by Finn, Emilia
“Um…” Hesitantly, I shake my head. “Nothing to talk about. I’m healthy. I didn’t even catch a cold over Christmas.”
“Anything feel different? Do you still check regularly?”
“Yes, ma’am, I check most nights. And no, nothing feels different.”
“Okay. If you’d like to jump onto the bed and undress from the waist up, we can get started.”
Frowning, I slowly begin to stand. “No scan today?”
“We’ll take a look soon, but first I’d like to have a feel.” She reaches across her desk and squirts hand sanitizer into her palm while my nerves whir into a frenzy.
I toe my bag beneath the seat and slowly peel up my top.
Doctor Rhodes fusses at her desk for a moment while I shakily make my way to the bed and sit on the edge. I bring my shirt over my head and place it beside my thigh, then, swallowing, I reach back and unclip my bra.
It’s white with pink polka dots. There’s no sexy lace. No sheer fabric. Not even a little bow on the front to give it a flair.
I pull it away, and try to ignore how it’s heavy on one side. And how, when it’s gone, I have only the one breast, and an ugly scar on my right where the other used to reside.
How can I possibly let Spencer undress me when this is what I have hidden beneath my clothes?
Doctor Rhodes is good at what she does, so despite the fact I’m sitting topless in a room with another person, she makes it so I almost don’t blush.
Almost.
It’s not the kind of blush that fills my cheeks when Spencer talks to me, but a different kind. The kind where my heart races and – despite having massaged my chest this morning, and not found anything – I hope and pray she doesn’t prove me wrong.
Rhodes rubs her hands together as though to warm them, and focuses on her files for a minute longer. Enough time to let me prepare for what’s coming, but not so long that I start to freak out.
A song from my youth plays in my head. “Unpretty” by TLC helps me close my eyes and pretend Rhodes’ hands on my chest are nothing to be scared of. The lyrics speak of beauty and being yourself. Of seeing the things others see when they look at you.
I look in the mirror every morning, and study the body I’ve been given. Narrow hips, tiny waist, red hair, freckles. My backside is almost flat, just as my chest was already flat before they took half of it away.
Everything wrong with my body could be fixed. If I had the money and felt the need to endure the pain, I could have my breasts redone. I could have something done for my backside, and with better boobs and butt, my trim waist would actually look good. I could have my hair cut and dyed any way I want it, and buy makeup to cover my freckles.
I could look completely different to what I see, but what would be the point? How can I tell Marcie that she’s beautiful just the way she is, that boys won’t care about her scars or her sickness, if I don’t walk the walk?
So I embrace who I am.
Well… mostly. I still haven’t shown Spencer my chest.
Finally, Doctor Rhodes stops in front of me and smiles. “You ready?
Instead of a verbal confirmation, I pull my bottom lip between my teeth and lift my arms above my head.
I cannot be more exposed than I am right now. As I sit here, and Rhodes lifts my one good breast and works her fingers from the nipple to the outside, I sing my song in my mind, just like I have the dozens of times I’ve had this done in the last decade. I hum the song, and think about being strong and embracing who I am. About not letting what I think others think of me bring me down.
And usually I don’t, but then I met a man that I kind of want to impress.
Rhodes’ hands move along my breast, and when she’s done with the left, she moves to the right and moves gently over my scar. It healed long ago, but sometimes when the universe likes to mess with me, it hurts to touch, usually when the weather is particularly unkind, or if my bra isn’t sitting right.
There are a million bras on the market now that there never used to be. Bras where one side – or both, for the women who’ve had a double mastectomy – is filled with padding to make it look like one’s chest is perfectly… well… normal.
The bras were exciting to me, once I discovered them and was healed enough to try them out. I’ve experimented over the years, and bought bras bigger than my natural B-cup, but despite it feeling like a brilliant plan at first, it all falls down around me once I put the thing on and become lopsided.
I wore my larger bra one time. That’s all the time it took to realize I’d rather have two Bs instead of one D and one pathetic excuse for a bra-filler.
Getting sick and losing the very thing most women consider the thing that makes them a woman was hard for me. I was thankful to be alive, but I was insecure about what I’d lost.
Troy was sent away for work during my bra-experimenting stage, which is why he knows the warrior in me, the girl who fought cancer and kicked its butt. Mitch considers me small and whiney, because he was the one who picked me up when I couldn’t get the stupid lopsided bra to sit right. When I was trying to be someone I truly wasn’t.
“Okay, that all feels fine.” Doctor Rhodes waits for me to refocus before she smiles. “No pain at all?”
I shake my head, which makes her smile grow. “Please lie down, and we’ll get the ultrasound done just to make double sure.” She leaves me to lie back, as she drags out a large machine and takes out the wand… the probe, the whatever-they-call-those-things.
She takes a bottle of translucent gel and squeezes it onto my left breast once I lay down, then she turns back to her machine and presses whatever buttons she needs to press to bring the image up on her screen.
“Not cold?”
“Nuh-uh.” I shake my head and get my hand and arm comfortable at the top end of the bed. “Kinda used to this now.”
“You’re a trooper, hon.”
She moves her probe in much the same way she did her hands a few minutes ago. Along the sides. Beneath the bottom curve. Around to the middle of my chest. And then fanning out from my nipple. She hits buttons and takes pictures that she’ll compare to last year’s scans once I go home. She’ll look when I’m not around, just in case it’s bad news, and she needs time to compose herself.
But she takes her images with a smile, and when she notices I’m ready to vibrate off the bed, she shakes her head. “I see nothing scary, sweetpea.”
“See any babies in there?”
She snickers and continues to work. “I don’t want to make you feel like a number to me, Abby. But I swear, every single person that comes through this room makes that joke.”
“Even the men?”
Laughing, she nods and focuses on her screen as she takes measurements. “Especially the men. They must think they’re the first person to ever tell it.”
“Your job sounds boring,” I grumble.
It’s all I’ve got in defense for when she wipes my breast clean, then squeezes more gel onto the right. There’s no nipple to work around this time. Nothing but a thick scar with deep ridges and a gruesome arch, as though a smile in a horror film.
I try to be brave and strong when I talk to girls like Marcie. I don’t ever want her to hate her body. But that doesn’t stop me from covering up quickly after each shower. It doesn’t stop me from wishing they’d taken a kidney instead… or, you know, nothing at all.
But my life wouldn’t be that easy, and maybe this was my journey for a reason. Maybe I was sent through the fire and brought out the other side, burned up and scarred, so I could talk to girls following in my footsteps, and assure them it would all be okay.
In payment for that honor, I get crippling doubt, and the inability to take all of my clothes off in front of the first man I’ve ever been tempted to do it for.
“Alright.” When she’s done, Doctor Rhodes gives me a wad of paper towel, and allows me to clean the gel off myself while she pushes her machine and chair back across the room.
She
washes her hands, hums a tune, hits some buttons, then stops in front of me and accepts the dirty paper before passing me my top.
“Is your brother waiting for you?”
I shake my head and work into my bra. The gel is impossible to get off without a long shower and time to let the hot water wash it away, so my bra slides on the residue. It annoys me, but I get the white-with-pink-polka-dots material on, and slip my shirt over my head.
“I came alone today. Everyone’s busy, and this is just a routine checkup.”
She watches me with pursed lips. I can hear her thoughts; something about being stubborn and too independent for my own good. But she drops it quickly and goes to her desk.
“Head on back to the waiting room. I’ll print your images, and meet you out there in five. Everything looks perfectly fine to me.” She stops in front of me and grins. “You’re still clear. We’ll be back here around September for a full workup, so until then, maybe you could do something for you.”
My brows pull closer as she steps away. “Hmm?”
She shrugs. “I’m giving you homework. Do something that challenges you. Something that scares you.”
“I came here today.” I give a fake smile. “That scares me.”
She rolls her eyes. “Precisely. Do something else. Do something that has nothing to do with cancer. Do something that you wanted to do when you couldn’t because you were young and sick. Do something daring, and then tell me all about it at our next appointment.”
Do something daring.
Do something that scares me.
As I walk the halls and head toward the exit, I think about Doctor Rhodes’ orders. I know exactly what scares me more than cancer. I know what is daring, what is outrageous, what is different. I’m not sure having sex with a tattooed, cussing, gun-toting, scary Army Ranger is what she had in mind, but I still find myself sliding into my car on the second level of the parking garage and just sitting in it for a few minutes.
I hold the steering wheel with both hands, tap my fingertips in a rhythmic pattern, and tap my foot too, since I’m nervous as all heck and not sure if I’m ready to do my homework assignment today.
I nibble on my lips and stare out the windshield. There’s nothing much in front of me, just more parking spaces, more concrete, more cars. The forest encroaches on this side of town and butts against the corner of the parking structure, proving they cleared the land to build this ugly monstrosity.
Sitting back, I reach into my purse and take out my phone. Four texts; not so bad, considering.
I navigate straight to the group chat, because I don’t feel like saying the same thing five separate times, and type my message out.
Me: I just finished with Dr. Rhodes. She said everything looks fine. Back again in a few months for bloodwork.
Nixon: Awesome! That’s good news, Ab.
Mitch: You’re here right now? And you didn’t ask me to come with you?
Beckett: Dinner tonight? We need to celebrate.
Corey: I’m up for dinner. Beck’s at 7?
Troy: Attagirl. Kicking ass and taking names.
Mitch: Abby…?
I take a deep breath and try to embrace the way my heart slams around inside my chest. Embrace it, rather than let it control me.
Me: Actually, I’m not coming to dinner. I want to do my own thing tonight.
Mitch: Abigail Rosa! Absolutely not.
Me: You guys need to relax. I love you.
I toss my phone to the passenger seat and switch the engine on. Reversing out of the parking space, I push the car into drive and head home for a shower. I might be brave, or at least, I’m trying to be brave, but showering with him is still a no, and washing the gel off in his bathroom is another nope that I don’t intend to do or explain.
But going to him?
Yeah, I’m going to be brave tonight.
20
Spence
The sensors that surround my property send an alert to my watch. Someone is coming through the gates, so I take my phone out and pull up the cameras that follow the car for the full mile it takes to get from the road to here.
A familiar car.
A familiar face.
It’s funny that she makes me grin, despite the fact I don’t intend to let her stay long.
Things have changed for me lately, and I have no fucking clue how it happened. One minute, I’m me and have exactly zero fucks to give about how women feel about me. I don’t care about their feelings, I don’t care about treating them like a lady, I don’t give a shit about them in any way except finding a place to fuck, and giving their rump a pat as I tell them to go away. But now I’ve developed a conscience, and the scar on my face has stopped being something I consider badass, a sign of how cold I can be, and something to revel in, and turned into a reminder that my actions hurt people, and that it’s not okay to treat others as though they are dispensable.
And… my newfound conscience freaks me the fuck out.
My entire adult life has been about being cold and calculating. It has been a necessity. It was too dangerous to have a weakness and let the world know about it, so once my mom passed, and since my dad skipped out long ago, my personal connections became history, and my liabilities became none.
I could do whatever the fuck I wanted, without fear of backlash or them hunting down my family and exacting revenge when they couldn’t find me. I’ve tortured men, I’ve killed men, I’ve burned, cut, doused, and taunted men in their final breaths.
If I were ever found out, despite my belief I never hurt an innocent, I would be convicted and sent far away for a long time.
Having a wife isn’t conducive to that kind of lifestyle. Which meant emotionless fucking and no coffee dates the next morning.
But then Abigail happened.
Tossing the last of Jay’s trash into the garbage, I walk to the front entrance and fold my foot over the opposite ankle while I watch the white Corolla pull up outside. She wears tight… everything. Tight shirt. Tight bra. Massive tits. And when she climbs out, I get an eyeful of tight jeans, and heels I used to like once upon a time.
This woman is everything Abigail is not: tall, sleek, proportionate—if you consider double Ds on a hundred-and-twenty-pound, five-nine body proportionate. Her legs are as long as mine, and her hair is always styled and curled to perfection. Her nails are talon long and always shiny, whereas Abigail’s are cut short and usually bare of polish. Her eyes are always smoky and sinful, whereas Abigail’s are… Fuck. They’re unique and deep enough to get lost in.
For some reason, I used to be turned on by plastic and fake, but now I seem to like red hair and cute freckles.
I’ve created the very vulnerability that’ll get me killed someday, because when I should be working and unfeeling, I’ll be watching Abigail. I’ll be worried about her, I’ll care that she’s okay, and I’ll be watching her back instead of my own.
“Hey.” My visitor turns to me with what could be described as a shy smile.
Probably because usually by the time she’s pulled in and opened her car door, I’m in her face and pulling her to me. But today, I stand by my door and fold my arms in a clear ‘not open’ position.
I care enough that I don’t want to hurt her feelings when I tell her no.
And that alone is freaking me out.
Why would I even consider sending her home when she’s right here, wearing fuck-me shoes? Why send her away when it’s a guaranteed orgasm and a drama-free goodbye, just like every other time we’ve hooked up?
Why, when Abigail refuses to return my texts with anything more than polite replies and gentle rebuffs?
When did I change?
Ashley leans back into her car and tugs out her purse, then, slinging it over her shoulder, she turns to me and does that hair flip all the girls do. The kind where they throw their head back and flash a seductive grin.
A month ago, it would have worked. But today, I remain standing in my doorway with my arms folded and my bod
y closed off.
“Hey.” I lift my chin in greeting, then point between us as though to illustrate what I’m about to say. “We can’t do this anymore.”
Ashley stops halfway across the twenty feet of space that separates us, and skids in the gravel. Her eyes widen, and her plump lips drop open as she works through her confusion.
I don’t do long and drawn out, and I don’t do mixed messages, so I look into her eyes and shake my head. “Sorry.”
“We can’t…” Her eyes dart around the yard as though seeking out a hidden camera. “What?”
“Our hookups. I enjoyed our time, and I appreciate you coming out here, but I can’t do that anymore.” Who the fuck am I? Abigail isn’t even mine, but I’m swearing off other women for her? “I’m getting too old for casual, but I’m not interested in pursuing serious with you. I’m sorry.”
Her brows pull closer while she strangles the straps on her handbag. “So it’s just…” I’ve embarrassed her. And it surprises me that I care. “That’s it?”
“That’s it. Be safe, okay? Be happy. Don’t visit strange men in the middle of the night without a backup plan. Don’t let strange men pick you up from bars unless your friends know where you’re going.”
“Like how you meet all of your female friends?”
I smile. “Right. I could have been a serial killer. You’ve all survived me, but not all men will have the same intentions.”
“You mean the intention to fuck and send us away with a patronizing slap on the ass?”
I give a slow nod, and firm my lips. “Right. Say hey if you see me around, but this thing,” I point between us again, “I can’t do that anymore.”
She squirms in her heels for a moment and processes what she never thought would happen.
We’re both lost souls with a healthy hunger for sex. She was my girlfriend for one single summer back in high school, but once class was back in and there were other guys watching her do that basket toss in tiny panties, she jumped dicks and annoyed me so much, I swore I’d get revenge.
