Page 78 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

With a quick peck on my jaw, he exits the bathroom. I grab my robe from the hook and sneak on a swipe of mascara and berry-colored lip balm.

I find coffee and a single freezer Thin Mint on top of my bedside book tower. I scooch myself under my bedspread beside him and sip from my mug cautiously, swiping any residual crumbs off of Glennon Doyle.

“You need a bookshelf for those.” Adam gestures from beside me.

“If only I knew a hot carpenter.”

“Are they going on the shelf I’m building?”

“No. That’ll go by the door for all my hiking, climbing, and backpacking stuff. My bookcase is over there—mocking me.” I point at the tall Wayfair box propped in the corner.

“We’ll put that together today.” Adam looks pleased to have a building task on the agenda. “You seem to enjoy the self-help section.” He points to the pile of books next to me.

“My BRCA books.” He looks puzzled. “They’re the books I bought after I got my mastectomy.”

His eyes scan the spines: Braving the Wilderness; Wild; Eat, Pray, Love; The Year of Yes; Walden; The Wilderness of Grief; Untamed; and If Your Dream Doesn’t Scare You, It Isn’t Big Enough.

He eyes Glennon. “I’m sensing a theme, and it’s not boobs.”

“There aren’t a lot of BRCA-specific books—though I do have a couple of those too—so after my mastectomy, I bought a bunch of general female-empowerment memoirs and grief books.”

“Why is the wilderness such a large part of female empowerment? Do you know how many first-time hikers die each year?”

“More people die in cars.”

“More people are in cars,” he retorts.

“Are you seriously taking a stance against the natural world?”

“I reject the idea that a person is automatically self-actualized by hiking the Pacific Crest Trail.”

“I’ve read at least three memoirs that would refute that.” We’re rattling the rock of messy BRCA-related feelings growing moss inside my chest, and since I’d rather wrestle a coked-up grizzly than uncover what lies beneath my buried neuroses, I drink from my mug and stare down at my bedspread for conversational inspiration. “I don’t know what we’re supposed to do today. Usually, on a Sunday, I’d be getting ready to see you.”

He lifts his brow. “We can meet downtown in an empty apartment.”

“Kinky.”

“You’re hopeless.” He gets up and pulls on his jeans, jumping a little to fasten himself into them. “I need some breakfast before I can do your talking thing with you.”

“I’m supposed to feed you? It’s been so long since I’ve had an overnight sex guest.”

Adam’s face trips a bit. I reach out and grab his hand, forcing him to meet my eyes. “Since the mastectomy—”

“You don’t have to—”

“I want to.” I squeeze his palm and the small gesture loosens the tight rope of muscles in his shoulders. “You’re the first person I’ve trusted to see me. All of me.”

My words, however clumsy, have the intended effect and his thumb swipes over my knuckles. “You’re so beautiful, Alison. Every part of you is beautiful.”

My heart explodes in my chest. I do the only reasonable thing and pull him toward me for a kiss, spilling a drop of coffee on my bedspread in the process, but I can’t bring myself to care.

We get dressed and walk the few blocks to my favorite breakfast spot. One part bakery, one part restaurant, and all parts country cottage aesthetic, the Coffee Cake caters to the weekday lunch crowd and Sunday brunchers. We sit at the counter facing a large window peering into the kitchen, and I order cinnamon French toast while teasing Adam mercilessly for ordering oatmeal.

So much is just like always, but everything’s changed. For one thing, we never stop touching.

My knee presses against his.

His thumb draws circles in my palm.

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