Page 98 of While I’m Still Here

I laugh weakly and wipe my face again. For a while, all Marcus can hear from me is breathing. I don't feel embarrassed by the silence anymore. Perhaps once a man has listened to you mourn your breasts while half naked on a bedroom floor, conversational pauses cease to be particularly intimidating.

“Were you terrified the night before your surgery?”

“Yes.”

“Did you sleep?”

“Barely.”

“Did you Google?”

“Yes.”

I pull the phone away from my ear and stare at it as though he can somehow see my expression through the screen. “You specifically told me not to Google.”

“I didn't say I was intelligent.”

That makes me laugh properly, and when I settle the phone against my ear again, my hand has returned to my left breast. I trace my thumb absently over the skin.

“Did you keep touching it?”

“The lump?”

“Yeah.”

“All night.”

I look down at myself. “Why?”

“I don't know. Maybe because I knew it was the last night I'd ever be able to.”

“I think I'm going to miss them.”

“You probably will.”

“Both of them?”

“I'd imagine so.”

I look at the left one beneath my hand. “Even this murderous bitch?”

“Possibly, especially her.”

A watery laugh slips out. “That's ridiculous. She's literally the problem.”

“She was part of your body for a long time before she became a problem.”

And fuck him for making sense. I tell him as much. “Did you miss yours?”

“Yes.”

“Were you angry that you missed it?”

“Very.”

“Did you feel stupid?”

“Frequently.”