Page 37 of While I’m Still Here

Not pity but it’s close enough that my skin prickles.

“I need to go.”

“You were diagnosed yesterday.”

“I know.”

“You don't have to pretend everything is normal.”

I stop halfway to the stairs because that's exactly why I need to go. I look back at him. “My flat has a Pink Folder of Doom in it. My mum cries when she says my name now. You're standing in my kitchen after telling me you've been in love with me for seven years, and somewhere inside my breast is a tumour I can't stop thinking about even though I can't actually fucking feel it.” Colin doesn't interrupt. “At work, I'm Bea whose printer doesn't work. Here, I'm Bea with cancer.”

He could tell me I'm being ridiculous or tell me that I need to rest. He doesn't, and I could kiss him for it. Colin just nods. “Okay.”

Relief hits me embarrassingly hard. “Okay?”

“Go to work.”

I don't need telling twice. I bolt upstairs. Ten minutes later, I'm standing in front of my wardrobe wearing a bra, a skirt and absolutely no idea what top makes a person look NOT CURRENTLY EXPERIENCING A MAJOR MEDICAL CRISIS.

Black feels too funeral. Pink can fuck all the way off. White seems recklessly optimistic.

Then I see it.

The green dress.

I narrow my eyes. It hangs there innocently. Lying bitch. “Don't even fucking think about it.”

“Are you talking to your clothes?” A voice comes from behind me.

I spin around. Colin is leaning against my bedroom doorway, fully dressed now.

Unfortunately.

“Privacy, Fletcher. Have you heard of it?”

“You left the door open.”

“I have cancer.”

He folds his arms. “You're going to use that for everything now, aren't you?”

“Obviously.”

His eyes drop straight to my chest. I catch him. “Colin Fletcher.”

His gaze shoots back to my face. “What?”

“Were you staring at my tits?”

“No.”

“You were.”

“I wasn't staring.”

“What were you doing, then?”

He hesitates. Wrong choice. Very wrong choice.