For me, fashion is something that helps me understand and express myself. But honestly, it’s also a form of armor. Sometimes I dress to impress, and sometimes I dress to deflect or even intimidate (who’s going to assume a girl in bright red six-inch stilettos is nervous about saying something dumb?). What truly scares me about a mastectomy, and medical stuff in general, is how much it exposes me. There’s nowhere to hide. It’s about me, just as I am.
Me, just as I am, is not an easy thing to think about this week. I’ve always accepted I am a little behind the eight ball when it comes to the boudoir. But discovering that my ex-boyfriend, my only ex-boyfriend, never found me truly desirable—that he was essentially lying to me for three years—hits me very hard. It’s that big twist moment in a movie that rewrites the whole script, beginning to end. Ash’s sexuality is the Keyser Söze of my life. All the good times—the kisses, the cuddles, even our pretty bad sex—he wasn’t feeling it like I was, to the limited extent that I felt much at all. Ash just wasn’t that into me.
What else have I invented? What else isn’t really there?
After the dust settles and I’ve indulged in a few weepy shower moments, I make two very firm decisions. First, I’m going to tell Steph that I like Cooper. Then, I’m going to ask him out. I am. I’m going to ask a guy out, and not some wimpy-ass “we should get beers sometime”: the invite that could be a hang or a date or nothing at all. I am going to declare my intentions, unequivocally and in a way that leaves no room for misinterpretation.
* * * *
I’m outside Steph’s building when my phone rings. The name stops me in my tracks.
Elan Behzadi.
At first I’d been obsessively counting the days he’d been away, ticking off a month in my mind, but after I never heard back from him, I’d stopped. Hard to believe it’s been a whole month since I sunk my teeth into a piece of baklava in his West Village pad and all but bragged to him about my health, or lack thereof.
It’s a rainy Saturday evening, and Steph and I have big plans to make Alfredo pasta and watch Postcards from the Edge. I’m not just excited about carbs or the wit and wisdom of Carrie Fisher (bow down slash RIP). Some light social media stalking of Steph’s Instagram comments has confirmed Cooper is en route back to Brooklyn.
Elan was only ever going to be trouble; everyone in the world could see that. The sensation that he could see through me, like my skin was made of cellophane, has faded. I remember it, but no longer feel it in my bones. And I am distinctly pissed he hasn’t contacted me until it served him: his needs, his schedule. Who’s too busy to send a lousy text? Honestly, I would’ve settled for emojis. Emojis.
Feeling like a straight-up boss, I send his call to voice mail and hit the buzzer.
* * * *
“I’m being so bad.” I help myself to a second serving of delicious cheesy pasta. “This is so bad.”
“No, this is Saturday night.” Steph tucks her feet underneath her, cozying into the couch. Outside, rain rattles the window.
“I remember.” I lick my fork. “Living with you was terrible for my beach bod.”
“Lace, every bod is a beach bod.”
“I know, I know. I just want mine to resemble an ironing board with a nice pair of tits.” I say it without thinking. Then I remember.
No tits for me. If I go through with it.
Steph touches my shoulder. “You’d still have a nice pair of tits. You’ll always be a hottie with the lottie, Lace. Always.”
I put my fork down. “I wanted to talk to you about . . . something.”
“Oh?” She sits up, alert. “Yeah?”
I brace myself. The prospect of honesty, and it being something someone doesn’t want to hear, makes my heart thud and my palms sweat. Maybe she’ll storm out, slam the door. Leave me alone in the loft. But I want to be honest. In the way Ash finally was with me. “I like your roommate,” I say. “I want to ask him out. Sexually speaking.”
“Oh.” She deflates. Of course: she was expecting cancer stuff. Inwardly, I slap my forehead with my palm. I get ready for her to whine something about what a good roommate Cooper is and not to complicate things with shagging. “Fine,” she says. “Whatever.”
“Really? I had this whole speech about being respectful and putting our friendship first but needing to go after what I wanted—”
“I said, ‘Fine.’ ”
I push my luck. “Is he dating anyone?”
“Don’t know. Don’t think so. He’s never brought anyone back here, thank God.”
I bite back a smile. Perfecto.
She slides her big brown eyes at me. “There isn’t anything else . . . on your mind?”
“Like what?” I twist pasta around my fork. “You want me to beg you to accept my heirloom jewels if I get cancer and die?”
Steph tuts. “I’ve just been thinking a lot about what you can do. They say it’s important to connect with the community. Do you want to do a fun run?”
Part of me knows I’m not handling this like the Good Cancer Patient: socially minded and proactive, beautifully brave, admirably strong. But another part wants to tell everyone to fuck off. No one knows what I’m going through, and even if I was the best orator in the world I wouldn’t be able to communicate how it feels to know that your own body is a ticking time bomb. The pasta sits sludgy in my stomach: I ate too much. Great, now I feel sick. I can’t quite look at her. “I know you’re just trying to be a good friend. But I have to do this my way.”
She opens her mouth.
I glance around for the remote. “It’s getting late. We should start the movie.”
* * * *
Hours later, Steph’s snoring at the other end of the couch when I hear the front door open. The sound of a suitcase being wheeled in. A zingy swirl of excitement pulses my eyes open. Cooper comes into the living room quietly. I pretend to wake, rubbing my eyes.
“Oh, hey,” he whispers, his voice hitching up in surprise.
I blink groggily and look around as if I have absolutely no idea how I’ve ended up here. “What time is it?”
“Just after two.”
I switch off the TV, which has been playing the DVD menu on a loop. The room flips into darkness. “Guess we fell asleep watching the film.”
Cooper pulls his suitcase toward his bedroom, not breaking my gaze. “You didn’t wait up for me?”
“No,” I say, defensive. Oh, wait, I like this guy. I reconsider. “Maybe.”
He grins, and my stomach does a fun little flippy thing. “See you in the morning,” he whispers.
“It is the morning,” I whisper back.
“Then see you soon.”
You betcha.