by AJ Matthews
I loop my arm around her shoulder and puff out my chest. “I think so sir.”
“Yes, speaking of,” Jen says to Thea, “Daddy says your student teaching is in place for spring. Is it nearby? You thinking about moving closer to home?”
“No, the job is fifteen minutes from my apartment. I-I need to talk to you and Daddy.” She glances over at Marcy. “In private.”
I lean in and kiss Thea on the cheek, giving her thigh a reassuring squeeze. “Dinner was amazing. Can I help clean?”
“I’d appreciate your help. Thanks, Shay.” Marcy stands and picks up dishes. I follow suit.
The twins trail behind us, sticking their plastic character plates in the bottom rack of the dishwasher before dragging their toy trucks and books around the kitchen floor. For four-year-olds, they’re surprisingly low-key. Liam and I were the opposite of calm. “Holy terrors,” I believe is what Da called us. Our nicknames, Rascal and Scamp, were well-earned.
Burt, Jen, and Thea move to the family room. Thea’s hands are clutched in her lap, and I hear the muffled sound of her voice in one long stream. I know what she’s saying, but I strain to hear how Jen and Burt respond.
Jen sobs and Thea cries too. I resist the urge to comfort her. She needs this time with her family to work through everything. Good or bad, this is their conversation, not mine.
They’ve got to understand her reasons. How could they not?
“Shay. Shay?” Marcy is trying to get my attention.
“Oh, yes, sorry. What were you saying?”
“Want to help get dessert ready?”
“Sure. Plates are . . .” I go to the cabinet she points to and pull out four stoneware plates, grabbing some plastic bowls for the kids.
Thea’s still talking, but everyone’s stopped crying. A good sign. Burt doesn’t appear angry, which Thea thought he might be.
Like I was angry about her withholding the information. Was I petty to be infuriated? Maybe. Now, though, I can help her through recovery. The entire process, from mastectomy to reconstruction, could take months, and she can’t do this alone, or rely strictly on her friends. They have lives, jobs, and responsibilities. I do too, but the most important thing I can do is take care of my future wife.
I run the idea through my head.
This is my wife. Thea Kelly.
The name has a nice ring to it.
The proposal needs to be spectacular.
Deserving of Thea.
My future wife.
Thea
That was easier than I expected. Both of them had considered this a possibility.
I think Jen wishes she’d had a mastectomy instead of letting the cancer progress under an ineffectual treatment.
Daddy was relieved. Not happy I waited to tell them, scoffing at the idea of me “protecting” him. The protection role fell to him, as the father, he said before squeezing Jen and me into a rib-crushing group hug.
Luckiest girl in the world. That’s me.
We should get going, but I hesitate to pull Shay away from his fun. He’s running around the backyard with the kids, giving them piggyback rides and chasing them around the yard. Their delighted squeals sparkle in the air.
Jen squeezes in next to me in the rocker on the back porch and lays her head on my shoulder.
“That’s a good one you got. He’s okay with this?” Jen reaches over and pretends to squeeze my chest.
I’m relieved the old Jen is back. When she was at her lowest, retching and not eating and weak, she had no energy to be the spunky girl we all loved.
“Yeah, he is. He’s a professional. Well, he will be. He gets the medical implications. He understands it’s the smartest thing to do.”
“How is he, emotionally?”
I face her. “What do you mean?”
“Logically he knows it’s for the best, but these,” she motions to my chest, “are some spectacular girls you’re giving up. He’s okay with this? Is he a boob man or a butt man? Because you have enough of both to make any man happy.”
I slap her on the arm. “I thought boob man, but the other day, in the shower, he . . . I think he may be a butt man.”
A heat creeps from my neck to my cheeks. I fan myself with my hand and check the porch clock.
“Shay,” I call out, “sorry to break up the party, but we need to get back so you can study.”
“Thea Michelle McBride, you will tell me about all the dirty things this boy does to you.”
I jump from the rocker and dart off the back porch, calling back, “Never!”
The twins are fighting over turns for piggyback rides, and I settle the argument for them. “My turn!” I shout, jumping on Shay’s back and throwing my arms around his neck as he catches my legs in his arms. We chase the kids around the yard before we collapse in giggle fits, tangled up in tiny hugs and sticky lipped-kisses.
Shay catches my eye, and a knowing moment passes between us. I imagine being a mom, years down the road, holding his baby in my arms.
The first night we met in Key West was one of the best ever.
This night tops that one by a country mile.
Life is so good.
Chapter Eighteen
Thea
Tomorrow.
It’s tomorrow.
Tomorrow, I lose my breasts.
Even though they might try to kill me, I will still miss them.
I can’t help it. I’m obsessing, standing in the bathroom, staring at them in the mirror. My nipples, stiffened by the cool air, stare back at me. At least I get to keep them, for what it’s worth.
My new breasts won’t be totally foreign.
I jump at a knock on the door.
“Hey, are you coming out? I’m ready to start this binge-fest. Four hours left to eat whatever you want.”
He is ridiculously thoughtful. He picked up Tortellini Alfredo, sesame chicken, tacos, and a burger, all for us to share. Oh, right, and popcorn and chocolate ice cream.
“Yep, be right out.” I slip on my sports bra, panties, and pajamas and head out.
I’m greeted by the buttery, spicy, and savory aromas of my favorite foods.
The table is set with real dishes and silverware. Even stemware though we’re not drinking tonight. The lights are dimmed, and a single vanilla-scented pillar candle in the middle of the table illuminates the area.
The scene is so romantic. Like I should expect anything else from him.
“What’s this for?”
“I wanted to make the night special for my girl.”
His girl.
He still makes the butterflies flit around in my stomach when he says things like that. He pulls out my chair for me. “What shall I get you first, m’lady?” He bows with a flourish, and I giggle like an adolescent with her first crush.
I push my chair back to stand. “Shay, you don’t need to wait on me.”
“Oh, but I do. Where shall we go? Mexico? China? Italy?”
“Mexico! And bring the guac.”
“As you wish.” He bows again, and I throw my napkin at him.
So silly and considerate.
This has me worried. I know he says he can handle the nasty side of this—the drains, the potential infections, changing pads and cleaning incisions.
The emotional side will be far worse.
I am a raging bitch when I get my period and I’m cramping and my boobs are sore from water retention. What demon from hell will possess me when the incisions ooze and burn and the scars tingle and itch?
My pain threshold is low, and they won’t give me the “good stuff” for too many days. After I come home from the hospital, then what? A week or so on codeine before moving to ibuprofen.
Then I will mourn. Everyone in the support group who’d had their surgery described the aftermath like any other loss, with all its stages of grief.
Except there will be no denial. The girls will be gone, the tissue tested and relegated to the status of medical waste. So weird to think of my blood and d
ucts and flesh casually discarded.
I’m sad. Bye, girls. Nice knowing you all these years. See you later in the big medical waste incinerator in the sky.
Morbid.
Shay slides my plate of tacos and guacamole in front of me and retrieves a couple bottles from the kitchen.
“Caffeinated, or decaffeinated?” He holds up two different bottles of pop.
“Definitely caffeinated.” I want to stay awake as long as I can. With him, with the girls.
With him touching and kissing the girls.
I want him to stay all night and bury his head in my chest, leaving me with warm memories of my last night with them. Maybe it’s silly, but it’s what I want.
He pours my drink, gets his own plate, and sits across from me, scooping pasta with his fork, soaking up sauce with the tangy garlic bread.
I wonder what I’d be doing tonight if he hadn’t come back into my life. Doing a girls’ night with Bennie and Leesh, I guess. Not sure we’d be eating like this since Leesh is low-carb since vacation. They’d probably want to drink.
I don’t want to party anymore. I like this. The quiet comfort of home. Of him.
Music plays in the background from my phone in its docking station.
We finish eating and move to the couch.
It might appear mundane to someone from the outside looking in, but nothing could be more meaningful than this. The raunchy comedy I’ve wanted to see since summer came out on DVD. The film’s hijinks might hold my attention any other night, but not tonight.
“Let’s go to bed,” I blurt out.
“But there’s still a ton left to eat.” He unfastens the button on his jeans. “I made room for more.”
It’s not even ten o’clock, and I’d insisted earlier we keep eating until midnight, after which I can’t eat per my pre-surgical orders. There are more urgent things to do. Like helping him finish taking his pants off.
I straddle his lap, his hard cock pressing into my thigh. He nuzzles my neck, dropping a kiss on the top of one breast peeking out from my tank top, and then the other as he stands.
I wrap my legs around his waist as I twine my arms around his strong neck, my body giving into primal urges beyond rational control.
He carries me to my room and sets me on the bed, undressing before sliding in next to me. I want to drink in the sight of him loving me tonight, so I turn on the light.
I undress like he did, leaving my panties on, and lay back.
The air is cool in my room, and gooseflesh raises on my skin. He leans over me, propped on one arm as he runs his fingertips along my side, skimming the side of my left breast.
I gasp at the faint brush, and I want more.
He must be able to read my mind, or else he has learned what I crave.
What I need in this moment.
He pulls me to my side, facing him. His head is on the bed below the edge of the pillow, level with my chest.
I arch my back, curving closer to him.
He traces the outline of one breast, from collarbone to ribcage, to the sensitive skin on the underside before tracing a similar path on the other side.
With the same finger, he circles one areola before moving to the other.
I would normally shut my eyes and throw my head back as he stroked the sensitive flesh, but tonight. I watch, eyes wide and moving from his face to his fingers as they dance across my skin. He rolls a nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Apparently not satisfied with using one hand, he lays me flat on my back and uses both hands, pinching and squeezing both nipples at the same time.
After minutes of this exquisite torture, he lies on his stomach and takes a nipple into his mouth.
Sweet Jesus.
A jolt of electricity shoots from breast to belly and lower, settling between my legs. My thighs actually quiver. Quiver.
He moves to the other side and nips the stiff peak, licking it before taking it into his mouth. He kneads the flesh of the other breast while sucking on this one, taking as much of me as he can into his mouth. The tug of his mouth sends more ripples of pleasure through me, from fingertips to toes. He switches back and forth from one side to the other, with the sweet pressure. It’s like nothing I’ve ever felt.
I wrap my arms around his neck, my fingers diving into his thick hair, holding him tight, smothering him. I don’t want him to leave me.
“Yes. Harder. More.”
My toes dig into the comforter, and I can’t believe this is happening.
My legs shake violently, and the only thing keeping me from bucking off the bed is the delicious weight of his torso partially lying across me.
He sucks harder, tugging and rolling the other nipple in his fingers as I shake.
My broken sobs of pleasure echo through the room.
I came, with no touching below the waist.
Wow.
Shay
She stops shaking minutes later, and I prop up on my elbows, scanning her face.
She’s crying.
“Sweetheart, what’s going on? Why are you crying? Did I hurt you? I—”
“No.” She sniffles, and I’m not sure what to do. “It’s . . . that’s never happened to me.”
I laugh. “It’s not common, but not unheard of, either.”
She cocks her head to the side, her loose gold hair spilling across the pillow. I’m not sure how to interpret her expression.
“I’ve read, I mean, that’s never happened for me either. But I’ve done research.”
“Research?” She sits and climbs under the covers, shivering. I slide under with her, curling into her warmth. I never want to leave her. But in a few hours I’ll drive her to the hospital and leave my precious girl in the hands of her capable medical team.
I snuggle behind her, one arm under the pillow and the other circling her, cupping one of her delectable breasts.
I’ll never tell her, but I will miss them.
They weren’t the first thing I noticed about her, but close.
The first thing was her warm, crooked smile, and when she grinned at me from across Paddy’s and raised her shot glass in my direction, I was done for.
I fell in love.
I could have lived without her had I never seen her again, but after the day at the hospital, there was no going back.
Like I’d had cement shoes tied to my feet and been tossed into the Gulf of Mexico, drowning in the warm, colorful depths of her love.
Her small hand slides between us, her warm palm cupping my penis, massaging my testicles.
The hard-on that had subsided after she came returns in full force, and I strain against her hand. I wanted tonight to be for her, but my need to be inside her overwhelms everything else. She rolls over and tangles her fingers in my hair, my scalp tingling where her fingers massage. I lean in and kiss her slowly, my lips grazing her full mouth.
Her tongue darts out, and she whimpers. I deepen the kiss, but don’t quicken the pace. Nothing to rush. I don’t need sleep. All I need is to touch her, let her know how much I love her with my mouth, my hands, and my whole body.
I pull back and stare. The pale gold glow from the small bedside lamp gilds her skin, illuminating the fine hairs all over her body. She’s luminous.
I’ve seen many beautiful things in my life.
But nothing like this. Like her. Her bright blue eyes shine and offer an invitation I cannot resist.
I fumble at the nightstand drawer and pull out the packet. After sliding on the condom, I cover her completely, my arms braced on either side of her.
Her arms reach around my back, clutching at my hips as she opens her legs for me. I glide into her waiting heat and pause, savoring the slight clenching of her muscles around me.
It’s more than I could ever hope.
She’s exquisite, and I am the luckiest bastard in the world.
I move slowly in and out of her, never quickening the pace. Her hands clutch at my shoulders and arms. I arch over her, pulling her hands away and hol
ding them above her head as I lock my gaze on hers.
I love when her mouth makes a little o when she comes, and I want her to see my face when I come.
She needs to know I’m all in, and I’m not going anywhere.
For life.
Thea
I promised myself I would stay off the Internet tonight. That I wouldn’t read any blogs or search for any post-surgical photos or jump into any discussion forums with other people like me. I’ve talked to people, looked at pictures, read stories. This is my story, so I’d decided not to paint my last few hours before surgery with anyone’s experiences but my own.
I broke my promise, and now I sit in the corner of my room on my laptop, the voices of the anonymous people echoing through my head. I changed. I became a miserable wretch. The people I loved stopped loving me.
Would I become that person?
Another voice: I ended up with ovarian cancer. We wanted kids. We never had them. It never felt like the right time, and then cancer made sure there never would be a right time.
Fuck. I can’t do this to him.
I’d watched him for the last few weeks with the kids, his desire for a family shining in his eyes. His need for a normal life scrawled like graffiti all over his face. In this time, I’ve realized one thing: I am the wrong person for him.
Despite the fact I’ve never found anyone more perfect for me.
I nudge at his shoulder. “You need to go.” Shay is knocked the hell out, his long, lean frame spread across a good portion of the bed.
He won’t wake up. I shake his shoulder with all the force I can muster. “Get. Up.”
He bolts upright, eyes wild and head turning side-to-side. He rubs his eyes and shakes his head. “Do we need to go? Did we oversleep?”
“No. I don’t need to be at the hospital for hours.”
“Good. Come back to bed.” He reaches his long arms for me but draws back when I move away.
I shake my head and snatch his clothes from the floor, piling them on the end of the bed for him to reach.
“No. You need to go,” I say again, hoping the repetition will pound the concept into his head.
