My wife Sophie and I were building our future. In love, happy, peaceful.

But she was diagnosed and I made the worst choice: I numbed my fear by sleeping with someone else.

Sophie's hand finds mine on the table and her warm touch scalds me. "We have a plan now. Everything will be fine."

We.

Her trust, her love for me is steadying her in the middle of this nightmare and, oh God, I open my mouth and tear it all apart.

"I slept with Elise."

The gentle smile is completely wiped from Sophie's face now; her eyebrows pull together and finally chokes out, "y...you...how long?"

"Since your biopsy appointment."

"Since my..." She starts breathing fast.

I move without thinking to go to her, to do something to help her but she freezes me with a glacial look. "Two months?"

"Sophie... I was scared, and you were so—everything was so serious, and Elise—she... she let me—just—god—breathe for a second." I paused.

"And... we haven't had intercourse in a long time—"

Silence detonates like a bomb between us.

Sophie looks absolutely wrecked.

I've never seen that look on her face.

Then she takes a deep breath and a small smile curves at her lips, "You know what, Paul? I'm done. I don't deserve this."

————————

PAUL

"Okay, Sophie, so for the port placement, we can do it next Wednesday at 8:15 a.m. Arrival at six-thirty for pre-op. Does that sound good?"

"Perfect!" Sophie chirps brightly, writing it in her floral calendar with her perfect penmanship. 'Catholic school,' she would tell me with a wink when I used to tease her for it.

I look at her profile, studying her face. Her beautiful little face - her skin's been more pale lately, but still radiant. Dark brown hair that flows past her collarbone in waves, big blue-green eyes framed by dark lashes, expressive eyebrows. I always say I can read every feeling she has on her face. I know when she's feeling sad, or annoyed, or embarrassed, or nervous. Right now, with her eyes narrowed as she writes down the dates in her calendar, tongue peeking out the side of her mouth, I know she's feeling determined. Same look she used to get while studying for finals in college. That se-xy I'm going to kick this test's butt look that made me so hard I would end up distracting us from studying and screwing her into the mattress. The memory gives me a little flicker of joy that I don't deserve.

"Great, I'm going to lock this time slot in..." the scheduler's - Karen, she had introduced herself as - voice is calm and measured. I imagine it's trained to be dealing with cancer patients. Cancer, I haven't even said it out loud but the word chokes up my throat with that uncomfortable peppery burn. I swallow twice with no relief before grabbing my black insulated water bottle off the kitchen table we're sitting at. Sophie bought the bottle for me two years ago and decorated it with stickers from our different road trips over the years. My hand shakes as I lift it to my lips and sip slowly. No relief. Deserved.

Sophie reaches out without looking and smooths my curly blonde hair, soothing. She's always in tune with my moods. Always so sweet and caring toward me. Always focused on me despite the situation we're in right now.

God, I love her so much it hurts.

"Will I need to fast before surgery?" Sophie asks calmly, like she's scheduling a hair appointment. She's been pure grace through this whole process, meanwhile I feel as though I'm seconds from tearing my skin off from the too tight feeling suffocating me.

"Yes, nothing to eat after midnight and only clear liquids until four AM," the scheduler says. "Very easy procedure. You'll have light sedation, a small incision near the collarbone and you'll be able to go home the same day! Do you have reliable transportation?"

"Yes, my fiancé will drive me," Sophie answers with a smile, not even glancing over to confirm. I told her I'd be there every step of the way, and her trust in me is unshakable. Her trust in my soothing words from four months ago when we found that strange lump - does this look weird to you? - and her trust in my words from a year ago when I asked her to marry me with that grand romantic speech about loving her in sickness and in health.

That's the thing about promises - they're easy to make, harder to keep.

The guilt rolls my stomach, nausea spikes hot and fast and I have to swallow the saliva building in my mouth. I take deep breaths to push it down. Sophie - Jesus Christ, my sweet Sophie - notices and lays her hand on the back of my neck with a gentle squeeze. She's comforting me and screw if it only makes the nausea worse. I gently grab her hand and remove it, her contact suffocating and reassuring all at once. Reassurance I don't deserve. I peck the soft skin of her palm in thanks anyway though and smile at her. I'm not even sure if it's a smile, it feels more like a twist of my lips. Sophie just smiles gently at me and returns her gaze back to the phone.

Gentle. If there's a word more perfect to describe my fiancée, I haven't found it yet.

I met Sophie in college at Northeastern. Both of us in our Master's programs, running on energy drinks and spite. Our eyes met once and, like the sun bursting through clouds on a gloomy day, she smiled at me. Just like that, I was gone for her.

I had never had problems approaching women, born with golden boy looks my mom always said, so I walked right up to the beautiful brunette studying at the table across from mine and asked for her number. Six years together, two Masters degrees and two well earning jobs, an apartment and a savings account building toward a downpayment on a house and our wedding.

We moved into a two-bedroom apartment in my hometown after I was offered my job with Beacon Wharf Redevelopment. It was like I had never left. I was back as the golden boy of Starling Cove. My entire family, my old friends, my old life welcomed me with open arms.

After graduation and our engagement, Sophie moved here for me without hesitation, saying she just wanted to be with me. She said she'd move mountains to make it happen, and she did. Every day she drove forty minutes to her Financial Analyst job in Boston with a smile, coming home to cook us dinner while I breezed in late after long projects.

Our weekends fell into an easy rhythm: Saturday mornings spent food shopping, afternoons curled up on the couch watching our favorite movies, or nights out at the bars with my friends. Sundays meant dinner at my parents' house, where they adored Sophie, followed by us dancing around our apartment as we cleaned and prepped for the week.

For an entire year, things were perfect. Our future seemed closer than ever.

......

Until that Sunday when I learned that lump might be my least favorite word of all time.

"Okay, and then we can start your weekly chemotherapy on the following Tuesday, the twelfth," the oncology scheduler says, her voice ripping me out of my memories. "It'll be every Tuesday for twelve weeks. Does that work?"

"Yes, that works perfectly," Sophie says, circling the 12th and then filling in each Tuesday after for the twelve weeks. Twelve.

Three months.

"And the surgery?" Sophie asks, voice a little smaller at this.

"Plan is a bilateral mastectomy with immediate implant reconstruction, tentatively the week after Christmas. Gives you a bit of a buffer after chemo and you can enjoy your Christmas! Plastic surgery will be present during surgery. You'll stay at least one night, but I would plan for two just in case. Drains for about a week. After healing, we'll start radiation Monday through Friday, for four to six weeks."

"Four to six...got it!" Sophie says, underlining the time frame twice in her notebook.

"Any questions, Sophie?"

"Uhm...oh, how soon would radiation start after surgery?" Sophie asks, pen at the ready. She's completely unaware that each word from the scheduler's mouth feels like a haymaker to my face. Surgery, mastectomy, her breasts cut off and gone. I know, I screwing know how selfish and sick this thought is as it infiltrates my brain, but the image of her perfect breasts being gone hits me.

And then even worse, I think of Elise...

"About four to six weeks post-op, assuming wounds are healing as they should. We'll coordinate with Dr. Patel in plastics for your implants."

Sophie's pen moves swift. "Okay. Wednesday - Port Surgery. Tuesday - Infusions, twelve weeks. After Christmas for surgery. Radiation February-ish...okay, I got it." Sophie breathes in what sounds like relief, brave girl. "And the pre-meds will make me drowsy, you said?"

"It varies. They'll give you a steroid and antihistamine beforehand. Some people use the time to nap. Some read, or listen to music, or bring their tablets to watch reality tv. That's what my mom did at least. I finally got her to watch all seasons of Real Housewives and she's hooked!"

Sophie nudges my arm playfully as she jests, "Hey! Looks like I'll be able to put a dent into my TBR list, at least."

Sophie and the scheduler laugh together at the moment of levity, like they're old friends catching up and not scheduling appointments for Sophie to get poison shot into her veins for months. But that's the thing about Sophie, people just naturally gravitate toward her - her warmth, her genuine kindness, her thoughtfulness, the way she smiles with her whole face. Even when she snaps at me - over laundry being left in front of the hamper and not in the hamper, or when I half-listen to something she's saying and she has to repeat herself - she's always quick to apologize.

She hates being mean, even for a second, even when it's deserved.

And screw if I don't deserve it right now.

"I'll tell you what, Sophie, that's the mindset you should keep through this whole process. My mom told me this after she got diagnosed - 'I might have cancer, but cancer doesn't have me.'"

Sophie's eyes soften and warm at this, she looks over to me and smiles. I try to return it, but I'm pretty sure I fail. "I love that. Thank you for sharing that, Karen."

"You're welcome, Sophie. Do you have any other questions for me?"

"No, I think I'm good," her eyes dart over her neat notes and schedule but she finally caps her pen and smiles at the phone even though Karen can't see her. "Thank you so much for your assistance."

"You are so welcome, we'll see you Wednesday."

They end the call and Sophie lets out another relieved sigh. "Well, at least that's one thing I don't have to worry about anymore. Now we just have to show up."

Her words are steady, calm and easy, but they hit me like shrapnel. It's a physical pain and I have nowhere to put it. My heart slams in my chest uncomfortably and the nausea returns with a vengeance. My vision swirls and I blink hard, but it doesn't clear. My throat burns, my chest cinches tight, my skin feels like it's two sizes too small.

She turns to me then, her smile soft and reassuring like she's the one promising me everything will be okay. Gentle. Always gentle. My sun. My light.

That's what undoes me.

The thought slices in, jagged and so screwing cruel - her body broken open, breasts gone, drains, scars. The image of her perfect chest carved away, replaced with nothing but sterile reconstruction. Right behind it is Elise and her perfect body. Her gorgeous breasts falling out of her bra and into my waiting hands, her smooth skin under my palms as she rode me in the front seat of my car. The same seat that Sophie sat in the next morning as we went to another doctor's appointment. Elise's mouth against mine moaning my name as she came. Elise with no ports or scars or poison running through her veins to kill cancer cells.

I hate myself for it, for even letting the comparison even exist.

Sophie's hand finds mine on the table and her warm touch scalds me. "We have a plan now."

We.

Her trust, her faith, her love for me is steadying her in the middle of this nightmare and, oh God, I open my mouth and tear it all apart.

"I slept with Elise."

"You...I'm sorry? Can you repeat that?"

"I..." My throat closes and my mouth is cotton as I choke out. "I slept...I've been sleeping with Elise."

The gentle smile is completely wiped from Sophie's face now.