What We Choose - PREVIEW ONLY

Chapter One - Paul

August

"Okay, Sophie, so for the port placement, we can do it next Wednesday at eight am. 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 the features of her beautiful face. Her skin has been more pale lately, but still radiant. Dark brown hair flows past her collarbone in waves, big blue-green eyes framed by dark lashes, and expressive eyebrows. I always tell her that I can read every feeling she has on her face. I know when she's feeling sad, or annoyed, or embarrassed, or nervous.

At this moment, with her eyes narrowed as she writes down the dates in her calendar, she's feeling determined. It's the same look she used to get while studying for finals in college. That sexy I'm going to kick this test's ass look that made me so hard I would end up distracting us from studying and fucking 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 voice is calm. I imagine she's trained to be gentle with cancer patients.

Cancer. I haven't even said it out loud but the word chokes up my throat with that uncomfortable 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.

Without even looking, Sophie reaches out and touches my curly blonde hair, soothing me. She's always in tune with my moods, always so damn sweet and caring. Always focused on me despite the situation we're in.

God, I love her so much it hurts.

"Will I need to fast before surgery?" Sophie asks, her voice even 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.

"Yes, nothing to eat after midnight and only clear liquids until four AM. It's a 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 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, but harder to keep.

Guilt rolls violently in my stomach, nausea spikes fast, and I compulsively swallow the saliva building in my mouth. 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 fuck if it only makes the feeling worse. I gently grab her hand and remove it, her contact suffocating and reassuring all at once.

Reassurance I don't fucking deserve.

I kiss the soft skin of her palm in thanks anyway, though, and paint on a smile that feels more just a slight twist of my lips. Sophie gently smiles 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 were in our Master's programs, running on coffee, energy drinks, and pure spite in those days. Our eyes met once and, like the sun bursting through clouds on a gloomy day, she smiled at me. I was gone for her that second.