Chapter 1 #2
It was a simple list, really. Three things to regain the ground cancer stole from me and unlock post-cancer happiness.
The three items have sub-tasks, of course.
Finding a partner requires going on dates.
Getting close with friends again requires pinching myself back into a shape that fits in with said friends.
Securing a book deal requires actually finishing my manuscript and querying literary agents.
Which requires picking up the metaphorical pen again.
I clawed my way out of my depression hole, and I’ll claw my way to the top of the mountain I fell off of in the first place.
By the time the violin switches to the processional (“Turning Page” by Sleeping at Last), I’ve been joined on one side by Izumi’s half-asleep great uncle, and on the other side by a gaggle of teenaged cousins of the groom, Tim.
The ceremony is vaguely religious, officiated by a fraternity brother of Tim’s, including readings of Corinthians, Shakespeare, and Nicholas Sparks.
Penelope sits in the third row, a tasteful silk kerchief drifting up every so often to capture her perfect, storybook tears.
Next to her, Josh whispers to a guy whose face is obscured by a thick head of hair.
Yet another addition to the friend group I’ve yet to meet.
I get a better look at Mystery Man when he turns to whisper something in Josh’s ear: olive skin and light eyes framed by tousled hair.
The corner of a smile tipping up in amusement.
Izumi and Tim vow to love each other for all of time in front of every single person they know, and they are pronounced husband and wife.
There was a moment when I thought Grant and I would love each other for all time.
It was right around when we created a spreadsheet to calculate when it would be feasible to buy our first condo together.
The ceremony breaks into cheers. Rice showers them in white. Tim dips Izumi into a kiss. The scene is perfect.
I meander slowly to the bar, hoping someone strikes up a conversation with me, and at the same time dreading it.
On the other side of the room, my old friend group is gathered, including some new additions I don’t recognize.
Mystery Man is there, leaning against the wall, looking a touch bored.
I have to rein in the jealousy of seeing someone look so at ease blending into the group I’ve been cast out of.
“What can I get you?” the bartender asks.
“I’ll take…” Penelope and Co. have wandered to the bar and are ordering shots. I fiddle with my necklace chain. Even from the other side of the room, the sound of glass hitting the ceramic tiled bartop rips through the air like tiny bullets.
“Ma’am?”
“Sorry.” I rub my forehead. “Club soda with lime, please.”
“Coming right up.”
I take a big gulp of my go-to faux gin and tonic and decide to give myself a little more time. The cocktail space is lined with white wrought-iron benches that are mostly being used by the elderly guests. I plop myself down onto one and watch Penelope and Josh take selfies from afar.
My escort card says Table 23 in neatly printed serif.
That’s got to be one of the furthest tables.
The satellite singles. A solid tertiary-level friend.
Izumi and I used to be at least secondary-level friends.
I knew her mainly through Penelope—I didn’t think I’d be a bridesmaid or anything—but a couple years ago, I definitely would have been seated at a table in the low teens.
I walk through the reception hall slowly, smiling and laughing vaguely at the jokes and conversation being made around me so that I don’t stick out too much.
The hall itself is gorgeous. Copper fixtures that have turned a matte turquoise over time, mustard subway tile, and craftsman stained glass water lilies.
I have to cross the entire room before finding my table: back corner, near the kitchen door.
My name is typed on a menu at a seat on the near side.
I sit down and stress eat a pumpernickel roll as the rest of the table filters in.
It’s all singles. I check the names on either side of me: Steve Miller is on my left, and Calliope Campbell is on my right.
“Hey.” A deep voice interrupts my thoughts, a tall looming guy suddenly blocking the copper chandelier.
I squint to get a better look at him and am briefly stunned by his pretty face.
He’s wearing an Oxford blue button down and a cream linen suit, topped with short-cropped sandy hair, hazel eyes, and a dimple.
Just missing a tie and a golden retriever.
All-American. Probably ran track or played lacrosse.
Perhaps a distant Romney. Would definitely look good with tortoiseshell glasses.
“Hi,” I say back, suppressing my nerves into half-moon grooves where my nails meet my palms.
On my other side, someone drops their beat-up clutch onto the table with a startling thunk. A heavily tattooed girl with amber skin, dark hair, and cleavage I could only dream of drapes herself over the Chiavari chair.
“Hey,” I greet her too. “I’m Ruby,” I say to both of them.
“Calliope.” The girl reaches out to shake my hand. It may be how stunning she is, or just her general aura, but I’ve never met someone who deserved the name of a Greek muse more.
I repeat her name back, drawing out the syllables slowly to make sure I don’t miss any, “Call-eye-oh-pee.”
“Steve,” the guy says to both of us, his gaze drifting inevitably to Calliope’s cleavage.
“Guess they won’t be expecting us to keep the dance floor alive,” I joke.
Calliope snorts. “Were you surprised by this seating? I was well aware I was an obligatory invite.”
I swallow, hard.
“I’ve had the pleasure of knowing Izumi since grade school because of my sister.”
My brows furrow as I study her face. Once you take away the tattoos, imagine Calliope as a blonde, with fairer skin and more muted curves, I suddenly see the resemblance. “You mean Penelope?”
“Yep.” Calliope mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like the c-word.
“Penelope is a friend of mine,” I say, animated by this connection. “We met at the Lakeview Writers Group, before she wrote her book.”
“Right,” Calliope says slowly. “I think I’ve heard of you,” she adds. I can hear the hint of pity in her voice. It’s like the fascination people have with watching accidents as they pass on the highway. A brief thrill of, Thank God that isn’t me!
I turn to Steve. “And how do you know Izumi?”
“Who?” he asks.
I can’t tell if he’s being serious. “The bride…?”
“Oh, right. No, I don’t know her. Tim’s my buddy. We’re in school together.”
I have a vague memory of Tim being in grad school, something related to economics, I think.
I look at Steve in a new light, imagining him as an Econ PhD.
I can see a future with an accomplished academic as a partner.
He can give bespectacled Ted Talks in Sweden, and I’ll write from a garden studio in the backyard of our Monterey home.
My (long) hair will whip in the ocean breeze, the marine layer burning off while I drink my morning coffee.
I’ll wear antique robes and our kids will be non-binary, barefoot, adorable hellions.
“That’s cool,” I gush. “Are you enjoying grad school?”
Steve leans back in his chair, hands fastening to his hips. “It’s not too bad,” he says through a smirk. His dimple lodges itself in my vision. I can picture a tiny version of him hanging off his hip with a matching one. Birds are chirping somewhere. My heart sighs.
White-gloved waiters place beautifully plated strawberry salads in front of us.
Steve peers around the large floral centerpiece as he shovels salad into his mouth.
“Looking for someone Tim wanted to set you up with?” I ask. I’m rusty at flirting, but this should be an easy layup.
He snorts. “No, I just thought there’d be someone at the table here who’s, like, bald and stuff. Tim told me to be nice to the girl with cancer because she doesn’t have a lot of friends.”
The birds die, reality shooting them down with a BB gun. My vision tunnels, a dull throb erupting in my chest. My mouth is dry and itchy. Am I having a heart attack?
“Wow, you’re an asshole,” Calliope says from my other side.
“What do you—” Recognition lights Steve’s eyes.
“Ohhhh.” His mouth opens, winding up to say something possibly disastrous.
He will earn an immediate spot on my shit list if he goes with something like, you’re so strong, or that’s so sad.
Where do people get off telling someone else their life is sad?
If he even thinks the words, everything happens for a reason, I’ll know, and I’ll give him a reason.
What, you ask, should he say? I don’t know. It’s a know-it-when-you-hear-it kind of thing.
“I’m so sorry,” he coos, like he’s talking to his grandma or an elderly tabby. Well, I guess I’ve heard worse.
I squeeze my napkin in a tight fist in my lap. “It’s fine,” I say with utterly manufactured cheeriness. “I’m fine.”
“So you’re in remission?” Calliope asks, ostensibly to ease the tension.
I nod. “Cancer free for a year.”
“Congrats,” Calliope says with a soft smile.
“That’s amazing.” I’ve never understood why people think undergoing cancer treatment is ‘amazing.’ I would have literally traded anything not to do it.
I fought it every step of the way. My happiest moments are when I temporarily forget that it happened.
The moments where it feels like if I look down, I’ll see my God-given cleavage, my nipples (may their memory be a blessing), and maybe even the bright red shock of period blood.
You never appreciate things like bleeding through your underwear until your oncologist shuts off your ovaries.
I look between them both. “I’m doing great!” I add, not sounding at all defensive.
“So…” Calliope continues, “You’re a writer too?”
I wobble my head. “Not yet, really. I’m—it’s been—things were…delayed. But I’m working on it.” I exhale a tense breath.
“What do you write? I’m a big reader. Maybe it’s my cup of tea.”
“It’s a literary sci-fi retelling of The Secret Garden.” I pat the salad dressing from my mouth with an organza napkin.
“I like sci-fi! Like Dune?”
Decades of a genre’s evolution, and for most people sci-fi will still be reduced to one book. “Kinda, yeah.”
“When is it coming out?” Calliope continues, an innocent smile on her face, unaware of the fact that she’s wielding a mace with these questions.
“It’s not—I haven’t found a home for it yet. I’m just making some tweaks before I query it.” I need to divert the conversation away from my floundering writing career. “What about you? I don’t think Penelope’s ever mentioned a sister. What do you do?”
“I’m a tattoo artist,” Calliope says. “And that tracks. In Penelope-land, she’s an only child. We’re half sisters—I’m a little older—from our mom’s first marriage.”
“Tattooing—that’s,” I break off, scanning the ink covering her arms, “that’s cool.”
I turn back to Steve, trying to make this disastrous three-way conversation into something successful. “What about you? What are you going to do once you’re done with your PhD?”
“PhD?” Steve’s nose wrinkles. “I’m doing my MBA.”
My fork misses a strawberry with a clang, almost cracking the salad plate.
A large red flag is flapping in the ocean breeze of my Monterey vision.
When Grant and I broke up a mere three weeks after my second surgery, I decided that anyone remotely close to the realm of business was suspect on sight.
How can you trust someone so firmly attached to the teat of capitalism?
I need a humanitarian. An intellectual. An artisanal carpenter.
“Oh.” I set down my fork before I hurt myself or destroy any property. “Nice,” I add, remembering I still need to be polite.
“So, for the cancer, what did you…What was the treatment?” Steve waves his fork around, trying to pantomime his question.
I watch him, hackles raised. “I had a bilateral mastectomy.”
He nods as if he’s following this. “Is that like implants?”
My silicone boobs are 100% implants, but his question still rubs me the wrong way. “Is a mastectomy and reconstruction like getting a boob job?”
He nods, so I suppose I’ve summed up his question adequately.
“...Sure.”
“Nice. My sister got implants in college. She hates them now. I think she’ll get them removed within the next year.”
I briefly consider sinking the tines of my fork into his dull hazel eyes. In the textbook of things not to say to a breast cancer survivor, complaining about voluntary breast surgery is in the first chapter.
This is not the day for the Be Yourself (Again) List. Steve is a lost cause, and I didn’t go through a year of treatment to waste time on lost causes.
I stand abruptly, grabbing my purse and my shawl. I’ll camp out in the bathroom until the dance floor opens. “I’ve got to…go to…the bathroom.”
“Can you get me a whiskey coke at the bar while you’re up?” Steve asks. I stare at him in disbelief. “Thanks.” He smiles.
I imagine burying Steve in a crevice between the rocks that line our Monterey home and having a torrid affair with the lead investigator so that he helps me cover up the evidence. I step around Steve, but he stops me with a hand to my wrist.
“You are so brave,” he says spiritually, trying to meet my eye.
Kill me.