Goodbye to You (24 page)

No practicing downward dogs in the last few weeks, and I’m not much of a warrior lately.

More like a child. Or even a corpse.

Yeah, that one.

I’m here in no make-up, hair twisted in a messy bun with curls springing out in every direction.

Wearing sweats, which are more comfortable than trying to squeeze into my jeans, which shrank this past week.

I can’t care about my appearance now. I’m getting my tits cut out in a couple weeks, and I’ve lost Shay. I’ve tried to stay strong through this whole process. After I had got my positive result for my brca1 mutation, I cried, screamed, and pouted, a tantrum to rival a three-year-old crashing from a major sugar high.

Then decided to kick cancer in the ass and take the boobs away.

This “pretending to be strong” thing is exhausting, and I can’t do it anymore.

“This sucks,” I mumble.

“Thea, would you like to add something?” Dr. Luther stares at me over the top of her reading glasses.

Everyone talks about how empowering the decision is—how it’s the most difficult decision to make, but one that will leave you stronger and in-charge. True, but there is much more.

“This. Sucks.” I purse my lips and stare wide-eyed at the group, daring them to challenge me. “Deciding on a mastectomy is empowering alright. Next comes the anger and the sadness and the self-doubt. Second-guessing? That’s the worst.”

A few of the women nod.

“You might not like having your chests touched. I love it. I’ll miss the sensation. Yeah, I’m saving my nipples, but I won’t have any sensation.” Because the topic is sex, or because some of the women know, tittering echoes through the room.

I’m on a roll, though, and I won’t let nervous laughter stop me. “How many of you have kids?”

All but three women in the room, including me, raise their hands.

“You’ve been pregnant. Maybe you’ve nursed your babies. I may not have kids. Who will risk a relationship with me, the young woman who may never be able to get pregnant?”

“A good man will,” one of the new group members blurts out.

I throw my hands in the air. “A good man? Good men still want families. They may say they’re okay with adopting or whatever, but in the end, how many are lying to you? To themselves?”

Gina pipes in. “Girl, what’s going on? Did you talk to your young man?”

I fold my hands in my lap, eyes down. “He found out.”

“Found out? How?” Dr. Luther asks.

“I’d piled my mail and stuff on the kitchen table, along with information I got from Dr. Jacoby’s office. He found flyers and pamphlets. Guessed what was happening. I’d told him about my mama and sister’s cancer. He figured the rest out.” I focus on my hands, picking at my fingers.

“Was he mad? What happened?” Gina pushes for more information.

I detail the events for them, and I’m rewarded with gasps when I tell them he’d left and was ignoring me.

“Baby, I’m sorry.” Gina rubs my arm.

I shake my head. “No. I’m fine. He affirmed my suspicions. He seemed like one of the good ones, and even he doesn’t want me. Who will?”

Despite my Herculean effort to remain calm, I erupt into tears, sobbing until I’m dry with nothing left to give.

I bombed the test.

I’ve been studying like a madman. Scratch that. I’ve been reading my notes and textbooks and listening to recorded lectures over and over for days, but I didn’t retain a single piece of information.

Thea’s been on my mind the entire time, her melodious laugh echoing in my head. Then she turns malicious, taunting me for being stupid and falling for her.

The cackle is so loud, I can’t process anything else.

“Wait, finish the story, man.” Before we walked into the lecture hall, I was telling Fred about what happened, and we had another class after so I couldn’t give him the whole story.

We’ve met back at the apartment a few hours later, and he wants more than the Cliffs Notes version.

I give it to him.

“You did what, man?” Fred’s incredulous, and I didn’t hurt him.

“I yelled. I swore. I
punched the wall
. I stomped out and left her crying as I walked away.” I pace circles around the kitchen island, wearing a path in the vinyl floor.

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“What are you going to do?”

“I’m not going to do anything.”

Fred wrinkles his forehead and throws his head back. “For real?”

“Yeah. She’s clear about not wanting me in her life. She wasn’t going to tell me. Our relationship was a lie. I loathe dishonesty.” There’s nothing about me Fred doesn’t know, including that dark piece of Kelly family history.

“For a smart guy, you are stupid sometimes.”

I screw my face at him. “What?”

“Let’s see.” Fred’s hands are flying a mile a minute like he’s trying to convey with his fingers all the thoughts spinning around in his head. “Do you get why she didn’t tell you?”

“What do you mean?” I stop pacing.

“Man, she didn’t tell you because she didn’t want you to go away. Most guys can’t hack that shit. They want their girls with boobs, not blood and scar tissue.”

“You know I’m not like that.”

“Of course
I
do. Does she?”

Hmmmm. “She should. I didn’t run off because I can’t hack the hard stuff. I left because she lied. I told her back in Key West about Rose. How I hate when people hide critical information.”

Fred waves his hands in my face. “Whoa. Stop for a second. Dude, if you were in her shoes, what’s the first thing you’d think? This is scary to her. Imagine getting a part of yourself cut off . . . a part capable of growing cancer and killing you. People second-guess you and think you’re crazy.”

“She thinks I’m questioning her judgment?”

Fred shrugs. “Or she may think you’re a heartless dick who can’t stand the heat. When things aren’t all rainbows and unicorns, you jet. Think about it, man.”

Crap. Is that what she’s thinking?

“Speaking of jetting, man, I’ve got to go. Big date with the black-haired hottie I’ve been eyeing. She’s tutoring me on anatomy.”

I scratch me head and blink. “You don’t need tutoring. Heck, you could teach the class.”

“True, true.” He waves his hand in the air. “Cara, however, does not know this. What’s wrong with playing dumb?”

I shake my head and snort as Fred heads to the library.

What Fred said, he might be right. I left a week ago with my laundry, but she still holds my heart.

This sucks like nothing else.

Her surgery is in a couple weeks, and I’m the jerk who’s letting her go through this by herself. Does she think it’s because I can’t take the pressure? Or that I’ll be repulsed by her body?

She won’t be alone. Her friends and family will take care of her.

I should be there though.

I’m not angry about her getting the surgery. The medical reasoning is one hundred percent sound. I’m not scared about the blood and fluid and scars. If I were squeamish about the medical stuff, I’d chosen the wrong career path.

I’m angry she waited to tell me. Didn’t trust me with her secret.

We hadn’t known each other for long, but this is a case of everything between us being right. I loved her.

I
love
her. Present tense. You don’t get over love in a week.

I don’t want to.

I need to know why she lied. She took away my choice by withholding a vital piece of information.

I would have fallen for her anyway.

She needs to know I’m all in, no matter what. I ignored a couple texts and calls from her in the past week.

Because I’m a jerk.

I get to see if she’ll return the “favor” by ignoring me. I find her contact info in my phone and hit “call.”

One ring. Two rings. Three.

I hang up. I’m going to her place. She may not be home, but I need to see, and if she is, tell her what I need to say face-to-face.

This whole thing started with me taking a risk—breaking out of my rigid mold—and another risk may be the ticket to fixing things.

Here goes nothing.

The doorbell rings, making me jump. The Flying Pie delivery guy never gets here in under half an hour.

I shuffle from my bedroom and to the front door. I don’t even check the peephole. Ha. The one time I don’t check, it’ll be a serial killer targeting ratty-haired, puffy-eyed, unwashed ex-coeds.

I grab my purse from the entry table and yank a couple bills from my wallet.

“That was quick. There’s an extra tip for speedy . . .”

Shit.

Not the pizza guy.

Hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, his ridiculous perfection is unmarred by the pouring rain.

“Sh-Shay. Hi.”

That’s all I can spit out. What is it with this guy, looking like a damn model all the time and rendering me speechless?

Today, of all days, I am in a sorry state. I don’t need a mirror to tell me this. It’s written on his face. “Did I wake you? Are you okay? I can come back later.”

“Uh, no. Come in. Sorry.” I open the door wider and step back.