The Summer of Us: A Romance Anthology

by AJ Matthews

  The joke isn’t funny since I have even more to lose.

  ~Thea

  Wow. The letter is less angry than I thought it would be. Mostly sad. I wish my words were more hopeful. I can’t force the optimism.

  Having the mastectomy is the best decision, although the most difficult, ever. For me, any other way is passive, and I’ve decided not to live life submissively. To go after what I want instead of hoping it comes my way.

  That’s one reason I don’t want to tell Shay about the operation. I’ve got what I want, and refuse to relinquish it, at least not immediately.

  I don’t need to tell him; instead I could back out quietly. Become too busy to see him. Move away, or back home.

  Not exactly living life actively.

  What a way to wuss out.

  Though my decision to prevent getting breast cancer is brave, I can’t find a way to channel the bravery into the rest of my life.

  I better find a way. Soon. Before I hurt someone I care too much about, knowing he may never forgive me for damages already done.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Thea

  I haven’t heard from Shay for a few days. He’s busy with classes and studying and prepping to start his internship next week, so I hung out with Jen and read more on my reconstruction options.

  I didn’t talk to Daddy and Jen about the surgery, though, and I need to work things out in therapy before I do.

  I’m in group therapy, surrounded by women who’ve undergone or will undergo a mastectomy. Most had cancer; others are like me, hoping to prevent the disease. I don’t speak much in group; I need to today.

  “I thought vacation was supposed to be fun, Thea. We talked about this. Not forgetting about what’s happening, but at least for a moment, living life like you want to when the threat of breast cancer is eradicated.”

  Dr. Luther’s right.

  “Yeah, I know. But Bennie and Leesh kept pushing me about my ‘one last fling’ for the girls.” I cup my hands in front of me, and the group laughs. “I met this guy and had one of those vacation flings that sticks with you. You don’t forget a guy like him.”

  A few “mmmm-hmmmmms” and “I know that’s right,” then I drop the bombshell: “You can’t forget a guy from vacation when he ends up moving to your town for school.”

  “Say what?!” That’s Gina, one of the other group attendees. She makes me smile.

  I snort. “Yeah. Ran into him at the hospital last week, and we, uh, kinda went on a couple dates since.”

  “Thea, do you think this is someone you could be serious about? Did you tell him yet?” Dr. Luther jots something on her notepad. In our private sessions, we’re role-playing to help me cope with how to tell my family.

  I avoid her gaze and stare at the pink-tipped toes peeping out of my sandals.

  “I . . . no. I adore him. I like how normal things are because he’s clueless. Will he leave?”

  Gina speaks again. “If he does, honey, he doesn’t deserve you.”

  I sniff and dab at my eyes with a tissue from the box provided at the entrance to the office. “I know. Maybe he won’t leave today, or he’ll treat me differently, like I’m fragile and needy, which may be worse than him walking away.”

  Dr. Luther interjects. “He deserves the truth. Consider your reaction if your parents withheld your mother’s diagnosis from you six years ago.”

  I would have spit nails. Shay will be furious too since he’s still bitter about his family hiding the real cause of the car “accident” from him and his brothers for years.

  Geesh, he’ll be madder than a wet hen in a tote sack.

  “This is different,” I insist.

  “How? You’re taking away his ability to make an informed decision about being in a relationship with you. You may not like his decision, but he should be the one to choose. What will happen after surgery, and he shows up? You’ve got the Jackson-Pratt drains in, and you tell him what?”

  ugh.

  It all makes perfect sense.

  “You’re right. I’ll see him this weekend. I’ll tell him.”

  Dr. Luther appears pleased. “Would anyone else like to share?”

  Voices mutter in the background, but all I hear is the mock conversation in my head, the one I hope to have with Shay.

  “Hey, guess what? I’m getting my boobs cut off to prevent getting cancer.”

  “Oh, okay, preventing cancer is important. I’ll help with whatever you need. What do you want for dinner? I’m in the mood for Chinese carry-out.”

  Ha. That would be the “in your dreams” conversation.

  Scuffing chairs wake me from the daydream, and I stand to leave. Gina comes over and touches my shoulder.

  “It’s hard sweetie, but you’ve got to tell your young man the truth. You remember when you first came here a few months ago? I’d been diagnosed right before.”

  Gina’s wearing a scarf on her head today, and her eyebrows are penciled in, dark crayon arches over big brown eyes.

  I swallow back tears. “Yes, I remember.”

  “I’d started dating this man a month before I found the lump. To be honest, honey, he found the lump.” Her playful grin cheers me up.

  She continues, “I called him right after the diagnosis. Told him over a cup of coffee. Expected him to walk away.”

  Gina hadn’t mentioned him, so I suspect he ditched her.

  “Girl, we got engaged. He proposed a few days ago, and I agreed today. Not sure why I waited two days to decide. What man takes on the responsibility of holding a cancer patient’s hair as she pukes up her guts and stays in bed for days? The good kind. You need to find out if yours is the good kind. Tell him, honey. As soon as you can.”

  I grab on Gina and sob into her shoulder. She’s right. It’s possible I’m lucky and found the good guy like she did. She pats my hair and squeezes me tight, and for a minute it’s like Mama’s here reassuring me.

  I pull back and swipe at my tears, happy for her encouragement.

  I’m telling him. When he comes over this weekend, the first thing I’ll do is sit him on the couch and lay out all my cards.

  Whatever the outcome, I’ll survive, no matter what.

  Shay

  Thea’s out of sorts again. I’m not sure why, but she’s flitting around and running to the kitchen to grab me a beer, or to throw something away, or get a drink of water.

  The buzzer on the washing machine sounds and the dryer goes off. She runs to pull clothes from the dryer and put the last load in. I’d asked her if I could bring my stuff to wash, so I could spend time with her instead of in my building’s laundry room.

  She insisted on doing my clothes, but it makes uncomfortable. I’ve been washing my clothes since high school. Mom insisted we do it to learn “valuable life skills.” I ended up washing Liam’s too. His pile of sweaty socks and uniform pants from football practice would molder in our shared room in the old house, emitting a pungent, funky odor.

  Also, she’s not super-messy, but not organized and neat, so for her to be so domestic is sketchy.

  While she’s occupied with laundry, I get up and start organizing her pile of mail and paperwork stacked on the kitchen table. We ate our take-out from the coffee table since the kitchen table is a disaster.

  I stack the papers into piles: bills, catalogs and magazines, and obvious junk. I find a few pieces of unopened mail from the NCU Women’s Hospital, and pamphlets I’m not sure where I should put. I glance at one of the pamphlets, and the title surprises me.

  Options for Breast Reconstruction after Mastectomy.

  I don’t understand.

  Wait.

  Her mother died. Her sister underwent chemo.

  Thea’s making sure the same doesn’t happen to her.

  Her constant desire for me to touch her breasts makes complete sense. Like she wants to imprint the memory of those sensations on her brain, to recall later when she no longer has her mammary tissue.

  She comes back from the
laundry closet outside her bedroom door, basket of whites in arms.

  I grit my teeth and hold up the booklet. “What’s this?”

  She gasps and drops the basket.

  Pinpricks stab my brain and tension creeps into my shoulders to my neck.

  I think I know the answer to my question. The real question is, will she tell me the truth?

  “Why-what the hell are you doing going through my stuff?” She stomps over and rips the papers from my hands, the force of her motion stinging my fingers with paper cuts.

  “Going through your . . . you were helping me do my laundry. We can’t even eat at the table, so I was trying to be helpful and clean up for you.”

  “I don’t need you to clean up after me,” she snaps.

  “And I told you not to do my laundry, but you insisted. I was returning the favor for your help. Forgive me for trying to straighten this rat’s nest.”

  Her jaw drops.

  I’m not the mean kind. I get no pleasure from hurting people. But she’s holding something back, something huge. I’m hurt and lashing out.

  Her face softens, and her eyes are shimmering with unshed tears.

  Way to be a grade-A idiot, Kelly.

  “Shay, I-I’ve been wanting to talk to you about something.”

  “Talk about what?”

  “I—can we sit?”

  I nod stiffly and move to the sofa.

  She’s avoiding eye contact again. What is she hiding in her unseen expression? Guilt or deception?

  “Shay . . .” Her breath shudders on my name. “I’m having a prophylactic—that means preventative—mastectomy. In a few weeks.”

  My mouth falls open. My limbs turn to stone, and my heart is on the verge of exploding. A bark of laughter erupts from my throat. What an inappropriate reaction.

  She eyes me warily. Peals of hysterical laughter echo off the walls.

  “No. No.” I shake my head so hard my brain rattles around in my skull. “No way.”

  I jump up and pace the short hall, throwing my hands in the air.

  She follows, but I hold my arms out. She stops dead in her tracks.

  A mass of vipers slither in my stomach, hot, heavy, and sickening.

  My jaw tenses as I grit my teeth again and my face is on fire. My nails bite into my palms as my hands curl into fists.

  The bubble of anger swelling in my chest erupts.

  “What the fuck, Thea?” My voice shakes as I pound my fist into the wall, leaving a dent.

  Her eyes grow wide. I don’t curse, ever, and can’t believe my own ears, even though the word came from my mouth. I don’t hit or throw things, either.

  She’s silent, crossing her arms across her body and cowering.

  I pace, flinging my hands again. “When were you going to tell me? The day before? After? Were you going to break up with me and never tell me?”

  She winces and her gaze falls to the floor, avoiding eye contact.

  Must be the latter.

  Never.

  She’d planned on breaking my heart and never telling me why.

  “We were never supposed to happen. It should have ended in Florida. I should have severed all ties. All for fun. That’s what our fling was meant to be.” Her low voice shakes, choking over the unshed tears glistening in her eyes.

  My shoulders slump. She stands and approaches me, her head tilted to the side, each step tentative. She lays her hand on my arm. I flinch, and she withdraws.

  “I can’t talk to you. I . . . I can’t be here.”

  Hiding the truth, neglecting to trust me, knowing my distaste for lies. My heart shrinks, trying to hide from the pain.

  Too late.

  I snatch the basket of dry clothes and go rip the rest from the dryer. They’re still wet, but I can’t stay here until they dry.

  I can’t stay here at all.

  I find my keys and wallet on the table in the front hall, and I’m out the door. My eyelid twitches and my jaw is sore from clenching. I stop for a minute as I collect myself, rearranging the laundry basket on my hip as I shove my wallet in my pocket.

  I pause long enough to hear a sob explode from behind the closed door, and I take a shuddering breath.

  I spin back to the door, raising my hand to turn the knob, but I pivot and walk away instead.

  Thea

  My lungs burn as I struggle for air.

  My tears threaten to drown me.

  He did what I feared. Had hoped against, but what I anticipated. He found out I was getting my tits cut off, and he walked away. No.

  He stormed away.

  After he shouted, “What the fuck?”

  His outburst shocked me. I’m not offended since I drop the f-bomb a lot. He doesn’t. Ever. That’s when he crossed the line from disbelief into rage.

  I deserved his anger. I should have told him the first night, on the bowling alley date.

  Things were so remarkable. I wanted the good stuff to last for a while longer. It was wrong of me. Selfish. And if I’d told him then, I wouldn’t have fallen deeper because he might have left, and the past week would never have happened. Or he may have been understanding because I was honest with him from the start of our time together in the real world.

  Either way, my breaking heart misses him, and I’ll never know for sure what he would have done.

  How did this happen?

  Stupid tequila and fireball and loosened inhibitions. They made me run off to look at the stars with a beautiful boy.

  Stupid heart. It made me fall in love with him when all my head wanted was a fine piece of ass.

  Head got what it wanted. Heart’s breaking. It all sucks.

  I rummage through the pantry and find the stash Bennie left last week.

  I crawl into bed, and the wrappers are flying off the chocolate medicine.

  If I died in this room, there wouldn’t be a chalk outline.

  Gold and orange and brown foil candy wrappers would outline my corpse.

  Sad.

  My phone buzzes across the dresser and I fall out of bed trying to get to it.

  Please let it be Shay. Please let it be Shay.

  Daddy’s calling. He doesn’t text, and he’ll think something’s wrong if I don’t answer. Something is wrong, but he can’t fix it. I suck back the disgusting wad of snot clogging my nose and answer the phone.

  “Hey Daddy!” I’m surprised by the amount of sunshine dripping from my words.

  “Hi, baby girl. How are you?”

  “Good. Fine.” Liar. “I secured a spot for my student teaching assignment in the spring.”

  “Wonderful, honey. I want to share news too, since, she’s . . .”

  Wait. What? “She? Is Jen okay?”

  “Jen is fine. No, I’ve met someone, Thea, and it’s going well. I want you two to meet. Can you make it tomorrow?”

  Huh. This is an unexpected development, but one to distract me from my current state of heartache.

  “Does Jen know?”

  “Oh, yeah, Marcy’s one of the newer nurses at the oncology center. She started in July. You’ll love her. I worked up the nerve to ask her out a couple weeks ago, and since Jen’s treatment ended, she agreed.”

  “Great, Daddy.” I’m thrilled for him. He’s been alone for so long, and the joy in his voice is infectious. “But I’m under the weather. Can I take a rain check on supper?”

  “Of course. What’s wrong?”

  “Oh, nothing, getting a cold or something, and want to hunker down in bed. I can’t wait to meet Marcy though.” It’s the truth. I thought when Daddy started dating again, I’d be sad, worried he would forget Mama. He deserves happiness though, a chance to write another chapter in his book. Mama will forever be in his story, and he’ll never forget her.

  Like I’ll never forget Shay.

  The joy was short-lived, but it was the heart-swelling, belly-tickling kind of happiness that doesn’t surrender without a fight.

  I don’t feel like fighting though, so I wallo
w in misery and let it take over for a while.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Thea

  Another week, another group therapy session.

  My appearance gives away the suckiness of my week.

  I don’t care.

  I never leave the house in yoga pants unless I’m going to yoga.

  No practicing downward dogs in the last few weeks, and I’m not much of a warrior lately.

  More like a child. Or even a corpse.

  Yeah, that one.

  I’m here in no make-up, hair twisted in a messy bun with curls springing out in every direction.

  Wearing sweats, which are more comfortable than trying to squeeze into my jeans, which shrank this past week.

  I can’t care about my appearance now. I’m getting my tits cut out in a couple weeks, and I’ve lost Shay. I’ve tried to stay strong through this whole process. After I had got my positive result for my brca1 mutation, I cried, screamed, and pouted, a tantrum to rival a three-year-old crashing from a major sugar high.

  Then decided to kick cancer in the ass and take the boobs away.

  This “pretending to be strong” thing is exhausting, and I can’t do it anymore.

  “This sucks,” I mumble.

  “Thea, would you like to add something?” Dr. Luther stares at me over the top of her reading glasses.

  Everyone talks about how empowering the decision is—how it’s the most difficult decision to make, but one that will leave you stronger and in-charge. True, but there is much more.

  “This. Sucks.” I purse my lips and stare wide-eyed at the group, daring them to challenge me. “Deciding on a mastectomy is empowering alright. Next comes the anger and the sadness and the self-doubt. Second-guessing? That’s the worst.”

  A few of the women nod.

  “You might not like having your chests touched. I love it. I’ll miss the sensation. Yeah, I’m saving my nipples, but I won’t have any sensation.” Because the topic is sex, or because some of the women know, tittering echoes through the room.

  I’m on a roll, though, and I won’t let nervous laughter stop me. “How many of you have kids?”

  All but three women in the room, including me, raise their hands.