Page 63 of While I’m Still Here

They tell you to stay positive and that you’ve got this. If you’re particularly unfortunate, somebody will tell you that cancer is a journey built for God’s strongest warriors.

Fuck that. Cancel subscription.

Bea appears to have even less patience for it than I do.

A woman across the circle tells her that she’s inspiring for coming back so soon after being diagnosed, and I see Bea’s expression change instantly. Her mouth opens, presumably with something catastrophic prepared, but then she seems to reconsider before speaking. “I’m not inspiring. Colin drove me here while I complained the entire way.”

Janet smiles. “But you still came.”

“I threatened to jump out at two roundabouts until he reminded me that I never got to try the cupcakes last time because I’m now suddenly biased towards the colour pink,” she says.

I laugh. “At least you waited for the roundabouts,” I say before I can stop myself from joining the conversation.

“What can I say? I’m safety conscious.”

The room laughs, and Bea visibly relaxes now that the attention has moved away from praising her. She doesn't want applause for having cancer, and most definitely doesn't want to be told how strong she is before she's had an opportunity to decide whether she feels strong. She wants to be frightened and furious and occasionally inappropriate without somebody turning it into a lesson about resilience.

I understand that… Possibly more than I should. I also find her attractive, which is considerably less convenient. I noticed it last week, but dismissed it as irrelevant. She's beautiful, certainly, but beautiful people aren't rare enough to justify making poor decisions. It's everything surrounding it that's becoming more difficult to ignore. The expressions she fails to conceal. The way her mouth twists when she's trying not to laugh. The fact that she seems physically incapable of allowing a solemn moment to remain solemn for too long.

She is also newly diagnosed, frightened and apparently attached in some capacity to the man who collected her last week.

That should make the matter simple.

It does not.

When the meeting finishes, I deliberately take longer than necessary washing my mug because I've decided the sensible thing is to leave without seeking Bea out.

“Marcus?” So much for that. I turn and find her standing behind me, coat over one arm and her handbag hanging from her shoulder. “Are you busy?”

“No.”

“Do you want to get coffee?” I glance at the mug I'm currently rinsing. Bea follows my eyes. “Actual coffee. Not whatever war crime you've been drinking for the last hour.”

“I made that.”

“Then you should be ashamed of yourself.”

I dry my hands. “There's a café around the corner.”

“I know. I saw it on the way in.”

“Is Colin collecting you?”

“Later.”

There is no reason for the small amount of relief I feel at that answer. “Coffee, then.”

Bea smiles. “Try to contain your excitement.”

“I am.”

“Mmhmm.”

The café is quiet when we arrive, and Bea immediately announces that she prefers it because nothing is pink. She spends several seconds appreciating the brown tables, brown chairs and brown coffee before declaring brown her “new cancer colour,” then insists on paying because she invited me. When I attempt to object, she looks offended. “Marcus, feminism has progressed far enough for women with cancer to buy men coffee.”

“I wasn't questioning feminism.”

“Sounded like it.”