Page 22 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

6

My Phantom Nipples

When I step out into the Tuesday evening chill, I feel it. It’s a split second of panic, followed by a rush of embarrassment—like losing your glasses only to find them on your face. It’s the shock of the cold air hitting my sensationless breasts—the moment I feel my nipples showing through my thin shirt, then remembering all over again I don’t have them.

When I was a teenager, I would sneak my mother’s romance novels off her bookshelves, carefully replacing them before she noticed. Heroines had an awareness of their nipples I didn’t understand at the time. I inhaled passages of women taking note of the specific states of nipple arousal—purpled, pinched, plumped, pebbled, and perky. These nipples all seemed to have a life of their own. I never really noticed the pair of nipples on my chest.

Now that I don’t have nipples, though, I always notice them. I feel their absence pucker under my blouse like a phantom limb when I walk into a cool breeze. When Adam caught me in the car lot two days ago, I swear they pinched in a way that would make any Regency-era maiden blush. But since I no longer have physical sensation on my breasts (no hot, no cold, no pain, no pleasure), what I do feel is a trick of the brain.

I constantly wonder what they’d be doing, like my old nipples still exist somewhere in the ether. They’re a vacation fling I’ve lost track of and am now left dreaming about. What are they doing now? What would we be doing together? Is there a world where we could’ve made it work?

I hike up the box of Sam’s flatware over my phantom nipples as I heave it into the back of my car in front of his apartment. Dr.Lewis asked Adam to leave the boxes we packed in their garage while he and his wife are in Florida, but after getting derailed by the no-snow emergency, the delivery duties fell on me.

Mara Tetrises the final box and clicks the trunk shut. “Just the one trip, right? I have a call with the Guy in an hour. He’s mid-meltdown.” She slides into the passenger seat.

My Subaru hums to life when I push the starter. “Someone caught wind of the secret baby?”

She checks her face in the mirror before flipping up the visor. “Ugh. I wish. My kingdom for a secret baby. That’s a scandal I would rock. Is that all of the boxes?”

“Just from the kitchen. We’ve hardly made a dent in packing. Can you check if Adam texted the Lewises’ garage code yet?” I pass her my unlocked phone before pulling out of Sam’s parking lot.

Categorizing a screenshot of a text from my ex-boyfriend’s dad as a “text from Adam” feels like a stretch. Adam’s gone from monosyllabic responses to zero.

“Al, this text conversation is completely lopsided.” Mara does nothing to conceal her cringe as she scrolls up to the beginning of the thread. “You’re quadruple texting him for almost nothing in return.”

“That’s how he is with everyone.”

“I kind of respect that level of misanthropy.”

“He’s dipped into some special reserves of hostility for me. Did I mention that he can’t stand me?”

“You mentioned that in the apartment. And on the stairs. And when the box broke in the lobby.”

I click on my blinker and squint into the late autumn sun. “I’m not used to being disliked. It rattles me.”

“How are you not done with this apartment thing yet?” she asks, her tone steeped in judgment.

“It turns out Sam was pretty bad at home ownership. When he broke off part of the faucet handle, he just duct-taped it.” I flit my eyes toward Mara, who’s pursing her lips. “There’s more stuff like that all over the place. We’re not even close to done.”

“Can’t they hire someone?”

“I don’t think they know how bad it is, and I feel wrong tattling to his parents.” When Rachel told me he was lying to his parents about our relationship to appear more serious and settled, she introduced me to a part of Sam I had so much more in common with: a people pleaser performing a version of himself. I can’t betray that guy, even if he broke up with me in the middle of a lake. “Adam seems determined to do it all himself, and I promised Sam’s mom I’d help Adam.”

“If he wants to do it all himself, let him,” she says with a flick of her wrist.

I tilt my head, considering this. After all, Adam made it clear he didn’t want me around, and though I agreed to pretend that Sam never dumped me, I can’t imagine his family honestly cares which of his friends packs up his socks and paints the living room. If Adam wants the job so badly, why can’t I give it to him?

“It’ll free you up for weekend trivia before the tournament, and we desperately need the practice. I assigned Chelsea a couple of sports to study, but she’s deep in a Formula 1 hole. Can you learn everything there is to know about baseball by January first?” Mara shines her intensity on me as I check my blind spot to exit the highway.

“Everything there is to know about America’s oldest pastime? Sure,” I respond dryly.

“Start with Minnesota baseball and work your way out in concentric circles.” Mara says this like she’s asking me to grab takeout on the way over—a wholly ordinary and simple request.

“You’re insane.”

“I’m a winner. We have to beat our nemesis once and for all.”

Mara has a one-sided rivalry with another trivia team, Risky Quizness. They massacre us every time and have no idea who we are or that Mara hates them. It drives her batty. Consequently, she tends to overestimate Chelsea’s and my desire to memorize sports stats. But as with most things involving Mara, resistance is futile.

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