"Whatever happens next—surgery, chemo, all of it—this doesn't change. You and me. I'm not going anywhere."
She opens her mouth, but I don't let her respond. I kiss her, deep and slow, swallowing whatever words she might have found. And then I move again, and she's crying out against my lips, and the world narrows to just us.
Her legs tighten. Her breathing hitches.
"I'm close," she gasps. "Colin—I'm—"
"Let go."
She does. Harder than before, her body arches off the couch as the orgasm tears through her. I feel it wrench through every muscle, feel her clench around me like she's pulling me under with her, and I follow.
Pleasure slams through me, blinding and sharp. I bury myself to the hilt and groan into her neck, hips jerking through the last of it while her fingers dig into my back. For a long moment, neither of us moves. We just breathe together, sticky and shaking, her heartbeat hammering against my chest.
I lift my head.
Her eyes are wet. Her lips are parted.
"Still here," she whispers.
It sounds like a triumph. It sounds like a promise.
"Still here," I echo.
She smiles. Small and real. And then she pulls me down to kiss her, slow and searching, as if she's just remembered what it means to want the light on the other side.
I don't know what tomorrow brings. I don't know what the next scan will say or what the surgery will take from her. But I know this, here, now: Beatrice James is alive.
And that’s all that matters.
Chapter 5
The day after, 10:35 a.m.
Age: Still thirty.
Tumours: Still 1.
Tits: 2, temporarily.
Best friends: 1.
Best friends shagged: 1.
Best friends who apparently spent SEVEN YEARS being in love with me without mentioning it: 1.
Boyfriends: Unclear.
Regrets: Surprisingly 0.
Things I need to discuss with my therapist: Increasing exponentially.
Hours since life went completely tits-up: Approximately 19.
Use of the phrase “tits-up” since discovering actual tit is trying to kill me: Excessive, but newly appropriate.
Chapter 6
THE MORNING AFTER CANCER SEX