I laugh because Tess is only half joking. She really would put his head through a wall if she were here right now. If she were here—but she's not, she's on another continent—and I've never felt so alone and so— "Stupid. I feel so stupid."
"You're not stupid," she says, in the same voice she used when I called her after my first date stood me up at fifteen. "You loved your fiancé. You trusted your fiancé. That's not stupidity—that's love, that's a relationship.He failed you, Sophie."
He failed me—yeah, he did—and yet somehow I can't get rid of the feeling that it's partly my fault. Will this feeling go away? I can think of reasons for him to cheat: my lack of libido, my cancer, my crying, and my apparent ignorance of his feelings.
"I can hear your brain right now, Soph. I can't get on a plane right now to knock some sense into you, but trust me, I will be with you in every way I can—in your ear, annoying the shit out of you after every appointment, wanting to know all the details and how you're feeling. I will scare your oncologist with my questions. I will send you a spreadsheet of all of them because I know you love spreadsheets, you little math freak."
"I do," I admit, watery but laughing a little more now.
"You are not alone," Tess says, her voice soft and firm all at once. "I know it feels like it, but you're Sophie. You're adorable and so sweet it makes me sick, and you make everyone you meet fall a little in love with you. You just can't help it. Okay?"
"Yes," I whisper, the weight that had been pressing down on my chest loosening bit by bit. "Yes."
"Good," I picture her sitting at her desk in her fancy Army office in Germany, typing away on her computer with one hand and squeezing her stress ball with the other, imagining that it's Paul's head. "Tonight, you do three things for me. One: you letyourself fall apart. Ugly-cry, scream into your pillow, punch it, kick it, let it all out. You get tonight to fall apart, that's it."
"Already screamed into one today."
"Good, do it again and again, till it feels better. Two: order yourself some food, don't worry about cooking tonight. Take an everything shower, put a face mask on, put on your comfiest jammies, and order that butter chicken and garlic naan you can't shut up about."
I smile and hum a bit at the thought of the meal.Amma's Palacehas some of the best Indian food I've ever had. We ordered it the first week we moved into the apartment, and it quickly became the only thing I craved for two months. The owner, Kavi, greets me by name now when I call to order:"Hello, Miss Sophie, your regular?"and he always throws in some extra naan for me.
I feel a spark of joy in my chest and smile. "And the third?"
"Retail therapy," I can hear the smile in my sister's voice. "Treat yourself tonight, besides the meal. I don't care what—new fluffy robe, comfy pajamas, new shoes, whatever. Buy yourself something that will make you feel good. You deserve it."
I nod even though she can't see me. A little retail therapy could do me some good—maybe that soft green sweater I've been eyeing at the boutique on Sycamore.
"Okay."
"Oh, and one more thing," Tess starts, "I was talking to one of my coworkers whose wife had cancer, and she did something I think you'd like."
"What?"
"She wrote herself a letter after she was diagnosed, an'open when you're cancer-free'letter."
"A letter?"
"Yeah, I think it would be good for you. Write down what you want on the far side of this. What you hope you accomplishbetween now and then. Or a goal list. Whatever—you love writing lists.Virgo," she teases, good-naturedly.
"Aries," I retort, and I can practically hear the smile she has on her face.
"Send me the treatment schedule once it's in your calendar. I wanna be aware of what's going on at all times. But tonight, you just let yourself be, okay?"
"Okay."
"Tomorrow morning, we plan. You'll go to work, and we'll loop in your boss on your treatment schedule. Have me on speaker in your purse if you just need me there for support."
We. She's saying we, the same way I was saying "we" with Paul, but Tess really is steady—and she's an ocean away. I'm not alone. Not really.
My job, thankfully, is something I don't have to worry about. My official title is Senior Financial Analyst. I'm relatively young for a senior position at twenty-nine, but I have the education, recommendations, and skills to back it up. I work at a smaller Boston firm calledHanson Capital—forty people, tucked between the Seaport and the Financial District. My job is basically telling the story of the company's money—where it came from, where it went, and where it's about to go if we're not careful.
I'm capable of taking a big, messy pile of receipts, payroll, bills, and coffee orders and turning it into a clear, easy-to-understand picture at a glance. My day is essentially spent attached to my laptop, making spreadsheets. As Tess said,I love spreadsheets.I like it when the columns click into place, and the totals behave. It's oddly soothing—numbers don't lie to you.
Unlike people.
"No, my boss has been really great through this whole process," I take a deep breath, feeling a lot better now. "She said whatever I need, we can work it out."
"Good, that makes me glad to hear. In the meantime, I will continue plotting my drywall-related justice against your ass of an ex-fiancé. I'm good at multitasking," she brags, and it makes me laugh again. "Soph?"
