The thought slices in, jagged and so fucking cruel. Sophie’s body sliced open, breasts gone, drains and scars. The image of her perfect chest carved away.
Right behind it is Elise and her perfect body. Her gorgeous tits falling out of her bra and into my waiting hands. I can still feel her smooth skin under my palms as she rode me in the front seat of my car. The same seat that Sophie sat in the next morning as we went to another doctor's appointment.
Elise's mouth against mine, moaning my name as she came.
Elise with no ports or scars or poison running through her veins to kill cancer cells.
I hate myself for it, for even letting the comparison exist.
Sophie's hand finds mine on the table and her warm touch scalds me.
"We have a plan now."
We.
Her trust, her faith, her love for me is steadying her in the middle of this nightmare and,oh God,I open my mouth and tear it all apart.
"I slept with Elise."
Chapter Two
Paul
June
The Hauntsneon sign glows bright orange against the night sky. This place smells just like it did when I was twenty-one, home on break from college: stale beer and cigarette smoke.
I walk in, spotting at least a dozen familiar faces. Parents of kids I went to grade school with, my parents' friends, even a couple of former classmates from Starling Cove High who never made it out—all nod in greeting.
Then I see her head of blonde hair.Elise.She's at a high-top near the window, dressed to kill in a short black skirt. Two beer bottles are on the table in front of her—my preferred brand. She knows this because I always get the same drink at our work lunches, where I'd bear my soul, talking about everything, about Sophie, about the diagnosis.
I'd tell Elise about my insecurities, my hopes, and my fears. I couldn't talk to Sophie about it, I felt too guilty, like I was making her cancer about me. So, I played the strong, supportive fiancé: holding her and telling her the words sheneededto hear when she asked how I'm doing. I lied to Sophie, but it was just white lies; I was being tactful, not cruel. I had to remain strong for Sophie, because inwardly I was falling apart.
But Elise—she was there forme. Over the months we worked together, she'd become a close friend, a confidant, someone I could vent my frustrations to. I talked to Brian and Chris about these things, too, but their responses were never quite what I wanted to hear.
Elise had become that for me.
At first, it's strictly work—sharing work documents through email turns into near constant texts, then light brushes of hands in the conference room that sayI see you, I'm here for you.
"Hey," Elise smiles when she sees me, already handing me my beer. "How is she?"
The stool scrapes against the old hardwood, and my hand shakes as I reach for the bottle and take a sip, our fingers brushing, lingering.
"She's sleeping. We—" The wordbiopsytries and fails to crawl out of my throat.
Elise waves the server over and orders us a round of shots before I can continue. "You don't have to say it," she says, a soft smile on her face. "You can just…existhere for a second."
The whiskey arrives, and we tap our shot glasses in a silent toast. Elise doesn't even flinch as she downs it, just waves the server for another round.
"It's like—" My throat is finally loose after the second and final shot. I'm not drunk, not even really tipsy—I'm not in college anymore. But as someone from an Irish Catholic family, drinking is our national pastime. I feel good, a feeling I haven't had since the lump. "—it's like the fucking floor just opened and there's no bottom, and I'm supposed to… what? I've never had to deal with anything like this before. My parents are healthy. My grandparents were healthy. We don't—" I take a sip of my water, searching again for the right words.
"I hate that I even think about that. I hate that I'm thinking about myself at all."
"You have to think about yourself, too. You're only human, Paul," she says, laying a warm hand on my shoulder. The way she says it feels like comfort. "You can't pour from an empty cup. How are you going to support Sophie if you're not taking care of yourself?"
"Empty cup," I repeat the cliché, wanting to believe in it. Ipicture Sophie's head on my chest this morning, stroking her dark, vanilla-scented hair. Always vanilla. Her silent tears soak my shirt as she lets herself break in my arms. She always says she feels safe there, like I could shield her from anything.
"She's braver than I am," I say, the truth, because Sophie really is. Bravest woman I've ever met.
