23. Twenty-three
Twenty-three
Having no breasts makes getting dressed up a special kind of surprise party. It’s either awful—puffs of chest fabric showcasing everything that’s missing. Or it’s amazing—there’s never a worry about filling something out too much. There is no pressure to show cleavage because there is none. At the same time—there is no cleavage.
Usually, I don’t spend much time dwelling on this. Over the decade since I had my mastectomy I’ve learned how to dress my different body. The question I have getting ready for whatever my non-grocery shopping Friday night is: hide my chest or embrace it?
I’m wearing blue jeans—fitted and high waisted. I don’t have my chest working in my favor, but all my hours spent trying to outrun cancer on stationary bikes, treadmills, and elliptical machines have done wonders for my ass. My body is far from perfect, but it’s lean and strong .
The shirt is where I’m stuck. The puffy peasant top I’m wearing has me looking like an actual peasant. No . I yank it off with a sigh.
Standing in a lacey tank top, my version of a bra, and jeans, I stare at myself. The top is black, fitted, sexy by most standards. With scalloped edges, it dips low on my chest, between where most women would have breasts. Instead of cleavage, creamy white and soft pink petals of a tattooed mountain laurel peek out of the dark lace. When I ordered it online, the girls in the photos had worn it as a shirt and I was jealously scandalized at the thought. Now, as different as I look from the busty models that pulled it off with sex appeal to spare, I’m feminine. As close to sexy as I’ve felt in twelve years.
I tug at the straps, exhaling at my reflection, thinking of Bo’s last words, Lucy is staying with her cousins overnight.
What did that mean? Mabel told me it meant we were going to hump like rabbits , her exact words this morning. I laughed, but she doesn’t know that I don’t have sex. She’d be devastated with that revelation.
Now, it’s all I can think about. Would he want to do other things? Would that be enough? Would he want to see my chest? Would I be able to show him?
My skin starts to tighten around my skeleton the same time Bo knocks on the door, pulling me from my spiraling thoughts that are quickly turning into anxiety. I stretch my neck side to side, willing myself to relax. His timing makes the decision of what to wear. Big earrings, big hair, and a little shirt are who I am tonight .
With one last look at my reflection and a long deep breath, I go meet my date.
“Seriously?” I look through the windshield and frown at the familiar neon sign. “I skipped my Friday night ritual for Libby’s?”
He looks at me like he’s offended. “They have the best triple sec in town. I thought you’d be happy.”
I roll my eyes. “Funny.”
He gets out, circles the Jeep at a jog, and opens the door for me before I’m even unbuckled. Standing there, it’s like I’m seeing him for the first time all over again.
When I opened the door at my house and saw him, my heart stuttered. He looks the same as he always does in jeans, fitted T-shirt, face that makes me want to confess all my sins, and body that makes me want to commit new ones—but something is different. Like this date is a step across a threshold and there’s no turning back.
When his eyes burned a path down my body as I stood in the doorway, I squirmed, panicked, and acted like I had forgotten my sweater. Which is why I’m now wearing a granny cardigan over my once-sexy outfit.
“Where’s your toothpick?” I ask him as we walk across the parking lot.
He shrugs, salacious smile curling his lips as he opens the door. “I thought I’d keep my mouth available tonight. ”
My chest tightens, eyes widen, but before I can say anything, his hand is on the small of my back, guiding me inside.
It’s crowded—way busier than the last time we were here. Music comes from big speakers, and bodies are everywhere. It’s loud and lively—a vibe. Without hesitating, his hand slips from my back to my hand, leading me across the room to the bar. Libby’s there, pouring liquor from a bottle, red lips smiling. “Pam Beesly from the Rockies!” she cries happily.
The dim lighting of the bar is a blessed thing for hiding the mortified blush that I know has swallowed my face. “Believe it or not, that’s not actually my name.” I laugh through my humility. “It’s Birdie.”
Her smile somehow widens.
“Birdie suits you,” she says, nodding toward my chest. “Nice ink.”
I don’t know why, but I look at Bo with the comment. His lips pull to one side in a half smile, and he squeezes my hand.
“So what are y’all drinking tonight? Beer, Bo?”
He nods. “You know it. Birdie? Water?” He looks at me.
I know alcohol is bad for the body—I read a study once that connected even just occasional drinking with an increased risk of cancer. I also know Bo doesn’t care whether I drink or not. I know all of these things, but for whatever reason, I answer with, “I’d like a cocktail.” Then to Libby, “Not triple sec with an olive.”
She laughs. “Okay, well Bo has already told me you don’t really drink, so what kind of flavor do you want? Do you like cranberry juice? Or pineapple?”
I look at him— he’s told her about me?
He nods, like he’s taken up residency in my brain. Which he has.
“Either of those are fine.”
Another smile, then she’s scooping ice and pouring vodka and cranberry juice—that’s surprisingly organic. Who knew?
“Alright ladies and gentlemen,” a theatrical voice says over the speaker. “Starting us off tonight are Meghan and Taylor, who will be singing some Cyndi Lauper.” A small pocket of applause is followed by a couple random wooo! calls from the crowd as the music starts and the girls giggle into microphones.
My eyes widen. “Karaoke?” There’s no hiding the shock in my voice.
Bo grins, dropping my hand to take our drinks from Libby. “Isn’t it so much better than looking at lettuce?”
“Do you sing?” I ask, cringing at the terrible voices singing and cackling “Girls Just Wanna Have Fun” through the speakers.
“Nope.” He chuckles, eyes crinkling as he takes a sip of his beer. “Bet I can get you up there though.”
I pin him with a look. “Don’t even think about it.”
Lifting the straw of my drink to my lips, anxiety creeps into my shoulders. I take a sip. It’s not strong, but strong enough for me to notice the foreign warmth of the alcohol slide down my throat and into my belly with the first taste.
Bo’s hand lands on the small of my back, draining every ounce of tension out of my muscles with his touch.
We don’t sit on stools; we lean at the end of the bar where it meets the wall at the edge of the crowd. Even though the air is cool outside, here with all the bodies, I’m hot. Once I finally start to sweat, I reluctantly shed my sweater. I might as well be naked in my ridiculous maybe-shirt, hugging the sweater in front of me.
Bo sees, because of course he does; it’s in his DNA to see people as much as cancer is in mine. He takes my sweater and purse—my props for hiding myself—and gives them to Libby to keep behind the bar.
I wrap my arms around myself, instantly exposed. Like I’m baring my secrets to a room filled with strangers.
He slips his hands between where my arms are pinched to my ribs, prying me away from myself. He drags his palms down my arms until his hands catch my wrists and encircle them. Leaning in, close enough his beard scratches my face and for me to hear his voice over the bad singing and shouts of the crowd. “Wildflowers don’t hide when they bloom, Birdie.”
His words echo through me like a yell in a valley, stealing my voice. My breath. My ability to do anything but stare at him and try to stay standing through the free fall that’s happening within me. Bo looks at me like I look at every colorful petal my eyes have ever seen—with an awestruck wonder.
The spell of the moment is broken by a too-loud, too-sharp note from the stage, followed by what seems to be a friend of Bo’s walking up to us. As Bo slips into a catch-up conversation, I step aside, sipping my cocktail, waiting for my heart to return to a normal rhythm in my chest.
“How’s your drink?” Libby calls from over my shoulder .
I turn toward her, smiling. “Surprisingly better than the one I had last time I was here.”
She laughs.
“You set the bar low with that one.”
“I’m sorry I lied. I’m…complicated,” I say, facing her across the bar.
She nods, her smile turning from playful to understanding. “Aren’t we all?” She shrugs. “And Bo explained. I get it.”
“You two are close. It’s nice. How’d you meet?” I ask, taking another sip of my drink.
Her smile falters as her eyes flick to where Bo’s talking with his friends. “He married my sister.”
I choke on my drink in a way that turns into a hacking cough.
She winces. “Sorry. Figured the only way to do it was to rip the Band-Aid off. She’s a hot mess and doesn’t deserve him, so this”—she wiggles a finger between us—“doesn’t have to be weird.”
I just nod, because—what the hell? His invisible wife is wrapped around everything like an invasive vine.
Bo walks up next to me, draping an arm around my shoulder. “What’d I miss?” he asks casually.
Before either one of us can answer, the DJ’s theatrical voice cuts the moment with, “Next up, we have Birdie Hawkins. Birdie, come on down.”
My stomach drops to the floor along with my jaw. Bo leans down, beard scraping across my cheek, and whispers a rusty, “Told ya,” into my ear .
When I glare at him, he waves a sticky note in front of my face that says, Surprise yourself.
“Bo, n—”
“She’s right here!” he shouts. Then it’s a kiss on the cheek and pat on my ass before he nudges me toward the stage.