Chapter One
Paul
August
"Okay, Sophie, so for the port placement, we can do it next Wednesday at eight am. Arrival at six-thirty for pre-op. Does that sound good?
"Perfect!" Sophie chirps brightly, writing it in her floral calendar with her perfect penmanship.
I look at her profile, studying her beautiful face. Her skin's been more pale lately, but no less radiant. Dark brown hair that flows to her collarbone in waves, big blue-green eyes framed by dark lashes, and expressive eyebrows. I always say I can read every feeling she has on her face. I know when she's feeling sad, or annoyed, or embarrassed, or nervous.
Right now, with her eyes narrowed as she writes down the dates in her calendar, I know she's feeling determined. It’s the same look she used to get while studying for finals in college. That sexyI'm going to kick this test's asslook that made me so hard I would end up distracting us from studying and fucking her into the mattress. The memory gives me a little flicker of joy that I don't deserve.
"Great, I'm going to lock this time slot in..." the scheduler's—Karen, she had introduced herself as—voice is calm and measured. I imagine she’s specially trained to deal with cancer patients.
Cancer.
I haven't even said it out loud but the word chokes up my throat with that uncomfortable peppery burn. I swallow twice with no relief before grabbing my insulated water bottle off thekitchen table we're sitting at. Sophie bought the bottle for me two years ago and decorated it with stickers from our different road trips over the years. My hand shakes as I lift it to my lips and sip slowly. No relief.Deserved.
Sophie reaches out without looking and smooths my curly blonde hair, soothing me. She's always so in tune with my moods. Always focused on me despite the situation we're in right now.
God, I love her so much ithurts.
"Will I need to fast before surgery?" Sophie asks calmly, like she's scheduling a hair appointment. She's been pure grace through this entire process, while I feel as though I'm seconds from tearing my skin off from the too tight feeling of my chest.
"Yes, nothing to eat after midnight and only clear liquids until four AM," the scheduler says. "It’s a very easy procedure. You'll have light sedation, a small incision near your collarbone and you'll be able to go home the same day! Do you have reliable transportation?"
"Yes, my fiancé will drive me," Sophie answers with a smile, not even glancing over to confirm. Because I told her I'd be there every step of the way, and her trust in me is unshakable. Her trust in my reassuring words from four months ago when we found that strange lump and she asked me “does this look weird to you?”
Her trust in my grand words from a year ago when I asked her to marry me with that romantic speech about loving her in sickness and in health.
That's the thing about promises—they're easy to make, harder to keep.
The guilt rolls around my stomach and nausea spikes fast. I swallow the saliva building in my mouth and take deep breaths to push it down.
Sophie—Jesus Christ, my sweet Sophie—notices this and laysher cool hand on the back of my neck with a gentle squeeze. She's comfortingmeand fuck if it only makes the nausea worse.
I gently grab her hand and remove it because I don’t deserve her comfort. I kiss the soft skin of her palm in thanks anyway. Sophie gives me a gentle smile before focusing back on the phone.
Gentle.If there's a word more perfect to describe my fiancée, I haven't found it yet.
I met Sophie in college at Northeastern. Both of us were in our Master's programs, running on energy drinks and pure spite. Our eyes met once and, like the sun bursting through clouds on a gloomy day, she smiled at me.
Just like that, I was gone for her.
During my life, teenage years and beyond, I had never had problems approaching women. My mom always said I was born withgolden boy looks.So, when I saw a beautiful brunette studying at the table across from mine, I walked right up to her and asked for her number. We’ve been together for six years, with two Master's degrees, two well-paying jobs, an apartment, and a joint savings account to show for it.
After graduation, we moved into a two-bedroom apartment in my hometown after I was offered my job with Starling Cove City Hall as City Planner. It was like I had never left. My entire family, my old friends, my old life, welcomed me back with open arms.
And my Sophie moved here for me without hesitation, saying she just wanted to be with me. Every day, she drove forty minutes to her job in Boston with a smile, coming home to cook us dinner while I breezed in late after long projects.
Our weekends fell into an easy rhythm: Saturday mornings spent food shopping, afternoons curled up on the couch watching our favorite movies, or nights out at the bar with my friends. Sundays meant dinner at my parents' house, whoadored Sophie, followed by us coming home to clean and prep for the week ahead.
For an entire year, things were perfect and our future seemed closer than ever.
Until I learned thatlumpmight be my least favorite word of all time.
"Okay, and then we can start your bi-weekly chemotherapy the following Tuesday," the oncology scheduler says, her voice ripping me out of my memories. "It'll be every other Tuesday for twelve weeks. Does that work?"
