by Olivia Dade
Her next guess was a nearly indecipherable scratch, and her cheeks were blotched with ruddy color as she scrawled the letter. M?
She wrote it with a question mark, but there was no need for that. No need for her to worry she’d gotten this, gotten him, wrong. No need for the hectic color on her face, unless—
Oh, fuck, was she going to say no? Was that hot flush prompted by embarrassment for him, rather than fear she’d drawn the wrong conclusion?
His hand was shaking too, but he filled in the appropriate spots.
MARR_ ME_
Her teeth had sunk into her lower lip, indenting its plump surface.
Slowly, so slowly, she made her next guess. Y.
If he filled in that letter, all chances of plausible deniability were gone. Not that many five-letter words started with MARR, other than the obvious. So he needed to gather every ounce of his bravery, of his love for the woman beside him, and do it.
MARRY ME_
She was staring at him full-on now, lips parted in a silent gasp, her body twisted away from the speaker and angled toward his. The high color in her cheeks was racing down her neck, spreading over her upper chest, and her eyes were turning glassy.
Tears. Because she was sad to disappoint him?
That consultant might as well have been mouthing his speech. Simon couldn’t hear a thing over the echoing pulse in his ears.
Every stroke of the pen was a struggle, but he got the right words down. Or at least, the words he’d intended. Whether they were right or not, he supposed he’d know soon.
The last blank space isn’t actually a letter. It’s punctuation. Which isn’t in the rules, but I thought you would forgive my lapse. What’s your next guess?
At that, her tears spilled over, and her lips finally—finally—tipped upward.
A smile. A smile that was so shy and tentative and filled with affection, his heart twisted within him once more. Leaning over her notebook, she slowly wrote something in response, and the air was too thin to breathe as he waited.
Whew. I was confused. She paused, and her smile grew as she kept writing. I thought you were demanding I marry Meg, from the music department. Or maybe men, plural, because you’d realized how tempting I find bigamy.
It was funny, that response. What it wasn’t: an answer. Despite the beam she was directing his way, despite the way she was now leaning against him, shoulder to shoulder.
He gazed at her, desperate, his free hand fisted on his thigh.
She continued, You aren’t the exclamation mark type, and you’re too polite to make a demand. So I’ll guess: ?
He bent over his legal pad. And then—
There it was, immortalized in ink, via the absolute worst handwriting of his life.
MARRY ME?
When he forced himself to meet her tear-glazed hazel eyes, he could have sworn he existed outside time, because every second seemed to encompass an entire millennium. Outside his body too, because he couldn’t feel the chair at his back or the tiles under his feet. And, above all, outside the laws of science and reason and even common sense, because—well.
It was preposterous.
There was absolutely no goddamn way he—Simon Clancy Burnham—had just proposed to the woman he loved after less than a year together. In the middle of a fucking faculty meeting. Via Hangman, of all things.
He didn’t even have a fucking ring.
And yet, it seemed…
It seemed he had. There was no other explanation for Poppy’s capable hands on his cheeks, cradling his face so tenderly as she cried and nodded and laughed. If he hadn’t proposed, he couldn’t fathom why his mouth found hers, and her lower lip was soft and slippery between his own, her smile obvious even as they kissed. Under any other circumstances, he would never stroke the warm give of her upper arms and bury his fingers in her hair and haul her close enough to feel her body fit snugly against his own. Not in front of his colleagues, anyway.
“I love you,” he rasped against her mouth. “I love you, Poppy.”
She hiccupped, still beaming. “I love you too, Simon. So much.”
So he could only conclude: He had proposed, after all. She’d said yes. They were—in actual reality, not just one of his recent dreams—embracing passionately in the middle of a faculty meeting, Poppy sprawled across his lap and encircled in his arms as they kissed and kissed some more.
In terms of professional appearance and deportment, they were a disgrace.
And in that glorious, blinding moment of joy, Simon simply could not have cared less.
Cover Me
About “Cover Me”
First comes marriage…
* * *
Elizabeth Stone has no health insurance. No savings. No one to turn to when she finds a lump on her breast…except James Magnusson, her friend of over twenty years. When he offers her a marriage of convenience for healthcare coverage, she’d be a fool to say no. But given the emotions she’s buried for so long, saying yes might lead to a broken heart.
* * *
James won’t take no for an answer. Not when marriage could save Elizabeth’s life, and not when he’s finally realized how much he needs her. Even during his doomed first marriage, James considered Elizabeth a special friend—one he had to keep at a safe distance. Now he’s free, and Elizabeth is his wife...but will they finally have the chance to be together, only to have everything torn apart?
For my maternal grandmother, who survived her bout with breast cancer; my paternal grandmother, who didn’t; and my mother, who—as of this year—is now a survivor too. This story is dedicated to you.
One
The hospital gown didn’t fit.
Elizabeth tugged at the edges in front, but all that did was pinch her armpits. The worn, thin material couldn’t stretch any more. It would tear if she yanked harder. And the young woman who’d led the way to the curtained dressing booths had said to leave the gown open in front, so Elizabeth couldn’t reverse the garment.
The jeans covered some of her, but not enough.
She didn’t dare look at herself in the mirror. No need to see her breasts and upper belly spilling through the opening, the flesh pale and pebbled by the chill of the Marysburg hospital.
Any other time, the embarrassment and discomfort might have brought stinging color to her cheeks, even though over four decades of life as a fat woman and many visits to this very hospital—and its very inadequate gowns—should have inured her to such indignities. But today, no. She wouldn’t pray the hospital would invest in bigger gowns or wonder what those spotting her would think about her weight.
Marysburg General was offering free mammograms today, or at least cooperating with the local breast cancer awareness organization who’d advertised the event. That was good enough for her, even if she had to parade down the antiseptic-scented hallways half-naked.
She didn’t know who was really paying for the mammograms, the hospital or the organization. She didn’t care. The money wasn’t coming from her depleted checking account, and the results from today should relieve weeks of fear.
So she simply held her sweater in front of the gap in her gown, covering all the crucial bits, and drew back the curtain with a metallic rattle. The tech who’d led her to the dressing room was working at a nearby computer, her dark brows knitted.
She looked up after a moment, then winced when she saw Elizabeth’s predicament. “I’m sorry.” Her ponytail swished as she shook her head. “We’ve been so busy today, I forgot to get you the right type of gown. If you want to go back into your dressing room, I can bring you one.”
No. Elizabeth couldn’t wait another moment.
“It’s fine.” She glanced at the name on the woman’s badge, her cheeks aching from a forced smile. “Thank you for the offer, Cailyn. But I figure I’m supposed to be flashing the goods soon anyway, right?”
Cailyn’s shoulders relaxed. “True enough. And the room is just down the hall. Follow me.”
They proceede
d past several doorways and the bustling nurses’ station before entering the room with the mammogram machine. It looked newish, shiny and clean, although Elizabeth knew she couldn’t expect 3D images from it. Not when someone else was paying.
The machine. The chairs. The table. Everything in this space was familiar. Nothing had changed since last year’s mammogram, other than her insurance status.
And one other terrifying, crucial detail.
Despite the coolness of the hospital, slick perspiration had gathered under her arms. Deodorant could throw off mammograms, of course, so she hadn’t used any that morning. She suspected she’d have been sweating either way, though.
“Um…” She licked her lips and tasted blood. The dry air of late winter always caused chapping if she wasn’t careful, and she hadn’t been paying much attention to anything outside her own head in recent days. “You might want to look closely at my right breast.”
Cailyn paused in her adjustment of the machine. “All right.”
“In the shower last month, I found a—” She faltered, then made herself finish. “I found a lump along the side. Toward the middle. You can’t see it, but it’s pretty easy to feel. I think it’s a cyst, since I tend to get those, but I don’t know. It doesn’t hurt.”
“Hmm.” Cailyn crossed the room and flipped through Elizabeth’s various registration forms. “Have you discussed this issue with a primary care physician? Especially given your family history and risk factors?”
Her time as a smoker in her twenties. Her grandmothers. The fact she’d never been pregnant. All things she’d noted on those forms. All things she’d been unable to forget since she’d slicked Ivory soap over her breast and felt…something.
Under any other circumstances, she’d have rushed to Dr. Sterling’s office weeks ago, and her doctor would have insisted on a diagnostic mammogram, rather than a simple screening.
But much as she’d like to create an alternative reality, one in which she could afford unlimited doctor’s visits even without insurance, she couldn’t. “No. I haven’t seen her.”
Since Elizabeth was taking advantage of a program offering free mammograms to uninsured Marysburg residents, Cailyn likely understood the situation without further explanation. At the very least, she didn’t ask any more questions.
“All right.” Brown eyes kind, Cailyn gave her a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “I’ll do my best to get crystal-clear images.”
And then the normal routine began. How many times had she had this procedure? Seven? Ten? Definitely every year since she’d turned forty, and Dr. Sterling had ordered at least one baseline mammogram before then. By this point, Elizabeth knew the basics of how to angle her body and her arm, how to lean into the machine when necessary and hold still.
Her left breast compressed between the glass plates, and as always, she noted its resemblance to an unbaked loaf of ciabatta. Dimpled, off-white, and vaguely rectangular.
Two images, like normal. Then the tech helped her switch sides, and her right breast went between the plates. More pressure as they squeezed together once more, spreading her into an even layer as effectively as her favorite rolling pin did pie dough.
Elizabeth tried to concentrate on that vision, letting its familiar sweetness distract her. Rolling out a disc of dough and transferring it into a pie plate. Cutting off the overhang and crimping the edges. Inspecting the little bits of butter within the dough, which would provide flakiness as they melted and steamed in the heat of the oven. Filling the shell with thin-cut apples, tossed with cinnamon-sugar, lemon juice, a few more pats of butter, and a pinch of salt. Weaving a lattice of dough strips for the top and brushing them with cream for extra browning.
From the humid warmth of her mental bakery, she heard and obeyed Cailyn’s gentle directives. Position. Freeze. Reposition. Freeze.
Then Cailyn told her to breathe again, and Elizabeth inhaled deeply, her chest loosening for the first time in weeks. The two standard images of her right breast had been taken. Any moment now, the tech would tell her to put the gown back on and return to the dressing room. She’d don her bra and sweater and find out in a few days that the stupid lump was meaningless, nothing of concern.
This horrible month would have a happy ending, and she could go back to worrying about normal things, like that rattle in her car or whether she had enough extra money to maintain her small monthly donation to Planned Parenthood.
All stressful considerations, of course, but not nightmarish. Not anything that would keep her sleepless for weeks on end, waiting for the next free mammogram event nearby.
But Cailyn didn’t smile and say they were done. Instead, she bit her lip. Fiddled with the machine, looking at God knew what on the screen.
Another repositioning, and then the tech took one more image. Two more.
Elizabeth coughed as the pressure in her chest returned and ratcheted tighter.
“Are you okay?” The smile crinkling the corners of Cailyn’s eyes had disappeared. “Do you need a minute?”
She didn’t need a minute. She needed insurance. She needed her mom. She needed a stalwart barrier between her and a world abruptly turned frigid and terrifying.
“I’m fine.” Another approximation of a smile, and then she couldn’t help but say it. “Does everything look okay?”
Every year, she asked the same question, and she always got the same answer. The tech couldn’t make that determination, and the radiologist reading the images would send a report to Dr. Sterling within five business days.
Usually, though, the tech would seem relaxed and smile in a way that told Elizabeth what she needed to know. The images were fine. She was fine.
This time, however, Cailyn remained silent for several heartbeats before speaking, her lips pressed into a tight line. “Your doctor should hear from the radiologist within three to five business days.” Another pause. “Or sooner. The radiologist might have time to look at this today. I’ll check with her.”
The kindness, the probable reason for it, paralyzed Elizabeth in a way a brusque dismissal wouldn’t have.
“Even when she sees abnormalities, most of the time it’s nothing. Calcifications or a cyst or something harmless. A simple biopsy can tell you one way or another.”
Cailyn’s voice had become a little higher, the pace of her words a little more rapid, probably because she wasn’t supposed to say any of these things to a patient. But she was young and concerned and not experienced enough to disguise either.
“So don’t wor—” The other woman cut herself off. “Anyway, you should hear soon. Let’s take one more image, and then get you back into your nice, warm sweater.”
Elizabeth was pretty sure she’d never be warm again.
Another slight repositioning, another held breath, and it was done. She walked to the dressing area, her sweater held in front of her exposed flesh like a shield. Behind the cloth curtain, she peeled off the too-tight gown, hooked her bra, slicked on the deodorant stashed in her purse, and pulled the sweater over her head, tugging it past her hips.
Then she braced her hands against the wall and dropped her head to her chest.
After a few minutes, Cailyn spoke on the other side of the curtain, her tone gentle. “Are you okay, Ms. Stone?”
The poor kid had asked that question before, and the answer would be the same. The answers, really.
Not at all. Not for months, and definitely not now.
“I’m fine,” Elizabeth said.
Later that afternoon, as Cailyn had promised, the call came.
Two
James glanced at the dashboard clock, the numbers bright green and accusatory in the twilit gloom. Ten minutes to six. Dammit, he was going to be late, and he didn’t have time to pull over and call Elizabeth.
That last job at the Keplinger house had taken way more time than he’d anticipated, largely because the new kid on his crew had ordered the wrong damn paint for the living room, a semi-gloss blue instead of a matte yellow. An extra ea
rly-morning trip to get the right color and finish had set James behind all day.
He’d intended to shower and change before the town hall. Elizabeth wouldn’t protest, of course. She’d never been overly concerned with appearances. And Lord knew he didn’t give a fuck what some jackass congressman or his supporters thought about him. But meeting his old friend in a paint-splattered sweatshirt and jeans, his hair plastered to his skull by the wool cap he’d worn during trips outside, pained him anyway.
In their better years, his ex had teased him about it sometimes, how meticulously he tried to straighten himself before they gave final instructions to the babysitter and met Elizabeth—with or without one of her boyfriends—for dinner.
“We lived with her in a tiny apartment for two years,” Viv would say, rolling her eyes as he ran a comb through his hair and ironed his shirt. “She’s seen you passed out on a stained sofa with dicks Sharpied on your face. I think she can handle uncombed hair.”
“That was in our university days,” he’d tell her. “Over a decade ago.”
What he carefully neglected to add: Back when I was drinking too.
Then, behind the closed door of their bedroom, he’d catch Viv by the waist, press her against the wall, and remind her that the only woman he cared to impress was her. All while hoping he wouldn’t taste tequila on her tongue.
In their worse years, when they’d moved cross-country and her drinking had become a constant in their lives, their visits home to Marysburg and occasional dinners with Elizabeth had turned fraught.
“You don’t prep like this for our other friends.” Viv would watch him in the hotel mirror, her mouth a hyphen.
He’d inhale through his nose, struggling for patience. “There was never anything between Elizabeth and me. You know that. You and I were already together when we lived with her.”
