Page 96 of Born to be Wilder

I thought about what this figure would look like if I came back a year later and asked him to do this again.

Would I still look like me? A lumpectomy and a scar but otherwise my figure the same?

Or would I look completely different? My breasts gone, perhaps rebuilt into something new?

Would I be looking at one percent or twenty-five percent?

I still didn’t know which path I would choose. But what I did know was despite the fact they were trying to kill me now, I was grateful for these breasts and all we had been through together.

They were part of a body that had carried me through a wild, beautiful life. They had changed over the years—softened, shifted—just like me.

But I loved every version of them from the first moments of their arrival—my excitement at fourteen after my wishes had been answered and I could stop shoving socks in a training bra.

How they’d looked in that first showgirl costume I’d worn. Not large—they were never large—but they’d been beautiful. Perky and glittering with the sparkles dusted across them.

How they’d fed my daughter. Given her nourishment and life as I struggled to find my path into motherhood. How natural it had felt the first time she latched on.

How Alejandro would look at me in that red dress he loved so much, his gaze always drifting to them with the low-cut neckline that hit them just right.

How they’d looked in that madam’s costume, pushed tight together and begging for their own applause.

Thank you, I thought as I glanced down at them. Thank you for being such an incredible part of my life.

Lawrence’s hand moved effortlessly across the small canvas. I stood in that moonlight, exposed and raw, feeling every bit of the fear and grief and hope surging through me so he could capture me exactly as I felt in the moment the way he’d done with me dancing.

Emotions I didn’t even know I had hidden surfaced as I stood there, tears pricking my eyes. But this time I didn’t force them back. This time, I let my vulnerability break through.

Open.

Honest.

Me.

A girl with cancer.

Terrified. Devastated.

But also loved and supported and protected so well that I knew we couldn’t fail.

When he finished, he set down his brush and stepped back and said nothing. Just turned the canvas slightly so I could see it.

I looked at the painting.

The woman in it was beautiful.

He had done exactly what I’d hoped. Captured every curve, every hint of light on my skin, but also somehow, most importantly, he’d captured what I was feeling. Froze me in this moment of my journey through life, beautiful and strong and terrified.

“It’s incredible. Thank you,” I said simply, more profound words struggling to form.

He just nodded. “I’ll let you get dressed.”

He turned around, and I gathered up my clothes and dressed. When I was done, he pulled the painting off the easel.

“It’s wet, so I’ll get a box you can carry back to your room.”

He scrounged around, then procured a box just big enough to slide the canvas into, leaving the top open so it could breathe. I pulled out a thousand dollars and offered it to him. He declined. I set it on the easel, giving him a look that meant I wouldn’t take no for an answer.

He looked at it for a moment, then at me, and gave a soft nod before walking to the door and opening it.