Page 81 of Rescuing Mary

“Thank you for fighting,” Truck told her. “Thank you for not giving up. I’m sure you wanted to, but thank you for letting me help you.”

Mary looked at the floor then. They stood silent for a minute or so before Truck risked taking another step toward her. When she didn’t retreat, he took another. Then another. When he was right in front of her, he reached out and gently pulled her into his arms and held her just as he had in his memory.

She immediately wrapped her arms around his waist and put her head on his chest. Truck sighed in relief and shut his eyes. The only time he felt completely at ease since he’d been hurt was when he had Mary in his arms. It didn’t make sense; he only knew it was true.

“Tell me about the reconstruction,” he urged, sensing it would be easier for her to talk about it if she wasn’t looking at him.

“I have to decide if I want boobs,” she said succinctly.

“What’re the pros and cons?” Truck asked. “Talk it out with me.”

“Pros, I won’t look like an eight-year-old little girl,” she said dryly. “I’ll have perky tits that won’t sag when I’m eighty. I could get a stripping job and cater to all the pervs out there who want to get it on with an elderly woman.”

Truck chuckled. “Yeah, not going to happen, babe.”

“Pros, I could wear V-neck shirts again. I’d have cleavage. I’d be able to wear normal bathing suits and not have to worry about making sure I put in my waterproof boobs. I wouldn’t have to worry about leaning over and having my boob fall out of my bra. I’d feel…attractive again.”

The last part was whispered, and Truck knew that was the most important thing she’d said. He tightened his grip on her. As much as he immediately wanted to tell her to do it, he wanted her to feel as beautiful as she already was. Wanted her to see herself as he did…absolutely stunning. But he worried about the risks as well. “And the cons?”

“It would take over a year for the entire process. They’d have to take fat cells from my thighs and stomach and inject them into my chest to try to stretch out the skin there, so they can even put in the implants. I’m paranoid that getting implants will somehow mask the cancer returning. And I’ve always hated women who have fake tits. It seems like something women do to try to attract men. And that’s fucked up. They’re just blobs of fat on our chest…it shouldn’t matter.”

He understood. And unfortunately, he had absolutely no advice for her. This wasn’t something he could decide. The process didn’t sound pleasant, that was for sure. He hated the thought of her going through more pain simply to conform to society, but if it made her feel better about herself as a woman, it could be worth it.

“So? What should I do?” she asked.

Truck had dreaded the question. “I can’t make this decision for you, Mare.”

She snorted against his chest and pulled away abruptly. “Yeah. Whatever.”

He took hold of her upper arms and kept her from moving away from him. Her hands came up to push at him, but he held on. “I like you exactly how you are, Mary. I don’t give one little shit if you have boobs or not.”

Another memory flashed through his brain, of lying next to her in his bed, trying to find a place he could touch her that wouldn’t hurt. Of Mary being bare from the waist up because she couldn’t stand anything against her chest. It was red and her skin was peeling off from the radiation. He’d never seen anything so horrific in all his life, and he’d seen a lot in his time as a medic in the Army.

“Right,” she drawled. “Men like boobs. They like to squeeze them, suck on them, and love to see them bouncing up and down. Cleavage is like crack to men, they can’t look away.”

“I like you,” Truck said with a hint of impatience. “I like what’s in here,” he said, putting his hand on the side of her head. “And in here.” He put his other hand over her heart, noticing for the first time that her breasts weren’t natural. “The rest is just window dressing.”

Mary knocked his hands off her body and stepped back. “I don’t believe you. All men want a beautiful woman by their side.”

“Look at me,” Truck ordered.

“What?”

“Does my scar make you ashamed to be by my side? Does it make you less attracted to me?”

“It’s not the same,” Mary protested.

“It’s exactly the same,” Truck countered. “I can’t tell you how many times women have refused to look me in the eyes because of it. Or how many women have gone straight for one of my friends, dismissing me because of this hideous scar. But the bottom line is, I don’t give a shit. If they can’t see past my scar, then I want nothing to do with them. Mary, when I lost my memory, you could’ve taken the opportunity to avoid me altogether. You could’ve pretended you didn’t know me. But you didn’t. When that chick at the bar made a play for me, you were right there, defending me and claiming me. Why?”

Mary looked away from him then. “Anyone would’ve done that.”

“No, they wouldn’t. They haven’t. You did though. Why?”

She pressed her lips together, then said, “What do you want to hear, Trucker? That I can’t live without you? That I owe you my life? What?”

“How about that you care?” Truck asked softly. “Can you admit that you care about me? Even a little?”

Mary stared at him with big eyes. He could see the emotions churning there. But he knew she wasn’t going to give him what he wanted. What he needed.