as the others, but he’s competent and—”
“He’s far more than competent, Dean, and you know it. There is no way in hell you would let a doctor who was only competent treat me.”
That’s true. I take a breath, acknowledging that maybe Anderson is more qualified than I’ve been willing to give him credit for.
So what the hell is going on? If Liv trusts him and is comfortable with him, and if she likes his sense of humor, and he’s committed to helping her through this nightmare, then who the fuck am I to argue?
Liv and I are silent for the rest of the ride home. I don’t even know what to say to myself, much less her. I sure as hell don’t know what my problem is—aside from the fact that the love of my life and center of my universe has a life-threatening disease.
A thousand curses blister in my head. The anger is like an active volcano I can’t control—sometimes it only simmers, and other times it explodes without warning through my blood, drenching everything in a red haze of rage.
When that happens, all I can do is run. The kids are still at school, so after Liv and I get home, I change into track pants and take off, running on the sidewalks bordering Colonial houses and leaf-strewn lawns.
Down the street leading to the high school, across the parking lot to the football stadium where I can circle the track and pound my way up and down the steps of the bleachers.
Get out! Get out. Get the fuck out of my wife, you goddamned fucking insidious disease… I will fucking crush you, obliterate you, rip you apart…
I stop at the top of the bleachers, my chest burning. Sweat drips from my temples. I grip the chain-link fence lining the back of the bleachers and fight to catch my breath.
As my heartbeat slows, a thin thread of sanity filters past my anger. A fuck lot of good it does anyone for me to rage at cancer.
I turn and go back down the steps. A grayish light has fallen, storm clouds covering the sun and rising over the mountains.
I walk home slowly. Hollowness opens inside my chest. The rage burned away my guard, and now bitter helplessness and fear slither through me. My pulse ratchets up again, my muscles stiffening in defense.
I reach the Butterfly House just as a crack of lightning splits through the sky and rain starts to fall. I toss my keys onto the foyer table and go into the kitchen.
Liv is at the table in the sunroom, working on her laptop. The table is covered with papers—insurance forms, prescriptions, website printouts, pamphlets…
“Oh, I’m glad you made it back.” Liv turns to look at me. “Looks like a heavy storm for the next hour at least.”
I stop in the doorway and look at her. Long hair pulled into a ponytail. Soft, curvy body underneath her fleece shirt and yoga pants. Pale skin. Sprinkle of freckles over her nose.
The fear digs in harder, like claws. Puncturing. Bleeding. My hands curl into fists. My breathing is fast, choking my throat.
“Dean?” A crease appears between Liv’s eyebrows. “Are you—”
I can’t stop myself. Don’t want to. Won’t.
I cross the room to my wife in three strides and grab her shoulders, hauling her perfect, beautiful body against mine. Her gasp of surprise is lost against the pressure of my mouth. I grip her harder, forcing her lips apart with mine, needing to taste every part of her.
Liv tenses in resistance. Her fingers curl into the front of my damp shirt. Fire boils through my veins. I drive my tongue into her mouth. Sweet. So fucking sweet. My cock hardens.
She makes a muffled noise in her throat. I tighten my hold on her arms and lift my head. My breath scorches my lungs. My vision is dark at the edges, but she’s in clear light, her brown eyes wide with shock and her lips parted. We stare at each other. Thunder rumbles outside, rain sleeting against the windows.
Before Liv can speak, I grab her hips and push her back. I reach behind her and shove my arm across the table, sending the laptop crashing to the floor along with all the goddamned medical papers.
Liv startles, her fingers tightening on my shirt. I lift her to sit on the table, slanting my mouth over hers again. The taste and scent of her flood me. Lightning streaks through my blood.
A moan escapes Liv as she opens her mouth to let me in. Our tongues slide together. The kiss is hot, wet, deep. I shove my cock against her, push my hands under her shirt to feel her warm, smooth skin. Liv lifts her head, her face flushed and her eyes still wide.
Some part of me knows I should stop—this isn’t how it’s supposed to happen, not now—but my mind is a haze of urgency and all I want is to get inside my wife as fast and hard as I can, to possess her, own her.
Liv brings her hands to my jaw, rubs her thumb across my mouth. Something dark and painful shadows her expression. Before the sight of her can spear me through the heart, I cover her mouth with mine again and push her to lie across the table.
She tenses but parts her legs again so I can get between them. I grab her shirt, fumbling to yank it off her and drop it to the floor. I stare down at her, all spread out in front of me with her ponytail draped over her shoulder and her breasts cupped in a white bra that displays the deep valley of her cleavage.
My dick throbs. A gust of wind lashes the rain against the windows. I move back to pull off Liv’s pants and underwear, sliding my hands over her bare legs, making her open wider. Her breath quickens as she pushes to her elbows.
“Dean—”
“I’m going to fuck you.” My voice sounds hoarse, rough, foreign. “Hard.”
Her throat ripples with a swallow. I press my fingers into her pussy, working her until she’s slick and ready, until she starts making those little gasping noises I know so well. She sinks to her back again, her chest heaving. Her nipples are dark circles against her white bra.
Heat scorches me. I push my pants down and off, releasing my stiff dick. I’m already about to come, but I need to be inside her when I do. I grab Liv’s waist and pull her to the edge of the table, thrusting my cock into her with one fast movement.
Oh, fucking heaven…
She cries out, her body arching upward. I stop, inhaling a sharp breath as pressure tightens my spine. I clutch her waist, pull back, and thrust again. Again. Again.
Her body jostles against the table, the smacking noise of sex filling the air. All thought disappears into blinding lust. I spread my hand over her belly, sliding it up to flick open the front clasp of her bra. The cups fall to the sides like seashells, exposing the fucking gorgeous sight of my wife’s breasts bouncing in rhythm with every thrust of my cock into her.
“Oh my God.” Liv gasps, her hot gaze crashing with mine. She’s starting to sweat, a glistening sheen painting her skin. “I’m… I feel you so deep…”
I pound into her harder, faster, pushing her legs up to her chest, wanting to plunge into the core of her body. Just the sight of her naked and writhing beneath me is enough to trigger an explosion.
I drive into her again. I’m hurting her—I can tell by the way she’s biting on her lower lip and tensing with every thrust, but I’m too desperate, too relentless, and I can’t fucking stop. When she grabs the edge of the table, her body bending as if she’s trying to pull away from me, I clench my teeth and force myself to pause.
I grip her hips, fighting for self-control. Our breath saws through the air. Liv runs her hands over my arms, her gaze locking to mine—hot, desperate, pained.
“Okay,” she whispers, winding her legs around my hips, pulling me closer. “Okay, love of my life.”
I thrust into her again, but slower this time. Liv moves her hands to her breasts, twisting her nipples, her throat arching as she presses her head back. She moans, rubbing the stiff peaks before sliding her hands down to cup her breasts. She hesitates for a fraction of an instant—just long enough for me to notice—before moving her hands away from her breasts.
A resurgence of fear needles through my lust, but I’m too far gone to let it interfere with my drive for release. I move my hands up to clutch her bare shoulders—too rough, I know, I’m going to bruise her, but I can’t get inside her deep enough, hard enough. I pull her down onto my shaft, the pressure building as I surge into her hot, tight body again and again…