Page 273 of The Havenport Collection

Sam

I lay on the couch, staring up at the ceiling, a scratchy throw pillow tucked under my neck and candy wrappers and abandoned mugs of tea littering the coffee table. I hadn’t moved in twenty-four hours, not since my mom dropped me off after my appointment yesterday.

Despite sleeping on and off between flipping channels, I was exhausted. I had spent several hours crying and then even more completely zoned out.

When I was diagnosed with cancer, I expected to feel a lot of things, but I did not expect to feel numb. I did not expect that I would stop sleeping, eating, and feeling. I didn’t expect to just feel…nothing.

Because it seems, for everyone else on earth, my cancer made them feel LOTS of things.

Everyone would talk in platitudes about how I would “beat” it, how cancer wouldn’t win, blah blah blah. It was well-intentioned but made my eye twitch. I hated weakness, I hated pity, and most of all, I hated the thought that this wasn’t something I could manage on my own.

Because you can’t tell someone they are a warrior and then imply that they can’t heat up their own soup. Or that they need to move in with their mom to take care of them.

It’s not how it works.

I was still Sam. My personality had not changed. I was not feeble or weak. But I was scared shitless, and no one wanted to talk about that. All the positive thinking, all the peppy catchphrases, all the pink shit everywhere—none of that mattered when you were facing down this type of ordeal.

I heard the door open and knew it was Gio.

He had come over with a toolbox earlier to do some projects around the house.

He was a fixer, and I think it was his way of dealing with my news.

I admired that about him, his ability to throw himself into some single-minded task and block out the rest of the world’s shit.

I wish I could block out all this fear and grief and focus enough to build a table, but right now I can’t even keep up with an episode of The Office I’ve seen five times.

He had been out in the garage for a while, doing God knows what.

I probably should have offered him some water or something, but getting up just seemed too difficult at the moment.

Gio was going to Gio. He was going to do things.

It was who he was. And it seemed easier to just let him to it.

I didn’t have the energy to fight with him about whether the gutters needed to be cleaned or the azaleas needed to be trimmed.

Best to just let him do what he needed to do so I could do…

whatever it was that I was doing right now.

Existing? Surviving? Coping? Something like that.

I adjusted the pillow under my head and continued to stare at the ceiling, until I felt his presence.

I slowly turned my neck and gazed at him.

Worn jeans, faded T-shirt that pulled across his broad chest, and a baseball cap.

My heart did a little pitter-patter. It was the same dance it had been doing since high school, yet I still hadn’t learned to ignore it.

“Sam,” he said sternly.

I looked up at him again. He crossed his arms. It wasn’t fair. How was I supposed to properly wallow when he came over dressed like a sexy handyman and was making his biceps bulge at me? A girl only had so much ennui.

“I know this is a setback. I know you thought things would work out differently…”

I sat up quickly, feeling the rage bubble up in my chest. “Really? You want to pep talk me right now? I am going to lose my breast, Gio. And need chemo. It’s just so unfair.

” The meeting with Dr. Larsen had also been terrible/ She’d confirmed the need for a mastectomy, the total removal of my breast. This was a far cry from the small-scale lumpectomy I had been expecting.

I was getting a full head of steam now. My anger was a living organism, growing and evolving by the second. “My hair, Gio. My fucking hair. It’s bad enough they are chopping off my boob.”

He sat down next to me and put an arm around my shoulders. I wanted to cling to him and cry, but for the first time in days, I didn’t have any tears. Just rage.

He pulled my legs into his lap, slowly stroking my calves with his strong hands. “Your hair will grow back. You will get reconstruction,” he offered.

“Yes, but not right away. I can’t get the reconstruction until I finish radiation and chemo.

So it could be months where I’m walking around with scars and pain.

Not to mention bald. Every aspect of my womanhood is under attack.

” That was one of the worst blows—the news from the plastic surgeon that they couldn’t reconstruct my breast until after radiation.

I would have only one breast for God knows how long. Talk about an emotional ass kicking.

His eyes softened. “It will be hard. But you have me, and your mom, and this whole fucking town. You are not doing this alone.”

“And I appreciate that. But no one gets it. No one understands how horrible this feels. It’s like there is a ticking time bomb in my chest, and all day and night I can hear the tick of the timer.

And I still have to wait months to get it out of me.

This thing that could kill me. I just have to sit tight and think about all the pain, discomfort, and inconvenience that’s coming. ”

I sat back and stared at the ceiling again. I knew this was a possibility. The doctors had been clear about what the tests could reveal.

But the moment I heard, it was like all my confidence just disappeared. My can-do attitude went out the window and the self-pity set in. I wanted to be the confident woman who looked this challenge in the eyes and told it to fuck right off.

But she felt so far away right now.

“Here’s what I think. I think you are a badass.” I rolled my eyes at him. The last thing I needed was some half-assed platitudes.

“Look at your life, look at your history. You’ve been kicking ass forever—high school, college, your professional life, your travels, your history of service to others—you go after what you want and you achieve it, Sam.”

I looked at him. Maybe he was helping a little bit. I gave him a half smile and he tickled my feet.

“Sam Sullivan does not get scared.”

I sat up and stared at him. He raised one eyebrow, as if daring me to disagree.

I pulled my legs back, tucking them under me. “Maybe.” I sighed. “Remember when I got dengue fever?”

“Yes. They don’t call it bone break fever for nothing.”

“I was hallucinating for three days in the hospital. And a week later I was back to work. Setting up a microloan program in Ecuador.”

“Of course you were.”

He threw an arm around me, pulling me close. I sat for a minute, trying to see myself through his eyes. Gio had never been shy about building me up, helping me see my own power. He was the only person in my life who got it. I didn’t want to feel weak. Right now, I needed to trust my own strength.

“You know I’m right.” He leaned over and kissed the top of my head. It felt so good. As we sat quietly on the couch, I could feel the rage slipping away and tiny bits of optimism fighting their way into my mind.

I put my head on his shoulder. “Thank you,” I whispered.

“I’m always here, Sam,” he replied. “Also, I brought you a present.”

I eyed him suspiciously. “Please no flowers.” I gestured around the living room, which was beginning to resemble a greenhouse thanks to the well-intentioned citizens of Havenport.

He grabbed my hand and pulled me off the couch.

He led me to the garage and covered my eyes.

His body was flush against my back, and I could feel my neck tingle.

His proximity was doing things to me. It wasn’t a new sensation—these feelings had been present for a long time—but things felt more intense, more urgent now.

He opened the door to the two-car garage, which was neatly organized with a workbench on one side and some lawn tools hanging from the other. An ancient lawnmower was parked in the corner.

He turned me around, and I gasped.

Hanging from the ceiling was a giant black punching bag. The floor below it had been covered with those squishy mats they have at the gym, and on a small set of shelves were my sneakers, two pairs of boxing gloves, and a jump rope.

“Is this for me?”

He smiled. “I hope you like it.”

He turned the large heavy bag around. Right in the middle, he had written in pink paint, “CANCER.”

“I figured if you are going to beat cancer, it may help to, you know, beat cancer.”

I laughed. How many times had I wished cancer was a person, place, or thing that I could personally confront, rather than an amorphous medical diagnosis?

“I love it. But I don’t know much about boxing.”

He handed me some gloves. “Good thing I do. I’ll coach you.”

He walked me through the basic punches, and I found myself getting into it. I liked hitting something. My heart rate was up and I was sweating a bit; this was fun.

“Try a combination, here.” He showed me and I mimed what he was doing slowly.

“That’s it. Use your hips, really follow through.”

I hit the bag as hard as I could and watched it move. It was satisfying. I hit it again, just like he had showed me.

Slowly, I sped up as he called out punches. I jabbed, I crossed, and I hooked. My uppercut needed some work, but I figured I’d get it eventually.

Gio held up his phone. “What do you want for a pump-up playlist, killer? I want to see you really get angry.”

I considered this for a minute. “Smashing Pumpkins.”

“Excellent choice.” He queued up “Bullet with Butterfly Wings.” I could feel the music, and it made me feel powerful, in control.

“You’re warmed up now, Sam. Get after it.”

I executed the combination he showed me, shuffling on my feet, jab, jab, cross, followed by a bob and two hooks. The more I did it the lighter I got on my feet, my body finding the rhythm.

“Fuck Cancer!” I screamed, bouncing around to the music.

I was punching with abandon now, his lessons forgotten. Punch after punch, shuffling around the bag, grunting and screaming along the way.

“You are a goddamn warrior princess, Sam!” Gio shouted.

I felt strong. Sure my arms felt like lead, but I liked it. Muscle soreness was a lot better than the emotional exhaustion I’d been suffering from. I’d take it.

I was officially sweating. I peeled off my T-shirt, resuming my assault in only my sports bra. “Here,” I said, throwing it at Gio whose eyes were bulging out of his head.

I got back to work, throwing punch after punch and letting out all my anger, disappointment, and regret.

“Keep going,” Gio cheered, switching to “Celebrity Skin” by Hole, which really made me want to fight.

And so I punched. And then I started to kick. And I danced a bit between. I probably looked like an idiot, but I felt amazing. There was no technique to my movements, only my rage flowing through my tired limbs.

I thought about how unfair it all was. I thought about my body and how things would change. And I thought about all the women who came before me, who didn’t have the kind of state-of-the-art treatment that I had. And it fueled me.

The longer I fought, the more energized I felt. I wasn’t self-conscious. How could I be with my one-man cheering section? He alternated between playing my favorite songs from high school and shouting encouragement.

I probably wouldn’t be able to feel my knuckles tomorrow, but I didn’t care. Every time I wound up, I felt the weight in my chest lessen. The anxiety that had taken up residence in my brain since my diagnosis began to dissipate. I would be all right. I would get my life back.

I thought about those cancer cells in my breast. I saw them in my mind as I landed blow after blow. I yelled, I screamed, and I cried.

And Gio never left my side, calling out punch combinations, complimenting me, and keeping the soundtrack playing.

This was not well-behaved Sam. This was not the girl who got good grades, never stayed out late, and graduated early from college. I wasn’t playing by the rules anymore. I wasn’t worried about how I looked or how I sounded. I was a feral animal and it felt right.

Cancer didn’t care about rules. It wasn’t polite.

And maybe what I needed more than anything was the realization that I could fight this in my way, on my terms. It was going to take even more than I anticipated.

There was no plan, no playbook, no strategy.

I just had to fight like my life depended on it.

I exhausted myself, eventually lying on the floor.

Gio lay down next to me, handing me a bottle of water.

“Same time tomorrow, champ?”

I turned my head and looked at him. Really looked. Beyond the good looks and charm was a deeply thoughtful man who cared so much about me. He knew I needed to find my power. He wanted to build me up and make me strong. He gave and gave and asked for nothing in return.

Gio saw me. The real me.

And the realization hit me like a lightning bolt.

I wanted him.

Oh shit.