???
I barely make it to my ensuite bathroom before I vomit all over the toilet seat lid. I'm only just able to wrench it up before I retch violently again, emptying the meager contents of my stomach from breakfast.
The relief comes, but only lasts a moment, because then Sophie's wrecked face crashes into my thoughts.
I slump forward, resting my forehead against the cool porcelain, trying to breathe, trying to will myself to stop torturing myself with the image of her with heartbreak etched into every line of her face.
But I can't.
The acrid smell becomes too much, and I grimace at the mess that didn't make it into the toilet.
"Shit," I mutter, reaching up to flush. Dragging myself to the linen closet, I grab the cleaner and paper towels. At least this is a mess I can fix.
When it’s clean, I swish my mouth with Listerine until my gums burn and scrub my hands under near-scalding water. I do it twice because I'm just procrastinating now.
Only then do I dare look at myself in the mirror, and what I see makes me flinch.
My blue eyes are bloodshot, jaw clenched so tight it looks carved from stone, and my shirt hangs rumpled and crooked on my frame.
It's like staring into a warped funhouse mirror.
I look like adisaster.
I have to turn away and hurry downstairs, trying to be Paul again and not... whatever it was I just saw in the mirror.
The kitchen is warm, filled with the scent of garlic and fresh herbs, and I have to breathe through my mouth when I walk in. What's normally the comforting aroma of Mom's cooking is now attacking my senses like an ambush, making my stomach clench all over again.
Mom looks up as I walk in and slides a plate across the counter toward me, followed by a little bowl of freshly grated Parmesan.
I sit at the island, trying to act casual, pretending it's just any other dinner with my mom. I glance around the kitchen—the same one I stood in just two weeks ago during family dinner—and then I flinch.
Because that memory brings another one barreling in right behind it—dropping Sophie off at home that night.
???
I pulled up to the curb, and not in our designated parking spot, "Brian and Chris wanna get a couple of drinks. They asked me to meet them at Haunts. Is that okay, sweetie?"
Sophie looked at me with tired but trust-filled eyes andleaned over to kiss me, "That's fine, I'm gonna get a bath and head to bed anyway. I'm beat."
"Enjoy your bath, I love you," I reached up and caressed her jaw. She loved that move—said it melted her into a puddle when I did it. She became so pliable, so sweet under my hands. I felt a little sick using it like that, weaponizing something so tender.
"I love you too, be safe," she kissed me once more and hugged me from over the center console. "Text me when you're heading home."
"Don't wait up, sweetie," I said, forcing a playful smile. "You know how we get."
"Boys," she teased with an eye roll before sliding out of the car. I watched her get safely inside our building before pulling away from the curb.
I didn't go to Haunts. I went to a hotel and fucked Elise.
Twice.
???
I needed to forget—forget the way my parents were rallying around Sophie like a support group, throwing out stories of coworkers and friends who'd"been through chemo and came out stronger."
Mom had been talking to Sophie about this special shirt she could wear after the double mastectomy—one with easy access for her drains. It wouldn't pull on stitches and was made of a soft, comfortable, and breathable fabric.
Mastectomy. Drains.
