Chapter 37

A year ago, if someone had told me I’d wake up hundreds of thousands of dollars richer, I’d have envisioned sleek cars, fancy coffees, and a multi-flavor frozen yogurt dispenser in my kitchen. The reality is that nothing concrete changes. I feel different though—in a way I can’t quite describe.

I can’t pin this change on the money. In fact, it’s not about the money at all. It’s about the cluster of events that pushed me forward. Mom’s messages to us. The accident. Tee’s surgery. Axel being an asshole. Me realizing that Axel was an asshole. Finding out I have that gene mutation. Reconnecting with my dad—slowly but genuinely. I’ve been helping him with the pet-and-plant-care part of his housesitting business lately, and there’s something about working as a team that makes me feel closer to him, even though he still can barely hold up his end of a conversation. And Micah . . . something’s shifting with Micah. I never used to notice how he smelled, but now every time he’s near me I breathe him in.

It’s like I’m seeing the world through a different lens. Like I’ve been walking around with poor eyesight for my whole life, thinking I’m seeing just fine. And then someone hands me a pair of glasses. I’m seeing everything now—both the grit and the glimmer—noticing the fine details I’ve missed forever. Some of those details are ones I’d rather not see, but now that I know they’re there, I can’t un-see them.

Luke wanted to be pissed when he found out we took his wife’s car on an impromptu road trip to Las Vegas, but we’re both eighteen, so it’s not like he can really do anything about it. Seems like he’s been backing off a little ever since Ryan officially took the title of “Dad.”

And it helped that Tee was chill about the road trip, calling it a bonding experience, with the caveat that a-little-communication-with-the-people-who-love-and-worry-about-you-never-hurts. Her energy level is way up, which has put her in a good mood. She’s going back to work soon, and in the meantime she’s started teaching the girls to knit, which is hilarious to watch. I record one of their knitting sessions, thinking if I share it with them in ten years, they’ll be rolling on the floor with laughter.

A couple weeks after the wedding, Micah comes over to watch a movie at my house. We sit together on the couch. Luke’s been overly enthusiastic with the thermostat, so it’s freezing inside. I spread a quilt over my lap. My walking cast is now off, and I’m relishing my newfound ankle freedom.

“You gonna hog that blanket?” He asks, dimpling.

“Yep. I was planning to.”

And now we’re in a tug-of-war, yanking the quilt back and forth. He’s stronger than me, though, and I suspect he’s grounding his feet as leverage, so I lurch forward and land in his lap. No cologne this time, just a combo of soap and light vanilla, like maybe he borrowed Alicia’s scented hand lotion.

“I suppose this quilt is big enough to share,” I grumble, but I don’t mind. The truth is, I’m confused about how I feel about Micah. I want to snuggle in with him under the blanket, lean my head on his shoulder, and let his warmth wrap around me. But do I want that because I’m missing Axel? Or do I want that because I want that?

I definitely don’t want a rebound. And I don’t need a new boyfriend. I’m fine on my own. So why do I want to curl up next to him?

I’m struggling with these questions, plus he smells so freaking good that I can’t concentrate on the movie. So I press pause and turn toward him. “I’ve always thought we were practically cousins.”

His smile is knowing, as if he’s had this same thought himself and he appreciates me sharing it. “Me too. But that’s silly. We’re not blood relations.”

“Yeah, but I’ve known you since we both pooped in diapers and stuck our hands in our mouths and picked our noses.” It’s hard for me to shake the idea of him as family, but bit by bit I’m shedding that mindset. Just like Ryan/Dad morphed from random step-uncle to father, maybe Micah’s transforming from family friend to something more. It’s strange how something can feel so permanent, and then shapeshift and surprise me.

“We do have history.” He deepens his voice in an over-the-top soap opera kind of way. “But maybe that just means we have a foundation for building something else.”

Huh.

“Feel like wearing an uncomfortable dress and uncomfortable shoes?” Micah asks out of nowhere.

“Uh, not particularly. Why? You need someone to go to a funeral with you?”

“Worse. Prom. I’d like to just not show up, but I have to go to humor Mom. Before you answer, you should know that I am planning an extravagant bribe.”

“Ooh! Tell me more.”

“It involves frozen yogurt.”

I consider this. I’m pretty anti-prom, but at least I won’t be attending my own. And I don’t know anyone at Micah’s school, which makes the stakes seem lower somehow. “Add sour gummies and I’m yours.”

✱✱✱

“Can I borrow the Barbie dress?” I ask from the doorway of Saff’s room.

The clingy fabric accentuates both the ample and small areas of my frame. I begged to buy it from Saffron after I tried it on the first time, but she shut me down. Then I tried to steal it, but it’s impossible to hide a dress that amazing—even if I hang it at the very back of my closet. So I’m resorting to borrowing it.

“Sure,” says Saff, who’s sitting on her bed reading.

“Thank you. That dress is magic. It sounds corny, but it makes me feel like a woman.”

While Saff belts out an old Shania Twain song, I sift through her closet until my hands land on fabric so smooth that it feels like satin (although it clearly isn’t). I step into the Jack-and-Jill bathroom that connects our bedrooms and slip off my T-shirt. I catch sight of myself in the mirror, in my black push-up bra.

I’m not the kind of girl who spends hours staring at my body in the mirror, searching for fat deposits or critiquing the shape of my thighs. So sometimes I sort of surprise myself. Like, “Oh, hi—there you are.” Sometimes I don’t even recognize myself right away. And today’s one of those times. The soft fullness of my breasts surprises me, the contrast of my collarbone against the curve of my flesh, against the flatness of my midsection. A study in contrasts.

And for a moment, even without the magic dress, I strike myself as beautiful. Not in a conceited way, just in an observant, self-removed way. Like it’s not even me in the mirror. Just some girl I don’t know. Would Saff think it’s wrong to admire my body? She’s so focused on “what’s on the inside,” but she’d probably also say that I should love all the parts of me.

I turn sideways, a profile of my curves and lines. I pause again, and then turn nearly backwards. In this twisted position, I can see the way my shoulder blades jut out, and slight muscles in my back, along with my face. Saff has a lovely, delicate appearance, but my features are stronger, more unusual.

Saff keeps on singing “feel like a woman,” all dramatic. What makes me a woman? My body, lean and curvy? The way my breasts bloom from my bra? Is it my face—my chestnut eyes and full lips? My ovaries? My womb? Or is it all within? Is it my mind? My soul? Some combination that I choose?

Maybe removing my breasts or my ovaries wouldn’t make me less of a woman. I don’t mind keeping them for now, though.

I shake the magic dress out and lift it up to slip over my head. I watch myself in the mirror, how my skin shifts as my arms move.

Wait.

What’s that? I freeze, arms up, dress suspended above my head.

“Saffron.” My voice sounds strangely calm, but there’s an energy underneath it that Saff must hear right away, because she stops singing.

“What’s wrong?” Almost instantaneously she edges in behind me.

“Look. When I lift my arms. What is that?”

Saff reaches for me, her fingers cold, and presses on my skin in that area. The chill of her fingers startles me. “Does it hurt?”

“No. But your fingers are giving me frostbite.”

Any possibility of humor falls flat. “Touch it,” she commands me.

I move my left hand toward the top of my right breast, almost in my armpit. And press, working my fingers in a circle around the tiny area. Small. About the size of a raisin. Not totally hard, but a little firmer than the rest of my skin. Kind of a thickness, like a clump in my oatmeal. “That can’t be possible, Saff. There’s no way. I’m too young.”

All traces of color drain from her face. “I’m going to look it up.” She pulls me back into her room and sits down with her laptop. “What should I search for?”

“Earliest known case of breast cancer.”

She types quickly, her fingers catching my urgency. And hits “enter.”

“What?!” I fixate on the screen. “Eight? That’s not possible. Girls don’t even have breasts at age eight.”

“Okay. Calm down. Let’s look up overall percentages.” She types again. “Okay. I found a graph. Uh-oh . . . 1.6 percent of cases are for people between ages sixteen and twenty-eight.” She centers herself. “That’s still really rare.”

“But it’s possible.”

Saff scans the screen. “It says here that many masses are just cysts. Most of those are benign. It says that they can biopsy it to find out. Let’s move up our appointment with the specialist. And if he can’t see us, we’ll switch and see someone else. I’ll call right now.”

I turn my gaze downward. Two minutes ago, I was admiring my breasts for their aesthetics. Now, examining the mounds of flesh pushing out from my chest, I suddenly understand how it’s possible to hate them.