Page 53 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

“Yes. Exclusively.”

He shuts his eyes. I can’t believe I ever saw his face as stiff and unreadable. It’s so expressive when you know what you’re looking for. Reaching over, I smooth the creases in his forehead with my hand. His breath deepens and slows. His reaction would be proof of something if we were anyone else, anywhere else.

I pull my hand away and sit back in my seat, and he leans away too.

“I have the breast cancer genetic mutation, BRCA1. But I don’t have cancer.” I blurt the second sentence again for emphasis. I’ve learned this particular health disclosure requires that frequent reminder.

I take a breath. “You know how Angelina Jolie—” I cut myself off when I realize Adam is likely as familiar with her BRCA journey as he is with the Kardashian offspring.

“Most people have tumor-suppressing genes, but mine don’t work. I’m okay now, though. I got a preventative double mastectomy where they removed my breast tissue, and I went from probably getting breast cancer to probably not. So, again, I don’t have cancer, despite what the building suggests. I still screen for ovarian cancer until I remove my ovaries, but the risk is only about forty-five percent over my lifetime.” I rub at my forehead, clumsily telling Adam in a few sentences what took years to come to terms with and months to recover from.

“That’s like a coin flip.”

“It doesn’t work like that. The risk increases as I get older. I have a little time to decide what to do next, but, yeah, I need to remove my ovaries eventually.”

“What would that mean?”

I like that he doesn’t ask me when I’m planning to remove them, what my game plan is, or if it’s what I want, because the answers are: possibly soonish; I don’t know; and of course not, but my genetics don’t fit with my personal desires.

He only wants to know what it would mean for me, how it would make me feel to be a single, nippleless woman in her thirties taking hormone replacement medication to stave off the side effects of a self-induced menopause.

“It means…I have a lot of decisions to make. But it could be so much worse. Other women with BRCA get breast cancer. My mom did, but now she’s healthy, thank god. So it’s not like I can be angry or sad about cheating death.”

“I’m not sure it works like that. You feel what you feel.” Adam moves closer to me, deliberately this time. There’s only a wisp of air separating our knees. His eyes have a weight to them that presses me against the passenger window. I swallow.

“Why didn’t you tell me what your appointment was for?” He’s not accusing me of withholding anything, just curious about the way and why of me, because all of a sudden, we’re not some guy and his best friend’s current girlfriend. We’re something else entirely, and I’m not sure when that happened or if I could stop it if I tried.

When Adam and I were strangers, the detail that Sam had dumped me felt inconsequential. Now it feels important and too late to set him straight. Would it change anything? Would he understand? Would he even care?

“It’s not a secret,” I answer, smoothing my coat. “But it’s something I haven’t figured out how to share.”

It’s true. I never spit it out quick enough, and I watch the emotions pass over the person’s face—But, honey, you’re so young, and when they understand I don’t have cancer and feel foolish, What kind of person allows someone to think they have cancer for even a moment?

“And then you’d do the thing people do where they indiscreetly stare at my boobs, searching for the flaw in the design.”

“Men do that to you?” Adam’s eyebrows fly upward.

“Everyone does that to me.” I see Adam work to keep his eyes on my face. “You’re doing it right now!”

“Only because you brought it up like a challenge. It’s like daring me not to think about elephants. It’s impossible.”

“Likely story, perv.”

Shocked, Adam laughs. It’s a nice laugh. His whole face brightens, and the low sound rumbles through the truck cab. His happiness vibrates on my skin.

His eyes meet mine, and for a moment, I think he’s leaning toward me and closing the space between us. Then he clears his throat, and I lean back—the spell broken.

Adam points himself forward. “I’m guessing Sam knew.”

I nod. “Mara and Chelsea think if not for the surgery, Sam and I never would’ve gotten together.”

“How’s that?”

“After my recovery, I wanted someone who would push me to live life. I wanted to be more adventurous, outdoorsy, and extroverted. Sam’s lazy Sunday was mountain biking in the morning and a raucous barbecue at the lake in the afternoon. He was the human embodiment of exposure therapy.” I smile at the memory of my wild and wonderful friend.

“Why do you want to change so much?” he asks, his eyes pinning me in place.

“Near-death experiences should change people. Workaholic stockbrokers survive plane crashes and quit to start nonprofits. Cancer survivors become triathletes. I was supposed to have this near-death moment, and I skipped it—mitigated it out of existence—and instead of whatever relief or cosmic insight I would’ve gotten, there’s just…” I press my hand to my heart, where the ache prods me. “A life-altering diagnosis should alter you. I shouldn’t go ‘back to normal’ after this. I have to make my life mean something.”

---