to both of us. It’s intrinsic to our dynamic, our relationship, our love.
Which is exactly why everything inside me aches when I realize that only in the blackest moments of our relationship has Dean been forced to ask what he should do when something goes wrong.
Otherwise he just knows. He does whatever it takes. And his certainty and assurance have kept the ground solid beneath our feet.
A cold, icy ball tightens in my throat, but I force the words out, the stark truth that slithers inside me like a worm.
“Dean, aside from just being here, I…I don’t think there’s anything you can do,” I say, hating the admission, hating the black pain that descends over him, the darkness that extinguishes the light in his eyes.
“Daddy, come back,” Bella calls from her seat at the table.
Dean slides his hand over my hair and turns to go into the sunroom. I get back to slicing carrots.
Later that night, when I climb into bed, Dean isn’t there to wrap his arms around me. A heavy loneliness falls over me as I think of him in his tower, burying himself in books and articles. If I called him right now—if I sent him a sexy, suggestive text or a provocative selfie, would he drop everything and come join me in bed like he always has before?
I look at the shadowed ceiling for a long time, acutely conscious of my naked breasts underneath the cotton of my nightgown. I think about how long it took me to become comfortable with my body, to enjoy the pleasures of being a woman, to feel strong and confident inside my own skin. So much of that happened because of Dean.
I wonder if I will ever again feel the same way about myself. And if I don’t…will that change the way I feel about Dean or the way he feels about me? About us?
The question is no longer “What are we going to do?” The question is now “What is going to happen to us?”
Chapter 15
Olivia
December 7
Professor Albus Dumbledore is the one who finally helps me realize I need to say the word aloud. When everyone else in the Harry Potter books is calling the evil wizard “He Who Must Not Be Named” or “You Know Who,” Dumbledore is unafraid to say his name.
“Call him Voldemort, Harry,” he says. “Always use the proper name for things. Fear of a name increases fear of the thing itself.”
So to prevent it from having that kind of power over me, I whisper the word to myself one morning in the shower, working up the courage to use it in a conversation with Dean. I find him making coffee in the kitchen, dressed in track pants and a T-shirt, sweaty from a run.
“Morning, beauty.” He wraps his arm around me and presses his lips against my forehead.
I hug him around the waist and move away to pick up the cup of tea he put on the counter for me.
“You want eggs or cereal?” he asks, rummaging in the fridge.
“I’ll get something a little later.”
My chest tightens. I have to say it. Now that I’ve chosen a surgeon and an oncologist, we need to make a decision about the type of surgery—either a lumpectomy to remove the tumor or a mastectomy to remove my breast.
I take a breath. “So last night I was reviewing all the information about c—”
The syllable sticks in my throat, like something choking me. There are a thousand other words I could say that start with that same sound.
kisses
cookie
kites
crafts
cake
kumquats
cold
crack
kill
“About…c-cancer.” The word shatters in my mouth, spilling something rancid over my tongue. “Breast cancer. The pros and cons of the two surgeries, so I have all the information.”
Dean’s jaw tightens. He turns away to put a pan on the stove.
“And what are you thinking?” he asks.
“I have to make a choice,” I say. “Both the surgeon and Dr. Anderson said the survival rate is the same with either surgery.”
“Dr. Anderson also said the lumpectomy would mean you need radiation and possible chemotherapy.”
I look at my tea. I sense that Dean wants to firebomb this sickness with every weapon in the arsenal. His take-no-prisoners attitude doesn’t surprise me. I also know nothing in the world will ever eliminate any chance of reoccurrence.
“Less chance of further treatment with a mastectomy,” Dean says.
“Less chance doesn’t mean no chance,” I reply. “And god, Dean, you heard what they said about the mastectomy. Not just the surgery itself, but the recovery time, the drains, permanent numbness,