What We Choose

Chapter One Paul

Chapter One

Paul

August

"Okay, Sophie, so for the port placement, we can do it next Wednesday at eight am. Arrival at six-thirty for pre-op. Does that sound good?

"Perfect!" Sophie chirps brightly, writing it in her floral calendar with her perfect penmanship.

I look at her profile, studying her beautiful face.

Her skin's been more pale lately, but no less radiant.

Dark brown hair that flows to her collarbone in waves, big blue-green eyes framed by dark lashes, and expressive eyebrows.

I always say I can read every feeling she has on her face.

I know when she's feeling sad, or annoyed, or embarrassed, or nervous.

Right now, with her eyes narrowed as she writes down the dates in her calendar, I know she's feeling determined. It’s the same look she used to get while studying for finals in college.

That sexy I'm going to kick this test's ass look that made me so hard I would end up distracting us from studying and fucking her into the mattress.

The memory gives me a little flicker of joy that I don't deserve.

"Great, I'm going to lock this time slot in..." the scheduler's—Karen, she had introduced herself as—voice is calm and measured. I imagine she’s specially trained to deal with cancer patients.

Cancer.

I haven't even said it out loud but the word chokes up my throat with that uncomfortable peppery burn.

I swallow twice with no relief before grabbing my insulated water bottle off the kitchen table we're sitting at.

Sophie bought the bottle for me two years ago and decorated it with stickers from our different road trips over the years.

My hand shakes as I lift it to my lips and sip slowly. No relief. Deserved.

Sophie reaches out without looking and smooths my curly blonde hair, soothing me. She's always so in tune with my moods. Always focused on me despite the situation we're in right now.

God, I love her so much it hurts.

"Will I need to fast before surgery?" Sophie asks calmly, like she's scheduling a hair appointment. She's been pure grace through this entire process, while I feel as though I'm seconds from tearing my skin off from the too tight feeling of my chest.

"Yes, nothing to eat after midnight and only clear liquids until four AM," the scheduler says. "It’s a very easy procedure. You'll have light sedation, a small incision near your collarbone and you'll be able to go home the same day! Do you have reliable transportation?"

"Yes, my fiancé will drive me," Sophie answers with a smile, not even glancing over to confirm.

Because I told her I'd be there every step of the way, and her trust in me is unshakable.

Her trust in my reassuring words from four months ago when we found that strange lump and she asked me “does this look weird to you?”

Her trust in my grand words from a year ago when I asked her to marry me with that romantic speech about loving her in sickness and in health.

That's the thing about promises—they're easy to make, harder to keep.

The guilt rolls around my stomach and nausea spikes fast. I swallow the saliva building in my mouth and take deep breaths to push it down.

Sophie—Jesus Christ, my sweet Sophie—notices this and lays her cool hand on the back of my neck with a gentle squeeze. She's comforting me and fuck if it only makes the nausea worse.

I gently grab her hand and remove it because I don’t deserve her comfort. I kiss the soft skin of her palm in thanks anyway. Sophie gives me a gentle smile before focusing back on the phone.

Gentle. If there's a word more perfect to describe my fiancée, I haven't found it yet.

I met Sophie in college at Northeastern. Both of us were in our Master's programs, running on energy drinks and pure spite. Our eyes met once and, like the sun bursting through clouds on a gloomy day, she smiled at me.

Just like that, I was gone for her.

During my life, teenage years and beyond, I had never had problems approaching women.

My mom always said I was born with golden boy looks.

So, when I saw a beautiful brunette studying at the table across from mine, I walked right up to her and asked for her number.

We’ve been together for six years, with two Master's degrees, two well-paying jobs, an apartment, and a joint savings account to show for it.

After graduation, we moved into a two-bedroom apartment in my hometown after I was offered my job with Starling Cove City Hall as City Planner. It was like I had never left. My entire family, my old friends, my old life, welcomed me back with open arms.

And my Sophie moved here for me without hesitation, saying she just wanted to be with me. Every day, she drove forty minutes to her job in Boston with a smile, coming home to cook us dinner while I breezed in late after long projects.

Our weekends fell into an easy rhythm: Saturday mornings spent food shopping, afternoons curled up on the couch watching our favorite movies, or nights out at the bar with my friends.

Sundays meant dinner at my parents' house, who adored Sophie, followed by us coming home to clean and prep for the week ahead.

For an entire year, things were perfect and our future seemed closer than ever.

Until I learned that lump might be my least favorite word of all time.

"Okay, and then we can start your bi-weekly chemotherapy the following Tuesday," the oncology scheduler says, her voice ripping me out of my memories. "It'll be every other Tuesday for twelve weeks. Does that work?"

"Yes, that works perfectly," Sophie says, filling them in her calendar for the twelve weeks.

Three months.

"And the surgery?" Sophie asks, her voice a little quieter at this.

"The plan is a bilateral mastectomy with immediate implant reconstruction, tentatively the week after Christmas.

Gives you a bit of a buffer after chemo, and you can enjoy your Christmas!

The plastic surgeon will be present during surgery.

You'll stay at least one night, but I would plan for two just in case.

Drains for about a week. After healing, we'll start radiation Monday through Friday, for four to six weeks. "

"Four to six... got it!" Sophie says, underlining the time frame twice in her notebook.

"Any questions, Sophie?"

"Hm… oh, how soon would radiation start after surgery?" Sophie asks, pen at the ready. She's completely unaware that each word from the scheduler's mouth feels like a punch.

Surgery, mastectomy, her breasts cut off and gone.

I fucking know how selfish and sick this thought is as it infiltrates my brain, but the image of her perfect breasts being gone hits me hard.

And then even worse, I think of Elise...

"About four to six weeks post-op, assuming wounds are healing as they should."

Sophie's pen is already moving. "Okay. Wednesday—Port Surgery. Tuesday—Infusions, every other Tuesday for twelve weeks. After Christmas for surgery. Radiation February-ish... okay, I think I’ve got it.

" Sophie takes a deep breath in what sounds like relief, brave girl.

"Can I bring books to read during chemo?”

"Of course! Some people read, nap, listen to music, and bring their tablets to entertain them. That's what my mom did at least. I finally got her to watch all seasons of Real Housewives, and she's hooked!"

Sophie nudges my arm playfully as she jests, "Hey! Looks like I'll be able to put a dent into my Tbr list, at least."

Sophie and the scheduler laugh together like they're old friends catching up and not scheduling appointments for Sophie to get poison shot into her veins for months.

But that's the thing about Sophie, people naturally gravitate toward her—her warmth, her genuine kindness, her thoughtfulness, the way she smiles with her whole face.

Even when she snaps at me over laundry being left in front of the hamper and not in the hamper, or when I half-listen to something she's saying and she has to repeat herself, she's always quick to apologize.

She hates being mean, even for a second, even when it's deserved.

And fuck if I don't deserve it right now.

"I'll tell you what, Sophie, that's the mindset you should keep through this whole process. My mom told me this after she got diagnosed, 'I might have cancer, but cancer doesn't have me.'"

Sophie's eyes soften, she looks over to me with a smile. I try, and fail, to return it.

"I love that. Thank you for sharing that, Karen."

"You're welcome, Sophie. Do you have any other questions for me?"

"No, I think I'm good," Sophie sighs as she caps her pen and smiles, even though Karen can't see her. "Thank you so much for your assistance."

"You are so welcome. We'll see you Wednesday!"

They end the call and Sophie lets out another relieved sigh. "Well, at least that's one thing I don't have to worry about anymore. Now we just have to show up."

Her words are gentle but they hit me like shrapnel. My heart slams in my chest uncomfortably, and the nausea returns with a vengeance. My vision swirls and I blink hard, but it doesn't clear.

My throat burns, my chest cinches tight, my skin feels like it's two sizes too small.

Sophie’s smile is soft and reassuring like she's the one promising me that everything will be okay.

That's what undoes me.

The thought slices in, jagged and so fucking cruel. Sophie’s body sliced open, breasts gone, drains and scars. The image of her perfect chest carved away.

Right behind it is Elise and her perfect body.

Her gorgeous tits falling out of her bra and into my waiting hands.

I can still feel her smooth skin under my palms as she rode me in the front seat of my car.

The same seat that Sophie sat in the next morning as we went to another doctor's appointment.

Elise's mouth against mine, moaning my name as she came.

Elise with no ports or scars or poison running through her veins to kill cancer cells.

I hate myself for it, for even letting the comparison exist.

Sophie's hand finds mine on the table and her warm touch scalds me.

"We have a plan now."

We.

Her trust, her faith, her love for me is steadying her in the middle of this nightmare and, oh God, I open my mouth and tear it all apart.

"I slept with Elise."