Page 18 of While I’m Still Here

“Yes, but that’s because they’re my tits.”

“I’ve known them a very long time, Bea. I’m pretty sure I was there when you got your first bra. I just never got to know them personally.”

That gets a proper laugh out of her.

I fucking love that sound.

It fades eventually, and she looks down at her hands. “I don’t want cancer to become my entire life.”

“Then don’t let it.”

She gives me a look. “I think chemotherapy might have something to say about that.”

“You know what I mean. You have spent thirty years doing things because you think you’re supposed to. You dated men you didn’t even like because you thought you should give the ‘nice guy’ a chance. You stayed in jobs you hated too long, apologised for being too loud, too emotional, too much. You have an entire wardrobe of clothes you don’t even fucking like because someone once told you that they suited your body shape.”

“Ok. That last one feels personal. Rude.”

“You hate that green dress, Bea.”

“I fucking hate that green dress,” she agrees, the loathing for the dress clear in her voice.

“Then burn it. Burn the fucking dress, and stop apologising for being you. If there’s anything you’ve been waiting to do, then fucking do it.”

Her eyes drift towards the notebook, and I know exactly which line she’s looking at. I try very hard not to.

I fail.

“Within reason,” I say before I can stop myself.

She laughs. “You were doing so well.”

“I panicked, okay?”

“You just said to do everything I want.”

“I did.”

“And what? You’re now adding terms and conditions?”

“No,” I say far more seriously than I mean to. She notices, and her smile fades. I don’t know exactly what I’m promising her, but maybe that’s what makes all of this real because I’m not sitting here imagining some perfectly neat version of the next year where Bea gets better, falls into my arms and declares her love for me.

That’s bullshit. Bea doesn’t owe me anything because I love her.

Not a relationship, or sex, or even exclusivity. Not the future I’ve occasionally been stupid enough to imagine when I couldn’t sleep.

Especially not now.

She’s just spent the afternoon being told what’s going to happen to her body. The last fucking thing she needs is a man arriving with a list of rules for it. “I mean it,” I tell her. “Whatever you want to do.”

She studies me. “What if I want to make a bad decision?”

“I’ve known you since primary school. I’m prepared.”

“What if I want to get drunk?”

“I literally brought two bottles tonight. As long as your doctor says it’s okay, then you can get drunk.”

“What if I decide to shave my head before chemo gets the chance?”