Page 26 of While I’m Still Here

Beatrice ‘Bea’ James

Aman is in my bed.

This, ordinarily, would not be a cause for concern. I am thirty years old… I have had men in my bed before. Not hundreds, obviously, because despite what my mother apparently believed between the ages of sixteen and twenty-two, I did not spend my formative years operating an illegal brothel from my bedroom. But enough that waking beside a male body should not cause my brain to immediately sound an emergency alarm.

Unfortunately, this particular male body belongs to Colin Fletcher.

My best friend of twenty-two years.

My best friend who, until twelve hours ago, I believed had absolutely no romantic interest in me whatsoever.

The absolute dickhead who informed me last night that he has, in fact, been in love with me for seven fucking years… and then I shagged him like a bloody idiot because I didn’t want to be in my head.

I lie perfectly still beneath the duvet and stare at the ceiling.

Right.

Excellent.

Cancer and Colin. Two major life developments in less than twenty-four hours. At this rate, I’ll be married by lunch and accidentally join a pyramid scheme before dinner. Beside me, Colin is asleep on his stomach with one arm shoved under my pillow and the other stretched across the mattress towards me, as if sometime during the night I escaped from where he put me, and he’s attempted to locate me in his sleep. The duvet has slipped dangerously low on his back, revealing a truly unreasonable amount of skin for eight o’clock in the morning.

I stare.

This is new.

Not Colin’s back, presumably because he’s obviously had it for years. My knowledge of Colin’s back is new.

It’s a very nice back.

Broad shoulders, a dip along his spine, a scattering of freckles I don’t remember ever seeing before. I have known this man since we were children. I watched him throw up blue WKD through his nose, held frozen peas against his balls after he got booted in them by Miranda when we were seventeen, and I once saw him cry because his childhood dog Sebastian died.

And somehow, through all of that, I have failed to notice that Colin Fletcher is fucking hot.

This feels negligent on my part.

My eyes travel lower, but the duvet gets in the way. Rude. I should probably stop staring at my best friend’s naked body like I’ve broken into his house and suddenly turned into a right creeper. Except it’s my house, and apparently, he’s not just my best friend anymore.

Maybe.

Possibly.

Fuck.

Do I have a boyfriend?

The thought is so alarming that I sit upright and stare down at the culprit of my mental spiral. Said culprit makes a disgruntled noise beside me and blindly reaches across the bed. His hand searches the mattress for a few seconds before landing heavily on my thigh.

I freeze.

Without opening his eyes, he gives my leg one sleepy pat, apparently satisfied that I haven’t been abducted overnight, and then settles again. I look down at his hand.

Yesterday morning, I woke up and went to my appointment. This morning, I have breast cancer, and Colin Fletcher is naked in my bed. My amusement last approxiametly four seconds because when I look down at myself, I remember the cancer.

My tits are hidden beneath the oversized T-shirt I pulled on during the night, which I’m sure is Colin’s, but I can still see the shape of them. They look exactly the same, and that’s possibly more offensive than trying to kill me.

One is slightly bigger than the other, and the tiny mole under my right one hasn’t turned into a red flashing warning light overnight. There’s no throbbing or skull and bones declaring “This tit is hazardous.” No neon arrow pointing toward the left one with MURDERER written above it, sort of like that one scene in Beetlejuice.

But I know now, and that’s the difference. I lift my hand and press my palm against the left side of my chest. “Good morning, Murder tit.”