by Nina Lane
Except that she doesn’t.
Instead she calls to tell me what my next “step” will be—surgery—and encourages me to meet with several doctors before choosing a surgeon and an oncologist. We’re forced to wait over the Thanksgiving holiday before scheduling appointments.
Dean and I don’t talk much in the immediate aftermath of the diagnosis. Outwardly, he also focuses on getting things done, but anguish burns in his eyes, and he hovers around me as if he’s a hawk wanting to swoop in and save me.
Just like he always has before.
After spending a quiet Thanksgiving at home, our first meeting is with Dr. Holt, a highly regarded, experienced surgeon who extends his hand to Dean first.
“Pleasure to meet you both,” the doctor says as we sit in front of his desk. “I’ve had a look at your wife’s file and will give you several options as to course of treatment.”
He starts telling us what we already know—the location of the tumor, the need for further testing, the results of the biopsy. Then he explains that while I might be a good candidate for a lumpectomy, which would remove only the tumor and surrounding tissue, he would recommend a mastectomy. The removal of my breast.
I nod, feeling oddly detached from myself. Ever since Dr. Nolan mentioned it as a potential option, my instinctive response has been that yes, I want a mastectomy.
It’s a grueling, painful procedure, an aggressive approach, but I don’t care. The only thing I care about is getting this horrible thing out of my body and resuming my life as it was before.
Except that my life will never be as it was before.
Dr. Holt rambles on about the surgery, glancing at Dean as he talks about how reconstructed breasts will look and feel.
“Breasts are important to men too, you know,” the doctor tells me.
I feel Dean tense with irritation.
“What’s important,” he says coldly, “is getting rid of the cancer.”
I put my hand on his arm. His muscles are clenched tight.
“What about the lumpectomy?” I ask the doctor. “Dr. Nolan said that might be an option too.”
“A mastectomy will give you more peace of mind,” Dr. Holt says. “You don’t want to put yourself through the fear of screenings since you’re the kind of woman who will worry. You sure don’t want to put your husband through that.”
Before I can respond past the tightness in my throat, Dean addresses the doctor sharply.
“What do you know about the kind of woman my wife is?”
“Most women worry about screenings,” Dr. Holt replies. “And the survival rate with either surgery is about the same. Of course, if the cancer has spread, the game changes.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?” Dean’s voice slices so fast through the air that Dr. Holt and I both startle.
“I beg your pardon?” the doctor asks.
“I said…” Dean stands, his full height dominating the room and his face dark with anger, “are you fucking kidding me by calling this a game? You’re talking about my wife’s life, not a goddamned game. And you don’t know jack about her or us. So don’t you fucking tell her what she should or shouldn’t do, much less what kind of woman she is.”
He grabs my hand and pulls me to my feet, turning to stalk out the door.
“Dean, slow down.” I hurry after him, my stomach knotting. “Please.”
A curse snaps out of him. We reach the parking lot, and he lets go of my hand, striding away from me. He rests one hand against the side of the building and lowers his head. Even from a distance, I can see him shaking.
Pain squeezes my heart in a fist. I stop, unsure whether or not to approach him. I walk forward slowly and rest my hand on his back. The vibrations from his trembling are so deep they travel up my arm and into my bones.
“Dean.”
He doesn’t respond, doesn’t turn toward me. An unexpected surge of guilt hits me, filling my chest.
I did this to him. I’m the one causing him this torture, this pain. Me and my suddenly traitorous body.
I can’t bring myself to move closer, to wrap my arms around him and whisper words of comfort. I don’t know what to say. I can’t tell him everything will be okay when I don’t know if it will.
Dean pushes away from the wall and heads to the parking lot. The anger doesn’t leave him. It edges every one of his movements, from the way he jerks the car into gear to the way he unlocks the front door.
Over the next few days, the only time I see him suppress his anger is when he’s with the children, though I’m certain they can sense it as acutely as I can.
I don’t know what to do with Dean’s anger. My own anger is buried beneath so many other emotions that I don’t even know what or who I’m angry with. The universe? My body? Myself?
Mostly I’m just terrified.
God knows Dean and I have been locked away from each other before—because of our own insecurities, anger, lies, pain—but we knew we were the ones at fault and the ones who had to repair the damage. Never has something so insidious, so horrific, slithered into the space between us.
And since the day we met, not once has Dean flinched from any of the monsters threatening either me or our relationship. On the contrary—he’s drawn his sword and battled them all into retreat.
Now more than ever, I know my husband is gathering his weapons and devising a plan of attack, that he’ll be the first person charging into the war zone. It’s what he’s done all his life, what he does best.
But this, we both know, is different. This is the one monster my white knight can’t battle. The one he can’t even face.
Chapter 12
Olivia
December 1
We are deluged with information from all sources. Doctors, books, pamphlets, websites, counselors. Dean spends a great deal of time in his office, but I know he’s not researching medieval French chronicles.
Instead he’s delving into the chaotic maze of information about tumor stages, treatments, options, statistics, and doctor credentials. He’s reading medical articles, clinical trial reports, and he’s contacting oncologists and surgeons everywhere to ensure that I get the “best treatment” possible.
“Dean, there’s no reason for me to travel across the country,” I tell him after we’ve put the kids to bed. “Forest Grove Hospital is a top-rated institute, and the breast center is fully accredited. The doctors there are all excellent.”
“But these other places have access to more resources, clinical trials, state-of-the-art technologies,” he argues, his voice edged with frustration. “I’ll fly you anywhere for the best care, Liv. Anywhere.”
“Dean, love of my life.” I put down the dishtowel and approach him, reaching out to put my hand on his chest. “I would never want to be away from the kids for long periods of time. What would that do to them, knowing I was sick but not at home where I belong? And you couldn’t leave them or work, which would mean I’d have to go through whatever it is without you, and if you think for one second I could stand that, then I’m going to have to rethink my admiration of your brilliant mind.”
He doesn’t smile. A shadow of angry desperation lingers in his dark brown eyes. My heart squeezes. I move closer to slide my arms around his waist.
“I don’t need to be flown anywhere,” I tell him, pressing my face to his shirt. “I’m going to fight this right here, on our own turf, with you at my side and our children happy at home with both their parents. I need you. I need them. I need our friends. I don’t care how fancy some hospital in New York or Texas is…if it doesn’t have us, then I don’t want to go there. I won’t.”
Dean folds his arms around me, his body shuddering with a long sigh. He brushes his lips across my forehead before detaching himself from me and returning to his tower office. I watch him go, disliking the tension in his body, the futile anger that has no tangible target.
I get a pad of paper and draw a picture.
I put the note in the pocket of Dean’s peacoa
t in the front closet. I walk upstairs and check on Bella and Nicholas, pausing to kiss their foreheads and pull their covers up. I do this every night before I get ready for bed, and I try not to think that now the simple act carries more significance because I might not—
Stop.
There are so many dark, narrow alleys twisting around me now, so many shadows reaching out to lure me into places I don’t want to—can’t—go.
I walk into the bedroom to change into my nightgown. My hands shake as I strip off my clothes and underwear. I unhook my bra, take a deep breath, and turn to face the mirror. For the first time since the diagnosis just over a week ago, I look at my naked body.
I don’t even know what I was expecting. Maybe that I’d have contorted into some twisted, disfigured, cancerous version of myself.
But no. My breasts look like they always have—well, maybe not always, considering I’ve nursed two children—but they’re still full and round, with the same dark pink nipples whose exquisite sensitivity I’ve enjoyed for so many years. My tapered waist flares into hips that are wider than they once were, but still have soft curves where Dean’s hands fit perfectly.
I have a good, strong body that has borne two children and gotten me to the age of thirty-six without failing once. My legs are well-shaped and supple, having walked countless paths through the Wonderland Café, delivering peppermint tea and rainbow cupcakes, and through Parisian streets and gardens. My arms are firm and toned from carrying my children, shopping bags of French baguettes and fresh market vegetables, and trays of Heart, Home, and Courage cookies.
I try to attend exercise classes regularly, but just living life and running around with my children is enough to keep me in shape. No gym can beat the workout of playing Frisbee in the park with your six-year-old son.
I look exactly the same. Exactly like Liv West.
I meet my gaze in the mirror, liking the woman looking back at me. I reach to unfasten the clasp in my hair and shake it out. My hair falls in a long, straight curtain down my back and over my shoulders, partly concealing my breasts.
I’ll lose my hair.
The thought bursts like a pipe bomb in my brain. I’ve been so fixated on my breasts and the potential of losing one, if not both, that I’d almost forgotten I could lose my hair too.
I back away from the mirror and sit on the bed. A chill ripples over my skin.
God. A misshapen, diseased body with no hair…
I rub my arms and look at my reflection again. My hair suddenly seems intrinsic to my relationship with Dean. He’s always loved touching it, running his hands through it. He tugs affectionately at locks of my hair and winds swathes of it around his hand to pull me in for a kiss. He buries his fingers in my hair when we’re making love and he’s moving over me, guiding my mouth to his.
And more. So much more. Dean grabs my ponytail when I’m sucking his cock, sometimes using mild pressure as a way to indicate what he wants. Or when I’m on my hands and knees, he fists the length of my hair in his hand and pulls, arching my back as he thrusts into me hard and deep from behind.
Then afterward, as we lie curled together in the hazy, delicious aftermath, he picks up the tendrils of my hair spread over his chest and winds them lazily around his fingers, as if in substitution for his ever-present string figures.
And everything he does, I love. Every time Dean touches my hair, whether in tenderness or fierce passion, I love it. It’s always a gesture of such adoration, love, admiration, worship, possession…a reminder that I belong to him, an assertion that he—and only he—has the right to touch me so intimately.
Another chill shivers through me. This disease could rob me of my most womanly parts, the physical characteristics that have always brought both my husband and me so much intense pleasure.
I pull my bathrobe over my shoulders and belt it around my waist. Anxiety twists inside me, and my heart pounds with every step I take up the spiral staircase to Dean’s office.
I knock on the door. “Dean?”
“Right here.”
At the sound of his deep voice, I push the door open. He’s seated at his desk, wearing flannel pajama bottoms and a King’s T-shirt that stretches across his broad shoulders.
“Hey.” He looks up, his expression one of distracted concentration. “Everything okay?”
I nod, casting a glance at the surface of his desk. Any other time, his desk would be covered with books about Charlemagne or the canons of the Fourth Lateran Council. A pile of student research papers would teeter precariously on the shelf above. There would be photos and maps of archeological digs, color replicas of illuminated manuscripts, notepads scrawled with ideas, theories, and references to medieval saints and scholars.
But now? Now his desk is littered with medical articles, insurance papers, and the multiple legal pads on which he’s written extensive notes during our doctor visits. A stack of cancer-related library books sits on the floor beside the desk, and the computer screen displays a breast cancer research website.
Pain boils up inside me. I push it back down, like clamping a lid on a bubbling pot. I approach Dean and take hold of his swivel chair, turning him toward me. We look at each other. Faint tension stretches between us.
I put my hands on the arms of the chair and lean closer to him. The V-neck of my robe opens. His gaze slides downward, over my throat to my exposed cleavage. A familiar, beautiful heat darkens his brown eyes.
Any fear I’d had that he might hesitate to touch me, or at the very least touch me differently, vanishes the second he tugs at my robe, baring my body to his stare. He cups my breasts in his warm hands, rubbing his thumbs over my nipples until they stiffen with arousal.
I tighten my grip on the chair. New shivers spiral through me, but good ones this time. Hot shivers. I look down and watch my husband’s hands moving over my naked breasts—rubbing, squeezing, fondling. He slides his fingers into the crevice beneath them, weighing them in his palms. His breath gets faster, heating the tension-laced air.
He pulls at the belt of my robe. “Take it off.”
I straighten to unknot the belt and let my robe open. My nerves tighten again, but as Dean’s slow, hot gaze rakes down my naked body, I remember I have never had anything to fear when I’m with this man. In fact, being with him banishes fear.
I lean toward him and press my lips to his.
“Kiss me,” I whisper. “Fuck me.”
A groan rumbles in his chest. He takes hold of my hips to pull me onto his lap, but I gently resist. Instead I get to my knees in front of him and ease into the juncture of his legs.
“Liv…” Dean curls his hands around my arms to urge me back up, the shadow of concern still inside him.
“I want to.” I spread my palms over his torso, feeling the warm, hard ridges of his muscles under his T-shirt. “Please let me.”
When he doesn’t respond, I look up at him. He’s watching me with a shuttered expression, a slight crease between his brows, his eyes dark. He cups my cheek, his hand strong and comforting, like a cradle. Then he moves his hands up into my hair, brushing the long strands away from my face.
Oh, yes…
I resist the urge to close my eyes, instead keeping my gaze on Dean as he worships my hair with his hands. I sink into the sensation of his strong fingers moving over my scalp, around to massage the back of my neck, combing through the length of my hair. Bittersweet warmth streams through my veins.
I reach for the drawstring of his pants to loosen it. His erection is half-hard, pressing against the thin cotton. He lifts his hips so I can pull the pants down and off. My breath catches at the sight of his thick cock. A welcome, delicious pulsing starts in my lower body.
I draw in a breath, squirming to rub my thighs together as I lower my head and take his erection into my mouth. He groans, his hand tightening gently but firmly in my hair.
The taste of him—maleness, salt, Dean—floods my tongue. I let my eyes drift closed as I slide my lips over his shaft. Hi
s cock hardens further, stiffening in reaction to my tongue pressing against the underside. I edge a hand between his thighs to fondle his testicles, the weight of them warm and heavy in my palm.
“Ah, Christ, Liv…” His breath quickens in pace, his fingers moving to grip the back of my neck.
I shift and settle my hands on his strong thighs. My hair falls in a curtain on either side of my face. I grasp the base of his cock and squeeze, taking him in as far as I can before licking back up the shaft to press my lips against the hard tip.
When he takes hold of a swathe of my hair and gently tugs, I ease away to look at him, my hand still wrapped around his cock. Lust brews in his eyes. He urges me back up to him, gripping my hips to guide me onto his thighs. His erection sticks straight up between us, and the sight of all that hard, hot flesh, slick from my mouth, makes my sex clench with need.
So good.
I brace my hands on his shoulders and lift myself up, letting him position himself right at my opening. I slide downward, my breath catching with aroused delight as he enters me with exquisite gentleness. So easy. So perfect.
“Oh, fuck.” Dean’s groan vibrates against my skin, and he tightens his grip on my waist. “Ride me.”
I clutch his shoulders as I bring my body up and down, up and down, letting his shaft stroke my insides, the air between us growing hot and thick. Tension coils through me. I move faster, my bottom hitting Dean’s thighs with a sound like a spank, his fingers digging harder into my waist as his own urgency intensifies.
When I feel his muscles straining, I stop and settle onto his cock. I bring my hands to the sides of his face and lower my head to kiss him. I dart my tongue out to probe into his mouth, a rush of air spilling from him to me, his restraint palpable as he lets me take control. He pulses inside me, a rhythm in time with the beat of my heart.
“Dean.” I slide my tongue over his, my blood heating. “I want to come.”
“Oh, you’ll come,” he whispers, taking my lower lip gently between his teeth. “You’ll come hard.”
