Chapter Seven Sophie
Chapter Seven
Sophie
My to-do list feels a mile long at the moment.
I sit at my small secretary desk, fingers hovering over the keys of my open laptop, trying to get ahead of some work.
The screen is barely visible beneath a mess of sticky notes in every pretty pastel color. Each note is a cheery little reminder of something urgent, something I haven't done yet, and something I absolutely must complete before the port surgery on Wednesday—the day after tomorrow.
Those words alone thrum in the back of my mind like a second heartbeat. My oncologist, Dr. Rajab had said this procedure would be easy, but completing that procedure means we're one step closer to three months of chemotherapy. That's an infinitely more daunting thought.
I read through my notes again, each one feeling heavier than it should.
— Email HR the doctor's note/paperwork for remote accommodation.
That one's easy. I just have to forward the attachment. Dr. Rajab already sent over the note for me earlier this morning.
— Double check your hospital bag.
I packed it once already. Then I unpacked it. Then I packed it again, twice. Phone charger. Tablet. Headphones. E-Reader. Soft socks and a fuzzy blanket. A change of clothes. Another change of clothes, just in case.
— Confirm the ordered car for Wednesday, 5AM.
This one hurts a little more than the rest, because it'll be a rideshare dropping me off at the hospital. Not someone I love parking and walking in with me. No comforting presence waiting beside the pre-op bed. Just me and a stranger, at an hour when the world will still be dark.
— Meal prep for the week.
The idea of prepping casseroles and easy-to-heat meals feels monumental, but I know there will be days when I won't want to cook. I'm trying to be kind to future-me, even if present-me is dragging her feet.
— Send Tess the updated calendar.
Because she'll text me again and again until I do.
— Do laundry, clean bathroom and kitchen, fresh sheets and blankets on bed—clean spaces to promote healing!
I added the little note at the end myself, a nice little pep-talk in case I try to talk myself out of it. The idea of coming home and sliding under soft blankets and fresh sheets that smell of clean linen—not sterile hospital antiseptic—gives me something to look forward to.
I have all these things to do...
And yet, my eyes can't stop wandering over to the coffee table.
The two books I bought from Rivers & Rhodes are in the same spot where I left them. I started the farmer-librarian story first, pulled in by the promise of a small-town romance and something light, something that wouldn't hurt.
I didn't expect to laugh. Not like that.
The banter was ridiculous in the best way, warm and clever and a little bit flirty. Before I knew it, I was halfway through chapter five, giggling out loud at a scene involving a library card and a very uncooperative hungry goat.
When I finally got my laughter under control, I had automatically reached for my phone to text Paul. My thumb hovered over his contact as my mind caught up to my body.
Because that's what I used to send him—snapped photos of paragraphs that made me laugh, or little notes about characters that reminded me of him.
Then I remembered that he's gone.
The memories are cruel and unyielding. I remember the way he told me he's been sleeping with his beautiful coworker since my biopsy.
The way he said Elise was easy and there—that's why he had sex with her.
He confided in her about my cancer, and she helped him breathe.
As if I were the one suffocating him.
The implication in his words was clear as day.
Elise is beautiful, easy, and comforting.
I'm difficult, sick, and inconvenient.
And the worst part—the part that knocks the air out of my lungs if I think about it too hard—is that I have to get my breasts cut off because they're literally killing me, and that's a problem for him.
Apparently, over the last six years, he didn't actually fall for me—the person with thoughts and hopes and feelings—just the package. The soft curves and the comforting routine I could provide for him.
But Sophie, the person? She's not enough without her tits and health.
"I love you," he told me as he was grinding my heart into the ground. It felt like mocking, like cruelty. And for the first time since he told me he loved me all those years ago, I didn't believe him.
Because how do you treat someone you love like that?
Paul could tell me anything—he has told me everything—that embarrassing story from college when he got locked outside his frat house in just a towel and the sorority across the street got a nice look at his pale ass, his past relationships and the cause of their collapse, his fears of not measuring up to his dad's expectations even though all I've ever seen from his parents is just a hope for him to be happy.
I listened, and I gave him reassurance. I reminded him he didn't have to prove anything to be worthy of my love. I comforted him, kissed him, and told him I loved him.
Because I did.
Still do, I guess.
My love for him hasn't just disappeared in the aftermath of his betrayal—unfortunately—but the love I have for him feels different now. It’s curdled like milk that you don’t realize has gone sour until you take a sip.
The betrayal of him having sex with Elise cuts me like knives, but the emotional aspect of it hurts just as bad. He confided in her about his feelings. He felt comfortable enough with his coworker to tell her things he couldn't tell me. He trusted her in ways that he didn't trust me.
Why? What was it about her that made it so easy to talk, to share, to feel? Why is she his safe place?
What did she give him that I didn't?
Well, he told me—sex.
Our sex life before the diagnosis was great—frequent, passionate, and adventurous. But, I'll admit, I haven't really felt up to having sex for the last couple of months while living in a near-constant state of anxiety.
My days have been filled with waiting rooms, intake forms, and examination tables. My body has been poked, pricked, scanned, and talked about like a science project.
Then finally, the words came—breast cancer—and everything in me shattered.
And, I still tried.
I apologized to Paul for the lack of sex and, to my great embarrassment now, offered to take care of him—my mouth or hands, whatever he wanted.
He would refuse and kiss me sweetly and tell me not to worry about it.
At least he was decent in that aspect because the thought of putting my mouth on him after he'd been inside Elise makes me sick to my stomach.
Did Elise pick up her entire life after college and follow him to his hometown? Did she cook his food, do his laundry, or bake him his favorite red velvet cake from scratch on his birthday every year? Did she schedule his doctor and dentist appointments when he forgot to?
Did she do all of this after working a forty-hour work week with an almost hour commute to and from, just so he could live in his hometown, where he's with his family, and where he's beloved by all who encounter him?
I did.
I memorized how he took his coffee and made it for him every morning because it made him happy. I packed his lunch every morning and placed those little love notes in his bag to make him feel better if he was having a rough day.
I showed up and chose him every moment we were together.
And when I got the diagnosis? I didn't ask him to fix it, or trade places with me, or perform a miracle.
I just asked him to be there for me so I wouldn't be alone. To drive me to chemotherapy and hold my hand. To still tell me I was beautiful when my hair was gone, even if it was a lie.
To love me when it wasn't convenient, when it wasn't easy. Because this wasn't going to be easy, it would be hard, consuming, and painful.
I was asking him to stay—to just stay.
And I had assumed he would because what the hell have the last six years been for if not for building a partnership?
And I keep thinking—what if the roles were reversed? What would I have done if Paul had been the one diagnosed with cancer?
I don't even have to think hard because I know my answer instantly.
There's not a version of me, in any universe, who walks away from him when he's sick and needs me.
Not one.
I would've held his hand through every appointment.
I would've packed his chemo bag with his favorite snacks and silly little gifts.
I would have made ridiculous playlists and danced around the apartment to make him laugh on the worst days.
I would've told him he was brave every single morning.
I would've kissed his bald head and rubbed his shoulders and stayed up all night to soothe his fears.
I would've loved him, in sickness and in health.
I would have stayed.
I gave myself Thursday night to cry, as Tess told me. It was a cleansing cry, loud sobs muffled in the shower, purging every sad emotion out of me.
The next day, I woke up and went to work.
My meeting with my boss on Friday to discuss remote accommodation went extremely well, and she said that whatever I needed, the company would back me.
I buried myself in spreadsheets and numbers, coloring in cells, moving decimal points, analyzing quarterly shifts—each one a welcome, numbing distraction.
Saturday and Sunday, I didn't stop moving. I spent the weekend cleaning, organizing, and washing every piece of clothing I owned with a brand-new laundry detergent that wouldn't remind me of him.
I cleaned out the fridge and threw out anything that was his and scrubbed the counters until I could see my reflection. I dusted the bookshelves, one by one, placing any knick-knacks that reminded me of 'us' in boxes designated for the thrift store.
I cried only a little while doing it, because those things were attached to happy memories. I'm not angry at the memories, just the way they are swallowed by the hurt now.