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“Something that should have happened a long time ago,” he answers while turning us. His quick hands move the strap of my sundress down my shoulder so he can kiss me there.
We walk backward and when the back of my knees hit the bed, I fall backwards onto it, his body following mine. We laugh a little but sober when the weight of him meets my length. I’m instantly warm head to toe and there’s a burning between my legs that makes me move my hips against him in a silent plea. He answers with a groan.
His mouth is on mine again and I’m sure I’ve never experienced a more amazing kiss than this. His hands wander down my body and mine move down his back, delighting in the ripples of muscles. I pull the back of his shirt up and sigh when I feel his hot skin. He whips his shirt up and over his head and I laugh at his eagerness and he shrugs and chuckles.
“God, I want you,” he says as his mouth moves down my neck and I arch my head to the side, silently telling him to keep going.
My fingers get tangled in his hair and my head is arched back. When his first kisses land on the top of my breasts, something painful, yet brief, penetrates the fog of lust but I’m still too lost in his touch to pay much attention. When he pulls the fabric of my dress away from my skin, he mutters a curse as my breasts are bared to him and mumbles, “Beautiful.” For a split second the look on his face and the feeling of his touch makes me feel beautiful too, but when he places his mouth on me, I freeze.
I can no longer ignore the feeling that’s worked its way to the forefront of my mind, because it’s paralyzing. With each touch, caress and kiss he gives my breasts I feel my body increasingly tense and three words keep repeating themselves in my mind like a mantra. ‘I have cancer. I have cancer. I have cancer.’
The words are like a bucket of cold water over my skin and they inevitably cause me to jerk away from his touch. “Stop,” I tell him, voice soft at first before getting louder. “No. Stop.” I push against his chest in an attempt to extricate myself from him.
“Remy?” Oliver questions as he stops immediately and lifts his head. His brow is furrowed, his lips wet and his eyes foggy with lust. “Are you okay? What’s wrong?”
“Please, let me up,” I tell him softly, but firmly.
He immediately moves off of me so I can stand. “What’s wrong?” he asks again. “Did I hurt you? Did I do something wrong?”
“No,” I choke out but clearly he doesn’t believe me. I get it, I feel just as confused as he is. Why now? Why is this an issue now? I’ve wanted to kiss Oliver, to have his hands on me, to know what it would feel like to have him look at me like that for as long as I can remember.
Replacing pieces of clothing as quickly as possible I move away from the bed, away from him.
“What’s going on?” he asks again; concern lacing his tone.
“Why are you doing this?” I blurt. I’m surprised by my own words in part, but the words are out there now, I can’t take them back. Plus, the question is a valid one.
“This? You’re going to need to elaborate.” Oliver sits on the edge of the bed. His bare chest could easily be distracting so I do my best to ignore it.
“Why are you kissing me?” Part of me feels embarrassed for my reaction, but on the tails of that is anger. I’ve loved Oliver for years, but it takes my getting cancer to get his attention? I feel anger at my treacherous body. “Why are you choosing now to show an interest in me?”
“I’ve always been interested.”
“Are you kidding me? No you haven’t been.”
“I have too.”
“Really? Because it seems to me that the minute you find out I have cancer, then you take a renewed interest in me. Why? Because you know it’s only temporary? Because you feel sorry for me?”
“No. That’s not it at all.”
Before he can say anything else, I run to the bathroom and close the door behind me, sliding down to the floor. I’m hiding and it’s childish, but I can’t do this right now. Not when I feel like it could break me. Not when the emotions I’ve been trying to keep at bay for the last couple of days feel so close to exploding.
Oliver knocks on the door, “Remy, please come out. I want to talk to you.”
I can’t respond. Emotion, no longer willing to be contained, chokes my throat. I can hear him sigh, hear him try to enter again even though the door is locked. “Please talk to me,” he begs and it makes the silent tears fall faster down my cheeks.
“I can’t,” I choke out.
“Remy,” he says and his voice, it sounds as broken as I feel.
“Please, just give me some time,” I beg.
“Okay,” he replies and after a moment I hear him move away from the door.
Standing I look at myself in the mirror. After a moment I slide my dress off and let it pool on the floor at my feet. Then I remove my swimsuit as well. Turning, I start the shower water and then return my gaze to the mirror and stare at my bared breasts. They look like they always do, like they always have. It’s funny now, remembering how much I wanted them to grow when I was younger. In fifth grade I was jealous of my friend Rachel because she was getting breasts already. I remember the day she came to school and bragged about her first bra – white with black polka dots – and I oohed and aahed over it like a good friend should do. All the while I was secretly distraught that my own chest was flat as a board.
If only I had known that the things I coveted, the things I rejoiced over when they finally started growing, would become the death of me. Anger – fierce, raw and savage runs through my body. Thoughts of ripping them off my body fly through my mind. Insane and ridiculous for sure, but a satisfying thought never the less.
