Goodbye to You (23 page)

Also, she’s not super-messy, but not organized and neat, so for her to be so domestic is sketchy.

While she’s occupied with laundry, I get up and start organizing her pile of mail and paperwork stacked on the kitchen table. We ate our take-out from the coffee table since the kitchen table is a disaster.

I stack the papers into piles: bills, catalogs and magazines, and obvious junk. I find a few pieces of unopened mail from the NCU Women’s Hospital, and pamphlets I’m not sure where I should put. I glance at one of the pamphlets, and the title surprises me.

Options for Breast Reconstruction after Mastectomy.

I don’t understand.

Wait.

Her mother died. Her sister underwent chemo.

Thea’s making sure the same doesn’t happen to her.

Her constant desire for me to touch her breasts makes complete sense. Like she wants to imprint the memory of those sensations on her brain, to recall later when she no longer has her mammary tissue.

She comes back from the laundry closet outside her bedroom door, basket of whites in arms.

I grit my teeth and hold up the booklet. “What’s this?”

She gasps and drops the basket.

Pinpricks stab my brain and tension creeps into my shoulders to my neck.

I think I know the answer to my question. The real question is, will she tell me the truth?

“Why-what the hell are you doing going through my stuff?” She stomps over and rips the papers from my hands, the force of her motion stinging my fingers with paper cuts.

“Going through your . . . you were helping me do my laundry. We can’t even eat at the table, so I was trying to be helpful and clean up for you.”

“I don’t need you to clean up after me,” she snaps.

“And I told you not to do my laundry, but you insisted. I was returning the favor for your help. Forgive me for trying to straighten this rat’s nest.”

Her jaw drops.

I’m not the mean kind. I get no pleasure from hurting people. But she’s holding something back, something huge. I’m hurt and lashing out.

Her face softens, and her eyes are shimmering with unshed tears.

Way to be a grade-A idiot, Kelly.

“Shay, I-I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something.”

“Talk about what?”

“I—can we sit?”

I nod stiffly and move to the sofa.

She’s avoiding eye contact again. What is she hiding in her unseen expression? Guilt or deception?

“Shay . . .” Her breath shudders on my name. “I’m having a prophylactic—that means preventative—mastectomy. In a few weeks.”

My mouth falls open. My limbs turn to stone, and my heart is on the verge of exploding. A bark of laughter erupts from my throat. What an inappropriate reaction.

She eyes me warily. Peals of hysterical laughter echo off the walls.

“No. No.” I shake my head so hard my brain rattles around in my skull. “No way.”

I jump up and pace the short hall, throwing my hands in the air.

She follows, but I hold my arms out. She stops dead in her tracks.

A mass of vipers slither in my stomach, hot, heavy, and sickening.

My jaw tenses as I grit my teeth again and my face is on fire. My nails bite into my palms as my hands curl into fists.

The bubble of anger swelling in my chest erupts.

“What the fuck, Thea?” My voice shakes as I pound my fist into the wall, leaving a dent.

Her eyes grow wide. I don’t curse, ever, and can’t believe my own ears, even though the word came from my mouth. I don’t hit or throw things, either.

She’s silent, crossing her arms across her body and cowering.

I pace, flinging my hands again. “When were you going to tell me? The day before? After? Were you going to break up with me and
never
tell me?”

She winces and her gaze falls to the floor, avoiding eye contact.

Must be the latter.

Never.

She’d planned on breaking my heart and never telling me why.

“We were never supposed to happen. It should have ended in Florida. I should have severed all ties. All for fun. That’s what our fling was meant to be.” Her low voice shakes, choking over the unshed tears glistening in her eyes.

My shoulders slump. She stands and approaches me, her head tilted to the side, each step tentative. She lays her hand on my arm. I flinch, and she withdraws.

“I can’t talk to you. I . . . I can’t be here.”

Hiding the truth, neglecting to trust me, knowing my distaste for lies. My heart shrinks, trying to hide from the pain.

Too late.

I snatch the basket of dry clothes and go rip the rest from the dryer. They’re still wet, but I can’t stay here until they dry.

I can’t stay here at all.

I find my keys and wallet on the table in the front hall, and I’m out the door. My eyelid twitches and my jaw is sore from clenching. I stop for a minute as I collect myself, rearranging the laundry basket on my hip as I shove my wallet in my pocket.

I pause long enough to hear a sob explode from behind the closed door, and I take a shuddering breath.

I spin back to the door, raising my hand to turn the knob, but I pivot and walk away instead.

My lungs burn as I struggle for air.

My tears threaten to drown me.

He did what I feared. Had hoped against, but what I anticipated. He found out I was getting my tits cut off, and he walked away. No.

He stormed away.

After he shouted, “What the
fuck
?
”

His outburst shocked me. I’m not offended since I drop the f-bomb a lot. He doesn’t. Ever. That’s when he crossed the line from disbelief into rage.

I deserved his anger. I should have told him the first night, on the bowling alley date.

Things were so remarkable. I wanted the good stuff to last for a while longer. It was wrong of me. Selfish. And if I’d told him then, I wouldn’t have fallen deeper because he might have left, and the past week would never have happened. Or he may have been understanding because I was honest with him from the start of our time together in the real world.

Either way, my breaking heart misses him, and I’ll never know for sure what he would have done.

How did this happen?

Stupid tequila and fireball and loosened inhibitions. They made me run off to look at the stars with a beautiful boy.

Stupid heart. It made me fall in love with him when all my head wanted was a fine piece of ass.

Head got what it wanted. Heart’s breaking. It all sucks.

I rummage through the pantry and find the stash Bennie left last week.

I crawl into bed, and the wrappers are flying off the chocolate medicine.

If I died in this room, there wouldn’t be a chalk outline.

Gold and orange and brown foil candy wrappers would outline my corpse.

Sad.

My phone buzzes across the dresser and I fall out of bed trying to get to it.

Please let it be Shay. Please let it be Shay.

Daddy’s calling. He doesn’t text, and he’ll think something’s wrong if I don’t answer. Something
is
wrong, but he can’t fix it. I suck back the disgusting wad of snot clogging my nose and answer the phone.

“Hey Daddy!” I’m surprised by the amount of sunshine dripping from my words.

“Hi, baby girl. How are you?”

“Good. Fine.”
Liar
. “I secured a spot for my student teaching assignment in the spring.”

“Wonderful, honey. I want to share news too, since, she’s . . .”

Wait. What? “She? Is Jen okay?”

“Jen is fine. No, I’ve met someone, Thea, and it’s going well. I want you two to meet. Can you make it tomorrow?”

Huh. This is an unexpected development, but one to distract me from my current state of heartache.

“Does Jen know?”

“Oh, yeah, Marcy’s one of the newer nurses at the oncology center. She started in July. You’ll love her. I worked up the nerve to ask her out a couple weeks ago, and since Jen’s treatment ended, she agreed.”

“Great, Daddy.” I’m thrilled for him. He’s been alone for so long, and the joy in his voice is infectious. “But I’m under the weather. Can I take a rain check on supper?”

“Of course. What’s wrong?”

“Oh, nothing, getting a cold or something, and want to hunker down in bed. I can’t wait to meet Marcy though.” It’s the truth. I thought when Daddy started dating again, I’d be sad, worried he would forget Mama. He deserves happiness though, a chance to write another chapter in his book. Mama will forever be in his story, and he’ll never forget her.

Like I’ll never forget Shay.

The joy was short-lived, but it was the heart-swelling, belly-tickling kind of happiness that doesn’t surrender without a fight.

I don’t feel like fighting though, so I wallow in misery and let it take over for a while.

Another week, another group therapy session.

My appearance gives away the suckiness of my week.

I don’t care.

I never leave the house in yoga pants unless I’m going to yoga.