Page 52 of Free to Breathe
How dare men—Bryan, Marco, Jack, goddamned fucking Colby—dare to decide what’s best for me without asking me? Make a judgment about me? I may not have Ali’s level of genius, but I have qualities that are just as important. I have a heart. I have a soul. And for right now, I have a fully functioning brain.
After setting the cloth over the dough to rise, I wash my hands. Reviewing the list of to-dos tacked up on the board next to the sink, I’m tapping my foot when the kitchen door opens. Phil peeks his head in and turns to someone behind him. “Oh, good. She’s not holding knives.”
Without saying a word, I move toward my built-in knife cabinetry. I reach into the drawer where I keep the finely honed blades and pull out my most wicked chef’s knife. “That depends on who you’re talking to,” I threaten.
“It’s just me, Cori. Lower your weapon.” Cassidy breezes into my kitchen. Letting out a sigh of relief, I yell at my speakers to lower the volume, even as I slide the blade back into its slot. “Thank you. Now, do you want to tell me why your neurosurgeon called me a few minutes ago in a panic, thinking you’re changing your mind about your surgery?”
Because maybe I am?The thought flits through my mind briefly. “I asked him to call you because like most men, present company excluded, Phil—”
“Though not normally, so don’t get too big of a head,” Cassidy interjects, punching Phil in the arm.
I nod, ceding her point. “Most men are complete fucking assholes. I have no patience to be dealing with an extraordinarily egotistical one.”
“He was calling with your pre-op testing schedule, Cori,” Cassidy rebukes gently. “It was important.”
“All I tried to say was that I was up to my elbows in dough and it was a bad time to talk, Cass. I’m tired of being talked down to. Do people think the mass in my head makes me stupid?” I snap. “Why? Why is it so hard for people to understand I need some semblance of normalcy right now? As for it being important—don’t you think I get it? After all these years, don’t you think I get it?” By the time I’m done, the tears are wetting the burning fury heating my face.
Phil and Cassidy exchange a worried look. Suddenly, I feel sick. Is this what the end looks like for me? Anger and self-pity? No. I won’t let it come to that—not to these people who gave me nothing but safety, happiness, and joy. At least they tried their best.
“If Bryan wouldn’t talk with you, I’ll call him back now,” I say grudgingly.
Cassidy approaches me, inches shorter than me even in her heels. Wrapping her arms around me, she murmurs, “You don’t have to, Cori. I got all of the information. It’s on the family calendar.” Stroking my back, she says, “Phil, if you don’t mind?”
“Wait just a damn second. Maybe I can help,” he argues.
“Do you have a penis?” she asks sweetly.
“A damn nice one, if I do say so myself. I’m sure Jason will happily confirm.” Cassidy and I roll our eyes at him.
“If you have such a great one, then you probably don’t want to be here when Cori vents her frustration against the male species. Actually, I’m sure of it. Unless you’d like nightmares, I suggest you get out,” Cassidy encourages.
An evil grin crosses my face as Cassidy crosses to where I keep my cutting boards. Phil is frozen in horror. “No, that’s not what’s about to go on. Y’all are about to share some kind of gossip without me.”
Cassidy turns to me and says, “Chef’s knife bad or cleaver bad?”
I think back to Jack’s debasement, to Bryan delivering the news of the increased size of the tumor, then to Marco telling me he broke things off because he realized I had feelings for another man. A man who was a ghost. And then Colby. The months of his being an irritant, making amends, running into Addison, and the scene last night at my front door. Without hesitation, I answer, “Both.”
Cassidy goes into my knife drawer and hands me the first blade, a wicked cleaver I use when I’m cutting a pumpkin or experimenting with hard vegetables. I hold the perfectly weighted blade in my hand, wishing for a throwing board with every fiber of my being. I accept the equally diabolical chef’s knife, sharpened enough I could run a man through.
Perfect.
“Be right back,” Cassidy chirps before walking into my refrigerator.
Phil is still standing in place, jaw completely unhinged. He’d better step back or get out, lest he becomes a target of the results of my handiwork. I’m not handing out protective gear for this sideshow.
Cassidy comes out with an impressive assortment of fruits and vegetables, almost staggering under the weight of it. I’d offer to help, but I’m way too fascinated at my overly in-control sister handing me the keys to wreak havoc.
“Last chance, Phil,” Cassidy tells him. Handing me a grapefruit, she says, “Think of this one as Phil’s thick skull for not listening.”
I don’t even hesitate. I pick up the cleaver, and with a swift movement, I slam the blade down to slice it clean through.
Phil emits a choking sound.
“Again!” Cassidy demands. She shoves another grapefruit at me, and less than a second later, that one is divided in half. Cassidy promptly grabs a bowl and moves them away from the other fruit.
“Here, Cori. Phil won’t leave. He’s proven himself just as stupid as the others. What does he deserve for that?” In her hands is a ripe tomato. With a wicked smile at my sister, I switch knives. Not even looking at Phil, I bring the knife flat side down. Hard. Tomato chunks go flying in all directions at ludicrous speeds. I see some of it land on Cassidy, who just laughs in delight.
Phil, not so much.
