"Come on, Princess, I've got a ball to get you to."
???
After meeting Bailey and Michael at the doors, and Bailey taking some couple-y prom photos, we walk into the Hall, and my mouth drops open.
It'sstunning.
Crystal chandeliers hang low from the ceiling, the light reflecting onto the floor like constellations. Every table is draped in blush pink with tall glass vases in the center, holding perfect pink peonies. A string quartet plays near the stage, the music gentle and sweet.
Guests are scattered across the room, conversing and dressed to the nines in gorgeous gowns and tuxedos. Many guests are wearing pink in various shades, from bright Barbie pink to fuchsia to pastel. The energy thrumming in this Hall is positive and hopeful, with smiles on everyone's faces. Servers in tailored pink jackets weave through the crowd, offering trays of crystal flutes filled with sparkling water and champagne.
Bailey and Michael guide us around the room, showing us what a perfect match they are. Bailey is radiant and bubbly, attracting attention, and Michael is so outgoing and friendly that he introduces Bailey as his beautiful fiancée, then introduces me and Callum, his tone soft as he explains my cancer battle. Not mournful or pitying, but respectful. It puts me at ease, especially with the response I'm getting.
Everyone I meet is so kind and gracious, shaking my hand warmly and offering their own words of support. When I speak about what I'm going through, there's no pity in their eyes, only empathy, and words or relatability that I haven't really found outside of the nurses at the chemo center and my doctors.
They ask me questions about my treatment, what stage I'm at now, and what my next steps are. It feels nice to just talk about it from that standpoint, instead of the black cloud of doom and gloom hanging over me. It's nice to talk to survivors, women who have fought this battle and won.
TheWonder WomenI hope to join one day, and I make a promise to myself that if—when—I win, I won't take anything forgranted. I will be there for others the way these people are here for me.
I'm speaking with a woman named Amal, a survivor, as Callum casually chats with her librarian husband, Chase. As soon as he said librarian, Callum's eyes lit up, and they fell into conversation easily.
Amal is a beautiful woman in her late forties with thick, curly black hair, large brown eyes framed by dark lashes, and deep bronze skin. She's tall, all long limbs and grace, dressed in a coral-pink dress with a high neck and long sleeves, beautiful gold heels, and glittering gold jewelry in her ears and on her fingers. Her makeup is done immaculately, her brow shape to die for, and her eyes rimmed with black liner that makes the color pop.
But it's her demeanor that draws me in. She is so warm and open, and her smile is bright and genuine as she asks me questions about myself and listens intently.
"Callum's been amazing," I gush as she asks about my journey, my eyes flicking over to him and Chase, who are talking. "He's been my rock through all of this. And I literally met him the day everything in my life fell apart. I was engaged to a man who... well, he cheated and we broke up right before I started my treatment. But, it turned out to be okay—I have Callum, my sister, and I have these amazing friends I've made who've become family."
"That's the most important thing we can hold onto during our fight," Amal smiles at me. "Ten years ago, after my diagnosis, which I'll admit was pretty bleak, my husband at the time decided I wasn't worth it. That I was a, what did he call out—oh, a'sinking ship.'"
My heart drops at the cruel words, "Oh, Amal—"
"Best thing that jackass ever did for me!" She laughs joyfully, taking a sip from her champagne flute.
I can't help but smile at her statement, declared with such confidence, and I clink my glass of sparkling water with hers.
"He wasn't man enough to battle it with me, and that's just fine. I realized that I couldn't take care of him, the house, my work, and fight cancer at the same time. It was best to focus solely on myself and my healing. And I did. With the help of my sisters, my family, and my friends. The only support you need is the people willing to show up and stay when it's hard."
"Did you ever..." I start, and Amal nods encouragingly. "Deal with guilt? Of being cared for?"
"Onlyall the time," Amal laughs, shaking her head. "I was in constant motion before—my job, taking care of the house, cooking, taking care of my mom with my sisters. It's one of the reasons we almost caught the cancer too late. I wasn't taking care of myself the way I should. That really shook me. The cancer forced me to take a step back and just... let myself be cared for. Something I realized is that you're not holding a gun to these people's heads and forcing them to show up for you. They show up because they want to. That's all."
I nod my head, but Amal narrows her eyes at me. "Are you struggling with that right now?"
"Yes and no. My friends and Callum all take care of me because they want to. I know that. I tell my brain that. But..."
"The fear is still there," she finishes for me.
"Well, from the way he's looking at you, I think your fear is unfounded," Amal teases, and I glance over my shoulder to see Callum's eyes on me. Chase is talking to him about something, and he's following, nodding along, but he smiles when he sees me looking. "That man loves you, Sophie. You're never a burden to the ones who love you."
...
An hour later, we're sitting at our table after eating our meals—salmon for me, prime rib for Callum—and talking with Baileyand Michael.
Callum's arm is draped casually over the back of my chair, but his fingers are anything but idle. They trace lazy patterns along the exposed skin of my back, each stroke featherlight and teasing. Though he's chatting with Michael—something about good hiking trails near Starling Cove—his body is angled toward me, showing that I'm still his focus. Every soft brush of his fingers leaves a trail of goosebumps.
I reach my hand out and place it on his thigh, feeling the firm muscle jump under my touch. Callum's thumb is stroking my spine, the calloused pad rubbing a circle around the knob of bone before gently massaging the muscle next to it. His touch feels purposeful, claiming in a way that I really like.
My own fingers start moving on his thigh, my thumb lightly stroking, and I can see his chest hitch, still listening to what Michael is saying, but his attention is anchored to me.
