Goodbye to You

by A. J. Matthews

  I pick up my purse from the entry table and yank a couple bills from my wallet.

  “That was quick. There’s an extra tip for speedy…”

  Shit.

  Not the pizza guy.

  Hands stuffed in the pockets of his jeans, his ridiculous perfection is unmarred by the pouring rain.

  “Sh-Shay. Hi.”

  That’s all I manage to spit out. What is it with this guy, looking like a damn model all the time, and rendering me speechless?

  Today, of all days, I am in a sorry state. I don’t need a mirror to tell me this.

  I can tell from the way he’s looking at me, eyes wide and mouth open. “Did I wake you? Are you okay? I can come back later.”

  “Uh, no. Come in. Sorry.” I open the door wider and step back.

  He pulls off his windbreaker and hangs it on the hook in the entryway.

  “Please, sit down.” I point at the couch. Duh. He’s been here before. “Can I get you something to drink? Water? Tea? Pop?”

  A shot of vodka? Because I need one.

  “No, I’m fine, thanks. Thea, we need to talk.”

  It’s like a movie where someone says something ominous and the camera zooms in on the other person. I am definitely not ready for my close-up.

  “I’m sorry. Do you mind if I go change?” I tug on the bottom of my ratty gray North Carolina University tee shirt.

  “No, go ahead. I’m not going anywhere.”

  I nod, thinking about the last time he was here, and how he wanted to be anywhere but here.

  Once in my bedroom, I find a pair of comfy, worn jeans that still fit. Thank goodness they’re clean. I pull off the tired-looking shirt and put on a real bra, instead of the wire-free sports bra I sleep in.

  I find a three-quarter-sleeve, slightly fitted tee shirt, which is casual without being frumpy.

  Like I’m not trying too hard. In reality, I am putting way too much thought into this. Especially if he’s come to get a few things off his chest before leaving for good this time.

  My hair is matted from lying in bed and resting my head on the arm of the sofa. I tear a brush through the tangles and manage a simple braid. I step into the bathroom, too, and brush my teeth, which I am ashamed to admit, I haven’t done in a couple days.

  When your heart is breaking, oral hygiene may be the last thing you worry about.

  I take a deep breath, and walk out. Shay set up some plates on the now-cleared kitchen table and pulled two beers out of the fridge.

  The pizza’s here. I missed the pizza guy. Too preoccupied with putting together the perfect outfit for not looking too put-together.

  The hot sausage and onion scent makes my stomach growl. I haven’t eaten much other than sugary junk for the past week, and my mouth is watering.

  I casually reach up to scratch my chin, to covertly check for possible drooling.

  No wetness. Phew!

  I serve us each a slice and sit down at the table. He sits across from me, his out-of-character stubble lending his face an ominous cast.

  His forehead wrinkles, like he’s thinking.

  But this particular expression is accompanied by a frown, instead of his usual devil-may-care grin.

  I’m so hungry I almost forgot there’s some serious talking about to happen.

  I eat, chewing and swallowing and drinking wordlessly, keeping my eye on him for any changes in his face.

  Nope. Still the same.

  I eat one more slice and finish the beer.

  He balls up his paper napkin and tosses it on the plate. “Thea, I…”

  His voice is firm, and I assume he’s going to rail at me for lying.

  “No, Shay, oh my God, I am so sorry I…”

  He holds up a hand. “Please, let me talk. Please.”

  “O-okay. Sorry.” I get up and walk to the couch, curling up in the corner, surrounding myself with throw pillows and crossing my arms over my chest.

  He follows, sitting on the other end, legs open, elbows leaning on his knees, hands clasped together.

  He’s not sitting too close. Good for me, because the sharp, pleasant scent of his soap can be so distracting.

  Disappointing, though, like he’s avoiding me.

  I’m a walking, talking, breathing mess of contradictions. No wonder he’s frustrated. I frustrate myself.

  “Do you trust me?” He stabs a hand through his hair.

  A large knitting needle pierces my heart. Will he trust me now?

  “Of course. We haven’t known each other long, but I think I trusted you right away. I can’t explain. I just did.” I let go of a shaky breath I’d been holding on to, and my stomach settles a little.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” He rubs the worry line on his forehead.

  “Because I didn’t want this perfect, new-relationship thing to be tainted by reality?” A question more than a statement. Yes, and more. “Because in Key West, I never thought I’d see you again. There was no reason to tell you.”

  He tilts his head to one side. “Fair enough. So why not tell me when we met again?”

  “The look you gave me after you found the pamphlet. I wasn’t a woman anymore. I was a patient. I never wanted you to look at me like that, so analytical, clinical. I always wanted you to remember me as I was on vacation. Relaxed. Happy. Whole.”

  Tears sting my eyes, and I close my eyelids to block them from falling.

  The cushion next to me sinks beneath his weight. His fingers on my shoulders burn through the thin fabric of my shirt as he turns my body to face him.

  “Open your eyes.” I comply, and tears glisten in his eyes, too. “Don’t ever think of yourself as anything less than whole. I never once thought otherwise.”

  I nod, unable to speak for fear of sobbing.

  “The choices you’ve made are beyond comprehension for most other people. I’ll never understand the full measure of the stress this caused you. I respect you for making this decision. You chose life above everything else. I’m glad you did.”

  “Yeah?” My voice cracks.

  “Yes. Because now you’ll be in my life for many years to come.”

  “Really? You still want me?”

  “Still want you? Do you understand why I was angry?”

  “Be-because I lied to you, like your family did about your mother.”

  He nods. “Yes, but the thing that kicked me in the crotch was you cheated me out of the choice.”

  Like Dr. Luther said.

  “Relationships are a big deal. A lot of work. I’m overstressed with classes.”

  “I-I am really…” He covers my lips with his forefinger.

  “I worked my butt off to get into med school. The responsibility of taking care of a girlfriend after surgery is immense. If you told me earlier, I may have bailed. I can’t really say. If that makes me a jerk, well, I’m sorry.”

  He may have bailed. A boulder settles in the pit of my stomach.

  “You believed I would run. None of it matters. I’m not in love with your breasts, Thea, I’m in love with you. Some surgical procedure doesn’t change that.”

  In love with me.

  Is he for real?

  I pinch his arm to find out.

  He jumps at the unexpected contact. “Owwww! What the heck?”

  “Making sure you’re real. My sister’s husband, her ex, is a total asshole. When Jen was diagnosed with stage two earlier this year, her doctors recommended mastectomy. The ex told her if she got the surgery, she would be less than a woman. She went against the doctor’s advice, and started radiation, but the tumor didn’t respond. She got a lumpectomy and started chemo. Asshole, as he’s known by the McBride clan, left anyway because he couldn’t hack the side effects of her treatment.”

  “Wait, he couldn’t hack it? He wasn’t the one vomiting and losing his hair.”

  “No kidding. But she’s getting better. Anyway, for some reason, Asshole’s words started echoing in my head after I met you. ‘Not a real woman.’ I was afr
aid you’d think the same.”

  “I’m not him. I understand the risks for you. Family history. I assume you tested positive for one of the BRCA gene mutations.”

  “BRCA1.” It’s refreshing to talk to someone outside of group who understands.

  “So what, your risk is sixty to eighty percent? Smart money is on the prophylactic mastectomy.”

  Seriously? Any other guy would be flipping the fuck out.

  Not Shay, not this time. I mentally kick myself for not telling him sooner.

  I crawl into his lap, and he squeezes me so tightly I can barely breathe. He kisses my head and says, “One more thing, Thea. Please don’t hold anything back again. I’m all-in, the good, the bad, and the post-op ugly. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir.” I mumble against his strong chest. “And Shay?”

  He kisses my hair. “Mmmmhmmm?”

  “I love you, too. Since the night we met I think.”

  He pulls me closer. Then I sleep more soundly than I have in a week.

  Even though my breasts will be cut out soon, life couldn’t be any better right now.

  ***

  Shay

  This. Is. Awesome.

  Things are going to work out fine.

  I mean, it sucks my girlfriend is getting a mastectomy.

  Heh. My girlfriend.

  I like the sound of that. As far as girlfriends go, mine is the prettiest, funniest, and bravest, ever.

  I wasn’t kidding, though, when I said if surgery means I get to keep her around for a long time, it’s all-good with me.

  Breasts can be replaced.

  Thea is irreplaceable.

  Exhaustion kicks in. Thea slept on me for hours, and when we moved to the bed, all I wanted to do was lay awake and look at her in the pale silver moonlight filtering through the blinds once the rain let up.

  I also need to get home and study. I’d bring my books over here, but there are way too many distractions for me to get anything done.

  This cold shower is doing the trick at waking me up, that’s for sure.

  My eyes are closed tight against the scented shampoo streaming down my face when the rings of the shower curtain scrape against the rod.

  The water warms up, and steam rises. The tub creaks.

  I rinse my hair and open my eyes. She sneaks in under the water.

  “Oh, so you’re a water hog?” I flick my fingers at her, splashing water in her face.

  “I’d rather share.” Her arms snake around my waist and pull me closer. Water is streaming through her hair, pulling the curls loose and sending them down her back. She presses into me, everything on her soft where I am sinew. She has no idea how hot she is.

  My hands move from her waist to cup her butt. I’ve paid so much attention to her breasts I’ve never noticed how gorgeous she is from behind, too.

  Well, of course I’d noticed. She’s built like a tiny brick house with everything in perfect proportion. I’d always been a breast man, but I could learn to love butts.

  Her butt.

  She turns up her cute nose to me, and I kiss it, then trail kisses down her chin, and back up to her eyelids, which flutter closed as my lips approach.

  Her fingers massage my triceps, and her groans of approval make me happy I stay fit.

  If it pleases her, I’ll keep doing it.

  I capture her mouth with mine, drinking in her kiss, her tongue darting out to massage mine.

  She moves my hands to her chest in a frenzy. I hesitate.

  She wants me to pay attention to them, but I don’t want her to think I only care about her breasts. I linger for a few minutes there, as I knead the pliable flesh. I turn her around, pressing her into the wall, and kneel down. My hands splay across her hips, her beautiful curves inviting me to kiss them.

  My lips touch the soft skin where one thigh meets glute, and she sighs. I kiss the back of each leg, down behind each knee, working my way back up to the rounded curves. She giggles when I lick at the small of her back, and shivers when I trace my tongue along her spine.

  She startles a little when I pull her to me, my erection pressing into her.

  I can’t wait to enter her this way—bend her over, squeezing her butt as I watch myself move in and out…

  Like icy water, it hits me.

  No condoms.

  “Did you bring anything?”

  She leans over the wall of the tub and retrieves the packet from her robe pocket.

  “Just in case.” She rips open the foil with her teeth, and I jump when she rolls it on my erection.

  The soft friction of her hand combined with the latex is better than I expected.

  She’s so sexy, and I’m dying to get inside her. She faces the wall and peeks over her shoulder, hair sticking to her face as she bites her lip and waits.

  I bend my knees to get the angle right, and she’s squeezing me so tightly I’m going to explode.

  She holds her hips still and lets me control the motion, and within minutes, I come so hard I think I might pass out. I reach up and grab the shower curtain rod and thrust a few more times.

  A cracking sound fills the air, and then we’re in a heap in the bottom of the tub, wrapped up in her striped shower curtain as water from the showerhead pelts us.

  This is awkward. We both laugh.

  “I’ll fix that later.” I kiss her, and regret I have to leave for class. At least now I have an excuse to come back soon.

  Not that I need one anymore.

  Chapter 16

  Thea

  I feel more naked sitting on this exam table in shorts and a flimsy paper shirt than I did yesterday in the shower.

  Crazy, right?

  The doctor has finished the exam and is now looking at films on the monitor.

  I’m anxious to see if I’m in the clear. Even the most minuscule of spots would require further tests and delay the mastectomy. I’ve had this tentative date set for months, and any delay is going to kick my psyche in the crotch.

  I’m ready for the mastectomy to be done, for recovery to begin, and for reconstruction to start a few months from now.

  I’ve read so many horror stories. I understand what may happen, the possibility of infection, bleeding, and even losing the nipples I’m trying to save.

  If the nipple-sparing procedure works, I’ll retain a sense of normalcy.

  My breasts are never going to be the same, but at least I’ll still have nipples.

  Shay squeezes my hand, bringing me back to the present.

  Dr. Beltran turns from the computer. I hold my breath.

  She smiles. “Your test results are fantastic. The films are clear.”

  I exhale, and Shay kisses me softly on the lips before touching his forehead to mine.

  “Yay…” he whispers, happy for me.

  No more waiting.

  Say your goodbyes, girls.

  You’re outta here!

  I should be happy, but a sense of dread falls over me as I continue to second-guess myself.

  Being cancer-free trumps everything, but I’ll still miss out on lots on things.

  I get dressed and check out, shoving the negative thoughts to a dark corner of my brain.

  I’m craving some frozen yogurt. The weather is beautiful, so we leave my truck parked in the garage and walk across campus to head to Fro Yo-Yo. Outside the humanities building, a former instructor of mine, Dr. Knox, is sitting at a table having lunch with his wife. I pull Shay by the hand to where they sit.

  “Dr. Knox, hello. How are you? This is my boyfriend, Shay Kelly.”

  “Great to meet you, sir.” Shay extends his hand and is beaming. I think he likes being introduced as my boyfriend.

  I turn to Dr. Knox’s wife. “Mrs. Knox, congratulations.”

  Their baby is also here. A little girl with a tiny bow in her hair. She’s about five months old. Mrs. Knox is nursing the baby.

  I suck in my stomach, like I’ve been punched.

  Shay notices, too, and I wonder if
he’s thinking the same thing. He glances away quickly and speaks to Dr. Knox again. “Good to meet you both. We’ll let you get back to lunch.”

  “So good to see you, Thea, and to meet you Shay. Have a nice afternoon.” Dr. Knox turns back to the table.

  I walk as fast as my flip-flops can carry me, but Shay closes the distance on his long legs.

  “They seem nice.”

  “Mmmmm hmmmm.” I’m in no mood for small talk.

  “You must be craving some frozen yogurt. I don’t think they’re going to run out.”

  “You never know.” My tone is more clipped than I’d intended, especially since he didn’t do anything wrong.

  “Thea, what’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. You’re busy, so I don’t want to dawdle.”

  “Fine.”

  We walk in silence, then place our orders and begin the walk back to the car.

  I’m not feeling the fro-yo anymore. The mint cookie I ordered, my absolute favorite, tastes like cardboard.

  I can’t stop thinking about babies now. I won’t be able to nurse one, and if the BRCA1 mutation results in ovarian cancer anytime soon, I won’t be able to have kids.

  That’s not fair to Shay. He comes from a close family, and he must want kids. We’ve never talked about it, but I can’t imagine him without a family of his own someday.

  A family I may never be able to give him.

  ***

  Shay

  I let her moodiness go. She’s having radical surgery soon, life-altering surgery, and she’s going to be moody. If she doesn’t want to talk to me about it, at least she has her therapist and support group members

  Her family, too.

  Speaking of…

  We’re curled up the couch, and she’s sprawled across my lap, head on my thigh. A gory zombie show plays in the background. She circles her fingers over and over on my jeans, and her non-reaction to the bloody violence tells me she isn’t paying any attention.

  “Hey, did you talk to your dad and sister yet?”

  She stiffens.

  That would be a “no.”