Chapter Three
Sophie
The door shuts behind him, the click of the door deafening in the quiet apartment, and I wait until I can't hear his footsteps anymore before I allow myself to break.
I fold forward from my position on the couch, reach blindly, and drag the sage-green throw pillow to my face.
And I scream. I pause, gasping, feeling pain rippling through me. I charge up like Godzilla, dragging air into my lungs, and scream again. Again and again. Each scream is sharper and piercing. Then the screams give way to wailing sobs, muffled by my pillow, until my throat is tender.
It hurts. Itburns.
The image of Paul and beautiful, perfect Elise loops in my mind, taunting and sickening me. My mind races picturing them together: kissing, her flawless body pressed against his, his hands gripping her perfect body. The pain shifts from ache to agony.
Elise.
His gorgeous, cancer-free coworker—the one I thought I was silly to even worry about.
How delusional and pathetic can I be?
I never thought Paul was capable of this, of hurting me like this. My wonderful fiancé, who would rub my stomach when I had period cramps, who held my hair back when I got too drunk on my twenty-seventh birthday and was praying to the porcelain God for an hour, who held me on the entire flight to the Bahamas because I'm terrified of flying.
Never in our six years had I seen him even look at another woman like that, and nowIfeel bad, like I messed up and caused him to do this, because I didn't even notice that he was struggling. He just seemed so strong, so confident that we would get through this together. He held me as I allowed myself to cry, to panic—just for a second. He wiped my tears, kissed the tracks,and told me everything would be okay.
Was he thinking about her as he did that? About how easy she was, and how I'm just full of difficulties and sickness and inconvenience?
Nurse Ruth's gentle warning about men leaving hammers around in my mind like a vicious taunt. During one of my last appointments, right after bloodwork, the kind and sweet older nurse had asked to speak to me.
???
"Sophie, I just... I hate having this talk, but I just want to prepare you for something that sometimes happens after a cancer diagnosis," she began gently. Her eyes were kind, but her words carried weight. "Some partners... struggle. The fear—it can overwhelm them. And sometimes... they leave."
I blinked at her, surprised at her words, but not shaken. I shook my head and smiled, "I appreciate you telling me. Really, I do. But Paul isn't like that."
She tilted her head, studying me with that compassion that some nurses seem born with, and just smiled at me. I felt bad about possibly hurting her feelings with my dismissal and reached out, taking her hand and squeezing it gently. "Thank you for looking out for me. That means more than I can say. But Paul... he's my rock."
Her expression softened even more, and I thought I saw something like admiration flicker across her face, maybe it waspity. "Then you hold on to that, Sophie. Hope and love are powerful medicines."
???
"Delusional," I choke out, feeling so stupid and naive. More tears slide down my cheeks as I clutch my head and pull in a choppy breath.
In for four, hold for four, out for six, hold for four; repeat...
The other night comes to mind. I remember looking at Paul's handsome face, smoothed by sleep, and just gazing at him in awe, in love. I reached over and smoothed his blonde curls down, and he murmured my name in his sleep, reaching for me. I cuddled up next to his side, and my last thought before falling asleep was about how lucky I was to have him—how he was going to stick by me and fight this.
That I wouldn't have to do this alone.
What a joke.
Everything tilts—the floor, the pictures on the wall,me. I can't catch my breath. I'm all alone. Shock hits, then sharpens into terror. Everything is falling apart, and I'm dying—I mean, literally, I'm dying.There are cells in my body that are trying to kill me, and I...
What do I even do now?
I spent six years building a life with someone, and it was ripped away in an instant.
I curl my fingers, staring at my light pink–painted nails as they dig into my knees, trying to grasp onto something steady. My heart is beating too fast—or too slow, I can't even tell. My throat feels like it's closing, and I swallow compulsively, trying to clear it to no avail.
Sophie, you are having a panic attack.
