Prologue
Everyone is watching me. Dozens of eyes are burning into me right now. They are wondering what I’m thinking, what I’m going to do if Jace doesn’t walk through those large double doors soon.
My gaze travels from the doors back to the empty spot he should be occupying. Everyone else is in their place, waiting patiently, worried looks painted on their faces. No one is speaking to me, but I know what they’re thinking. Poor Keri, what will she do now? They wonder if I will cry. Maybe they think I’ll have a breakdown. I’m sure some think I will run through those doors in search of him.
People are starting to shuffle around anxiously, and I hear whispered voices in the conspicuously quiet room.
You could hear a pin drop in here.
Every so often someone will cough, or a cell phone will vibrate. The air is thick with unasked questions.
Why wouldn’t he show up? After everything we’ve been through together.
The rich bellow of a horn from a nearby yacht pulls me from my thoughts. My eyes stare through the massive picture window at the back of the room. The window that was the very reason I chose this location. The window that overlooks dock after dock lined with boats of all sizes in the marina that sits adjacent to this building. Boats that remind me of my dad and the stories he would make up about the three of us sailing around the world. Just him, my mom and me, and the adventures we would have in every port.
As I stare out the window, I feel close to him, but at the same time I miss him so terribly, wishing he could be with me on days such as this.
Then I hear the doors open and I abruptly spin around to see all heads turning with hopeful eyes watching to see if Jace will walk through. Then I hear the collective sighs when they see it’s not him.
He’s late. Too late. I close my eyes and allow my head to fall forward in defeat. I feel a strong but gentle hand on my shoulder. I look up to see the sympathetic eyes of my best friend who is trying to comfort me because he knows what everyone else here does.
Jace isn’t coming.
Chapter One
Two months ago . . .
Call them what you will. Breasts, boobs, jugs, tits, honkers, sweater stretchers, knockers, hooters, bosom, cans, girls, melons, rack. I’m obsessed with them. I can’t stop thinking about them. I look at them all the time, and not just my own meager B cups, but breasts everywhere. I look at how they bounce, how they fit inside clothing, how they sometimes stress the buttons of a blouse or how they spill over the top edges of a tiny bikini.
I was never one of those women who was going to be defined by the size of my boobs. But at the thought of losing them, suddenly they are front and center. So to speak.
When Dr. Olsen informed me a few short months ago that I have stage two breast cancer, I grabbed them—actually cupped my hands over my breasts, as if I were somehow protecting them from the man who would want to slice them from my body. Luckily, I eventually—after twenty horrifying minutes—found out that more than likely I wouldn’t lose them unless my treatment didn’t work as expected.
So now I live my life by the numbers. Ninety-three—the percent chance I will survive the five-year mark. Thirteen—the number of cycles of chemotherapy I must endure. Eight—the number of eggs harvested from my ovaries in case the chemo fries my insides. Sixty-five—the percent chance I will lose my hair.
As I sit here in the chemotherapy clinic, it’s the last number that is plaguing my thoughts today. This is my second cycle of chemo. My second week. This is when the hair loss most likely begins. I’m not a particularly vain person, but the idea of losing my long, wavy blonde hair that falls, ironically, to my boobs, scares the hell out of me.
I look at the people around me who share my weekly Monday morning time slot, and I inventory the amount of hair loss. Yup, I’d say more than half are completely without hair.
The women mostly wear scarves to cover their bald heads. One older lady, Grace, who also has breast cancer, wears a wig that is slightly misaligned with her face, but no one has told her.
Melanie, who, at thirty-eight is the next youngest patient to my twenty-four years, is stunning with her freshly shaved head. Last week she was complaining that clumps were falling out and today she showed up with a shiny bald head, refusing to cover it up. I admire her courage, knowing I wouldn’t be able to embrace my hair loss as she has.
The two men here, in our group of eight, have managed to keep their hair so far. A fact I find decidedly unfair. Surely it wouldn’t bother a man as much as it would a woman.
I reach down to retrieve my iPod from my purse and wince at the pain that rips through my arm as a result of my pulling at the IV line sticking into the back of my hand.
Stacy, the cute redheaded nurse, has mad skills when it comes to inserting the IV. She’s so good that I forgot it was there, after the initial burning of the fluids entering my arm.
I don’t mean to be anti-social, but given my age, I kind of feel like a fish out of water in here. Aside from Melanie, who is two seats down from me, I don’t think there’s another patient here under the age of fifty.
Last week being my first week here, they were all very nice and tried to make me feel comfortable. They gave me the run-down on the place.
Never drink the coffee, it sucks. Stop at Starbucks on the way.
The biscuits are to die for. It’s true, I tried one.
Do not pass up a foot or shoulder massage when Trina, the clinic masseuse, comes around. They are heavenly.
But most importantly, never ever miss a chemo cycle.
There are only two reasons people miss a cycle. One, they’ve been in an accident on the way to the clinic, or two, they’re dead. Or at the very least, laid up in a hospital bed somewhere near death.
So, the rule of thumb is to call in case of a missed appointment. That way the rest of us aren’t worrying our asses off wondering what has happened.
I considered asking them to move me next to Melanie, but I don’t. Today she’s brought a friend with her.
We’re allowed to have someone stay with us as chemo is a long, boring process. There are only so many things to occupy your time here if don’t want to watch The Travel Channel, which is apparently what Steven, the man with colon cancer, wants to watch. From what I gather, he is the sickest one of our group. I guess it’s an unwritten rule that we acquiesce the television programming to him. I silently pray that I never get to pick what we watch.
Two and a half hours in, I check the clock. It’s a little after eleven. Only thirty minutes left to go.
The large double doors open, and we all turn our heads to see who is coming in, as it’s such a rare occasion after a session begins that anyone enters the room through the main doors.
At first, I think it’s a doctor. A very attractive, tall and muscular twenty-something guy walks over to the nurse’s station. However, he lacks the confidence, and the white coat, of a physician.
He looks around the room with a blank stare on his face, looking at everything, yet nothing at the same time. He hands a paper to Nurse Stacy. She nods and pulls something up on the computer.
“Okay, everyone, meet Jace.” She motions to him. “Jace, meet Keri, Grace, Melanie, Steven, John, Ann, Marjorie, and Peggy.”
She points to us as she calls our names, running through the semi-circle of large, comfortable leather recliners that have become our homes every Monday morning.
“Jace will be joining us for eleven cycles.”
She motions to his neck where I notice a bandage sticking up over his collar.
“Jace doesn’t talk much, but don’t let him fool you, I’ve heard he can still charm your socks off. So, watch out ladies.” She winks at him.
Jace rolls his eyes and follows Stacy to his seat between John and Ann, on the other side of the room from me.
Some of the other patients speak up to make him feel at ease, but I stay quiet, as I’m still getting used to this myself. I try not to stare. It sucks that he has to be here, but at the same time I’m glad to see someone here who looks to be within five years of my age.
Grace, who sits next to me, looks over at me and raises her eyebrows before she whispers, “Well, what do you know, Keri, cancer comes in all shapes and sizes. And what a yummy shape that boy has.” She giggles. “If I were forty years younger . . .”
While Stacy is taking his pre-treatment vitals and drawing some blood, I’m able to get a good look at him. He has light-brown hair that flops haphazardly in every direction, yet it seems perfectly groomed. His face has strong angles and a defined jaw, and when Stacy says something amusing, I see the tiniest dimple in his left cheek. He’s wearing dark jeans that define his slender waist, and a snug polo shirt that clings to him like a second skin, showing off every ripple of his toned torso.
He is gorgeous.
I look down, chastising myself at my choice of clothing—my rainy-day sweatpants and oversized Florida State sweatshirt that used to be my dad’s.
Apparently, Jace didn’t get the memo to dress comfortably.
I selfishly worry that he might lose his incredible head of hair. Then I begin to wonder what he would look like bald. Well, it’s a better pastime than watching The Travel Channel.
Fifteen minutes later, most of us are finishing up, but since Jace was late, he will run over into the next session.
I try not to look at him with sorry eyes, but I have to wonder if he has any idea what he’s in for. He might look all delicious now, but by tonight, he may be begging for death. Not that chemo affects everyone that way, but it’s why I chose to come on Monday mornings. It gives me a chance to recover in time for my weekend shifts.
I give him a small wave as I pass him on my way out. When I reach the door, I turn around and see him staring after me. I also see him quickly look away.
Outside the clinic, Melanie says, “Keri, you need to get Stacy to move you next to that prime piece of meat that just walked in.”
“I work in a bar, Mel. I have a good feel for when and where to pick up guys, and I’m pretty sure the chemo clinic is not one of those places.”
She shakes her head and laughs at me. “Girl, if you wait for lightening to strike, before you know it, you’ll be as old as me, living with a bunch of cats.”
“First off, you are not old. Second, how do you know I’m even single? And third, I’m allergic to cats.”
“I don’t even have to ask if you’re single. I saw the way you were staring at Jace from the minute he walked in the door. Plus, this is your second time at chemo, and any guy in their right mind with a girlfriend as hot as you are would have come to support you by now.”
Her words sting as we say our goodbyes. She’s right. Almost everyone at the clinic had someone come with them either today or last week.
Not me. There’s only one person who would ever come with me. My roommate, my best friend, my kindred spirit, the reason I’m not lying in a ditch somewhere. But my being here is the reason he’s not. He’s working double shifts to help pay for my treatments, and he even took on a temp job during the day.
Tanner is running himself ragged because of me. He wanted me to take a leave of absence from the bar altogether, but I couldn’t let him shoulder the entire burden. Besides, by the time Friday rolled around last week, I had most of my strength back. He is my rock, my savior. And I’ll bet if you asked him, he would say the same thing about me.
I also know he would have drooled over Jace, being that Tanner is gay.
I wonder if maybe Jace is gay as well. You never can tell. I mean Tanner is as much alpha-male as a guy can get. Women hit on him all the time and are sorely disappointed when they find out he’s gay. I guess that’s why he gets the best tips at the bar—both sexes are tipping him while I only get good tips from the guys.
Maybe I could set them up. Tanner is always trying to set me up with guys at work. I tell him not to bother. I’m never interested. I get everything I need from Tanner. Well, not sex, but everything else. Anyway, the sex part I can pretty much take care of myself, and from what I remember from the few guys I was with a long time ago, it wasn’t that great to begin with.
No, Tanner is all I need. We complete each other in a way that I imagine most older married couples do. We finish each other’s sentences, we know exactly what the other person will and won’t order at a restaurant, we like the same movies and music, and we would do anything—anything—for one another.
So why then, as I lie here on the bathroom floor, head pressed against the cool tile after hours of gut-wrenching vomiting, am I doing nothing else but wondering if Jace is doing the very same thing?
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