Chapter Twenty-Five Callum
Chapter Twenty-Five
Callum
"Bailey's ring is absolutely stunning."
Sophie sighs dreamily from the passenger seat as I slide into the driver's side, starting the truck. I crank the heat up once it's on, vents already positioned toward her since I've started driving her around. My girl is always so cold, especially now.
She has her own car, but the fatigue from chemo has been hitting her harder over the last week, so I've designated myself as her personal chauffeur.
Not that I mind at all. More time spent with Sophie is always a good thing, but the fatigue concerns me.
I try to notice all the new side effects she mentions, and especially the ones she doesn't.
Her hair loss has been especially heartbreaking for her, even as she tries to downplay her feelings. I've read extensively—cancer forums, articles, survivor stories—to prepare and understand.
One article in particular gutted me. This breast cancer survivor described how she lost her sense of identity when her hair started falling out.
She said she didn't feel as beautiful as she once did, and she looked completely unrecognizable in the mirror.
Her old self was gone, and she felt as if she were vanishing from the world with no way to stop it.
That caused her to fall into depression, on top of having to continue with the grueling treatments.
Our hair is a part of us. It literally grows out of our bodies, and for most people, it can shape their identity and their sense of self. Then it starts falling out faster than you can adjust, and it feels like a loss.
Another described that it felt like she was constantly wearing a large sign that says I have cancer and I'm dying!
It stripped her of any sense of privacy, making even mundane trips to the grocery store something to dread.
Strangers offering sympathy with too much emotion in their eyes and not nearly enough tact in their words.
The thought of Sophie feeling even a fraction of that pain—of not feeling like the beautiful and wonderful woman she is—kills me.
Reading those experiences was painful in a way I couldn't brace myself for.
Instead of feeling like the damn warriors that they are, fighting a battle they didn't ask to fight and suffering from a sickness that shouldn't exist, they can't help but feel less than. Not beautiful. Not brave. Not strong.
That's not right, and unfortunately, I can't help those women, but I can help the one next to me. My Sophie.
Once we're headed toward her apartment, I reach my hand out to her. Sophie moves automatically and links her fingers with mine over the center console as if it were muscle memory. The contact is grounding to me, and I smile as I lift our joined hands to press a lingering kiss to the back of hers.
"That rock is literally Bailey in diamond form."
I laugh at her words, thinking back to earlier tonight.
Bailey had come bouncing through the front door, practically floating on air as she showed us all her engagement ring.
Her boyfriend—now fiancé—had proposed over the weekend with an insanely gorgeous and no doubt very expensive heart-shaped pink diamond.
Her excitement had briefly died when she looked over at Sophie, knowing how her own engagement had ended.
Sophie wouldn't allow any of that. She promptly hugged Bailey tightly, oohed and aahed over the ring, and beamed as if it were her own sister getting engaged.
It might as well have been, given how close the women have gotten.
I think I fell in love with Sophie a little more right there. Her perseverance, her kindness, her ability to not let her own rain clouds affect anyone else's sunny day.
"Is that the style you like?" I tentatively ask, gauging her reaction and noting the scrunched-up look and shake of her head.
"No, I like a little less glitz personally. My ring was just a solitaire," Sophie informs me casually, like she was commenting on the weather. "But it totally fits Bailey. He did very well."
Jealousy sears me for a moment at the reminder that Sophie and Paul had been engaged at one point. It's ridiculous, childish, and unneeded. Especially since he ruined it—he had this wonderful, once-in-a-lifetime kind of woman and blew it all up like it meant nothing.
And now she's here with me, holding my hand, kissing me, smiling at me. I suppose I shouldn't be jealous—I should be grateful.
His loss is my greatest gain.
"He did," I agree, easing the truck to a stop at a red light.
I rub the back of her hand with my thumb, and her smile grows wider as she looks down at our joined hands, like the sight of them still surprises her in the best way.
"Michael's a good guy. He really takes care of her. That's why she's such a romantic."
"I think she's rubbing off on me," Sophie says with a soft laugh.
"Yeah, you didn't even complain about the miscommunication today," I tease her, and she gasps, mock-offended. I can still picture her ranting on our last boardwalk sunset date—practically breathing fire about how miscommunication was the worst literary trope.
"These problems could be solved with a five-minute conversation!" she'd snapped, viciously biting into a French fry like it had personally betrayed her. I'd grabbed two fries and made a cross with them like she was a vampire, and she'd burst into the sweetest laughter that made my heart skip.
"He's on thin ice," she mutters now, narrowing her eyes at me. Then her face softens again, melting into a radiant smile. "I'm in a good mood lately."
"Oh?" I ask, trying—and failing—not to smile as the light turns green and I ease us back onto the road. "Any particular reason?"
"Just this guy I'm seeing. He's really sweet. Kind. Makes me laugh harder than I ever have. He's a real dreamboat, too."
It's a miracle I can manage to speak at all with the feelings clogging my throat, and when I do, my voice comes out a little too raspy. "Sounds like a decent guy. Does he treat you well?"
"Better than any guy ever has."
I can't look at her since my eyes are glued to the road, but it's the way she says it—so absolutely, so sure—that makes my chest ache in the best way. I respond with a vow, a promise. "You deserve no less."
Sophie lifts up our hands, and this time, she kisses the back of mine, causing that spot to tingle.
"I'm starting to believe that, my otter."
"My otter," I repeat softly, feeling her gently squeeze my hand. I know I'm smiling too wide, but there isn't an ounce of insecurity in my body right now. There never is with Sophie.
The rest of the drive is in peaceful silence, and when I pull up to the apartment, I turn the car off and look over to see her fast asleep. She looks so serene, her head resting against the seat, a small, content smile curving her lips.
Beautiful, I think with a smile, looking down at our still hands linked together so we don't drift.
◆◆◆
It takes fifteen minutes to gently rouse my sleeping girl, and even then, I still carry her up to her apartment. She's too tired to protest much, just wrecks me by making those soft, adorable, sleepy sounds as she snuggles into my shoulder.
I carry her through the soft-lit apartment, the warmth of her body pressed against mine, her breath slow and shallow against my collarbone. It's late, close to eleven, but the apartment building feels especially quiet tonight, like the universe understands she needs the peace.
I lay her down gently on her bed, and she finally opens her eyes, slowly blinking herself awake, as if her sleep is not ready to let her go.
"Sor—" I cut off her apology with a soft kiss, and she hums happily against my lips. Sweet girl.
"Don't be," I murmur, pressing a kiss to her forehead.
I crouch down to grab her boots, gently pulling them off her feet.
She blinks at me a couple more times, looking both pleased and like she's about to protest that she can do it herself.
I know she can, but I want to care for her.
She reaches over to the side of the bed, where Westley and Buttercup have taken residence, and cuddles them to her.
That makes me smile as I place her boots in the closet—my neat Virgo wouldn't want them tossed haphazardly on the floor.
When I turn back around, she's lifted the comforter and slid underneath, already snuggling down into the plush pillows with a soft sigh.
She looks so small in the large bed, delicate in a way that makes me want to protect and shield her from everything.
I've felt this protective urge before, for my mom, for the women in the book club, but never like this, never this bone deep.
It feels like any harm to her could make me come unglued in an instant.
She looks hesitant for a moment before reaching up and sliding the hat from her head.
Without a word, I take it from her and pull out some of the hair that came with the hat, placing it on her dresser.
In the mirror, I can see her try to smooth her hair down to cover the bald spots that have become more prominent lately.
She doesn't need to do that—especially not for me—but I know that it makes her more comfortable to have them covered.
"Donna's going to take you to chemo tomorrow?" I ask softly, settling on the edge of the bed beside her. She sighs in relief as she lies back down, and I grab the soft throw blanket from the foot of the bed and lay it over her, tucking her in and making her smile.
Sophie nods, "And you're picking me up?"
"Of course," I reply immediately, smiling at her. "Amma's and movie night. Your choice."
"I chose last time," she protests, but I shake my head, reaching out to brush my fingers against her cheek.
"Baby, you could choose every time. I'm just happy to spend time with you."