She shakes her head and steps onto her tiptoes. “It’s perfect.” Pressing a gentle kiss to the underside of my jaw, she steps back onto flat feet and swallows. “Okay, you can look, but don’t be weird about it.”
“I’m never weird about shit. You need to trust me more.” I paste on a fake smile and act like this isn’t sending my heart into a tailspin.
I can barely catch my breath, but I don’t let on about the thoughts that run through my mind. I meet her eyes, though she’s stepped back far enough that I could see if only I looked with my peripherals.
“You ready?”
She stands awkwardly and tucks her hands behind her back. Biting her lip, she finally nods. “I’m ready.”
Slowly, I let my eyes wander down her narrow neck, over her delicate collarbone, the scar just below that from her old port, and then over her left breast. I know the right isn’t the same. I know, because my peripherals insist I look. But I focus on the unscarred side for a moment.
Creamy white skin, the prettiest pink nipple that begs to be tasted. A cute cluster of freckles spans the perfect skin.
But then a scar begins. It’s thick and puckered, drawing my eyes away from perfection and stopping them on flat chest.
They took it. They took her breast and left her with a crude scar that reminds me of… well… my face.
The longer I stare, the more she shakes. Her shoulders bow in defense, her swallows become audible and nervous. Her hands wring, and her knees press together as though to hide her private parts.
“Spencer…”
I bring my eyes to hers. “Can I touch?”
She pauses, as though she never expected me to ask that. “Um… Okay.”
I lower to my knees and do the very thing she asked me not to do; I make it weird. Inching closer and passing through the cascading shower to stop in front of her, I smile when, even on my knees, my eyes are higher than her chest.
I rest my hands on her hips and pull her closer. “Does it hurt still? The scar tissue?”
She gives a jerky nod. “Only on crappy days. If it’s super cold, or I’m extra tired.”
“Does it hurt right now?”
She shakes her head, so I lean forward and press a kiss right over the old stitch marks. Abigail breaks out on a sobbing cry. Surprise, maybe. But not pain.
“You don’t ever have to worry about what I think, baby. Boobs are just dangling tissue and fat, right?”
She shrugs and swipes the tears from her face. “I don’t know. I guess.”
“Do you think it’ll ever grow back?”
“Spencer!” Laughing, she smacks my shoulder and tries to turn away, only to squeal when I nuzzle the soft skin on her belly. I pull her down to straddle my legs, and when she looks at me with a smile and tears in her eyes, I pull her close until our lips touch, and her giggles turn to a groan.
“I love you, Priss. It’s not weird.”
“It won’t grow back.”
“It’s okay. I was never a titty man anyway.” I lean in and nibble on her neck.
It’s a lie, we both know it’s a lie. But now I know this new world of Abigail’s, and it just doesn’t matter to me anymore.
“I can hug a hot water bottle at night; it might feel like a couple of boobs. Or…” I draw the word out and smile. “I could hug you.” I bite her neck and draw a sweet hiss from between her lips. “I know which one I’d prefer. It’s you, Priss. Always you.” I slide my tongue over her aching skin. “Thank you for trusting me.”