still on and I ask him to take them off, so I can feel his skin. He smoothes back my hair, kisses my cheek, and obliges, returning a few minutes later from the bathroom smelling like artisanal soap.
“This place sure is fancy.” I lift the covers so he can slide in beside me. “I think my monetary value has increased just by being here.”
He gathers me into his arms. “Your face will be on Page Six in the morning.”
“You think?”
“I do.”
I hook my leg over his. “And will you be around to read it?”
He goes very still. I’ve blindsided him with this question, and perhaps that’s not completely fair. But we’ll have to talk about it sooner or later. As womblike as this hotel suite is, it hasn’t managed to stop time. Tomorrow we will have to decide—both of us—what we plan to do.
“Will
you
?” he counters, and I don’t know what to say. It depends? On whether you do?
That’s about the most fucked-up thing I could possibly tell him, or even think to myself. I can’t stay alive just because I’ve met a boy I like. That would be pathetic in the extreme. I’d have to kill myself just to shut that sad teenage girl up. The one inside who wants to stay in this bed with Henry, forever.
“I don’t know,” I say, and that’s the honest truth.
Henry sits up. “How can you not know? Christa, seriously. You have something that’s totally treatable, and—”
“You don’t know that.”
“Neither do you. You don’t know whether it is or it’s not, and you’re just willing to throw yourself away like a piece of trash?”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing, Henry? How is it any different?”
“When did you even get the diagnosis, anyway? How long have you known?”
“Answer my question.”
“No, you answer mine. When did you get the diagnosis?”
I turn my face away. This isn’t supposed to be about me. It’s supposed to be about him. About why he can’t…
“Christa.”
Goddamn him. “Two days ago.”
He just stares at me. Eyes wide with disbelief.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
I sit up against the pillows and cross my arms over my chest. “Why?”
“Seriously? You want to know how your situation is different from mine? Because I’ve known for years—
years
—that this is what I wanted. You’re making a decision that’s totally impulsive, out of panic. What if you felt differently in a week? Have you even told anybody?”
I hesitate for a moment, and then shake my head.
“Jesus Christ!”
I’ve never seen him so riled up. Of course, I’ve only known him for less than a day, but still. His ire is strangely fascinating to watch. It gives me a perverse thrill, to see him so incensed on my behalf.
After the first diagnosis nobody showed any anger at all. They were scared, obviously, but it was clear to me that their fear was for themselves. Sam was afraid he wouldn’t be able to handle it, and he was right, God bless him. He kept telling me it was going to be okay, but I knew it was himself he was talking to. Himself he was trying to reassure. He wanted to believe it would all go back to normal—to the time before we were married when the world was wide open and there were no responsibilities, no realities.
That became harder to do, after the surgery. I didn’t want the added complications of immediate breast reconstruction and wasn’t sure I ever would, and Sam took that personally.
“You’re just going to walk around like that?” he said. “What is it to you, like a badge of honor?”
“Maybe, yeah. Maybe it is.”
“I’ll tell you what it is, Christa. It’s you being able to claim victim status now for all eternity. You want the attention, is that it? You want people to look at you and say, ‘Oh, poor Christa?’”
“Who in the fuck would want this kind of attention, Sam?”
“You! You would! Whatever amount you get, it’s never enough. I’m not enough for you. Tanya’s not enough for you. I don’t know what the hell you want
“This place sure is fancy.” I lift the covers so he can slide in beside me. “I think my monetary value has increased just by being here.”
He gathers me into his arms. “Your face will be on Page Six in the morning.”
“You think?”
“I do.”
I hook my leg over his. “And will you be around to read it?”
He goes very still. I’ve blindsided him with this question, and perhaps that’s not completely fair. But we’ll have to talk about it sooner or later. As womblike as this hotel suite is, it hasn’t managed to stop time. Tomorrow we will have to decide—both of us—what we plan to do.
“Will
you
?” he counters, and I don’t know what to say. It depends? On whether you do?
That’s about the most fucked-up thing I could possibly tell him, or even think to myself. I can’t stay alive just because I’ve met a boy I like. That would be pathetic in the extreme. I’d have to kill myself just to shut that sad teenage girl up. The one inside who wants to stay in this bed with Henry, forever.
“I don’t know,” I say, and that’s the honest truth.
Henry sits up. “How can you not know? Christa, seriously. You have something that’s totally treatable, and—”
“You don’t know that.”
“Neither do you. You don’t know whether it is or it’s not, and you’re just willing to throw yourself away like a piece of trash?”
“Isn’t that what you’re doing, Henry? How is it any different?”
“When did you even get the diagnosis, anyway? How long have you known?”
“Answer my question.”
“No, you answer mine. When did you get the diagnosis?”
I turn my face away. This isn’t supposed to be about me. It’s supposed to be about him. About why he can’t…
“Christa.”
Goddamn him. “Two days ago.”
He just stares at me. Eyes wide with disbelief.
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
I sit up against the pillows and cross my arms over my chest. “Why?”
“Seriously? You want to know how your situation is different from mine? Because I’ve known for years—
years
—that this is what I wanted. You’re making a decision that’s totally impulsive, out of panic. What if you felt differently in a week? Have you even told anybody?”
I hesitate for a moment, and then shake my head.
“Jesus Christ!”
I’ve never seen him so riled up. Of course, I’ve only known him for less than a day, but still. His ire is strangely fascinating to watch. It gives me a perverse thrill, to see him so incensed on my behalf.
After the first diagnosis nobody showed any anger at all. They were scared, obviously, but it was clear to me that their fear was for themselves. Sam was afraid he wouldn’t be able to handle it, and he was right, God bless him. He kept telling me it was going to be okay, but I knew it was himself he was talking to. Himself he was trying to reassure. He wanted to believe it would all go back to normal—to the time before we were married when the world was wide open and there were no responsibilities, no realities.
That became harder to do, after the surgery. I didn’t want the added complications of immediate breast reconstruction and wasn’t sure I ever would, and Sam took that personally.
“You’re just going to walk around like that?” he said. “What is it to you, like a badge of honor?”
“Maybe, yeah. Maybe it is.”
“I’ll tell you what it is, Christa. It’s you being able to claim victim status now for all eternity. You want the attention, is that it? You want people to look at you and say, ‘Oh, poor Christa?’”
“Who in the fuck would want this kind of attention, Sam?”
“You! You would! Whatever amount you get, it’s never enough. I’m not enough for you. Tanya’s not enough for you. I don’t know what the hell you want
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