53 Letters For My Lover (33 page)

“Well, thank you. This is very special.”

How could I have forgotten?

“Happy Anniversary, Shayda.” Hafez gives me a kiss.

“Happy Anniversary, Hafez.”

I’m a fraud.

I drown my french toast in maple syrup, but it still tastes like cardboard.

“Last night was fun,” says Zain. “I can’t believe grandma invited grandpa for Thanksgiving dinner.”

“I can’t believe grandma actually acknowledged Thanksgiving,” Natasha replies. “You think the two of them were in on it together? Like ‘Let’s do something nice for our daughter’?”

“The possibility of losing someone you love will make anyone rethink their priorities,” says Hafez.

“Is that why you’re not gone as often?” asks Natasha. “To spend more time with mum?”

“I feel like I’ve been given a second chance. To spend more time with all of you.” Hafez picks up my hand.

I swallow my orange juice, keeping my eyes on the plate.

“I liked meeting Kayla and Ethan and Summer yesterday.” Zain helps himself to more eggs. “Although I couldn’t understand a word when they switched to French.”

“They were probably talking about how obnoxious you are,” says Natasha.

“Natasha,” warns Hafez.

She giggles. “Honestly, I can’t remember ever meeting Uncle Hossein’s kids. And Aunty Adele. She’s very pretty.”

“Is that why Uncle Hossein left Marjaneh?” asks Zain.

“I think Marjaneh is very pretty too.” Hafez puts the cap back on the maple syrup. “Are we all done?”

“I like Aunty Adele,” Zain continues. “But I feel bad for Marjaneh. It’s not nice to lose your family.”

“Don’t worry, son.” Hafez ruffles his hair. “Nothing like that is ever going to happen to us.”

I get up and start clearing the table.

“Let me.” Hafez starts taking things from me.

“No!” It comes out much harsher than intended. “Sorry.” I put the plate down. “I just...I need you to stop hovering over me.”

Hafez backs off. The kids turn on the TV, leaving us alone in the kitchen. My reflection stares back at me from the kitchen window as I wash the dishes. My cheeks are orange, there’s green on my chin and my forehead is half red, half yellow. Fall colors from the park behind us. They make me look fragmented, like a patchwork quilt sewn together from different pieces.

“I was thinking we could go out later. Just you and me. For an anniversary lunch,” says Hafez.

“Everything is closed today.”

“Not everything,” he says. “Wear something warm.”

“We’re walking?” I ask
.

“It’s not too far,” replies Hafez.

“The park?” I say as we cross the street.

“Go sit on the bench,” says Hafez. “I’ll be right back.”

He returns ten minutes later with a greasy paper bag held horizontally. Inside are two slices of hot pizza.

“You remember? That first Christmas we were married? We walked around and shared some pizza?”

The day he picked the red onions off for me.

“I told you I would do everything I can to make you happy.”

“It was a long time ago.” My throat constricts.

“Yes,” he replies. “A time before Pasha Moradi. We didn’t have much but we had each other.”

My tears drop on the deluxe vegetarian, with roasted red peppers.

“I want to go back, Shayda,” says Hafez. “I want to go back and start over. I’m starting therapy. Next week.”

I look at his face. He wants to try. He wants to leave the ghosts behind. So many years, I waited for this day. And now that it’s here, I want to make it stop.

Don’t go. Don’t try. Don’t make this harder for me.

“That’s great,” I reply.

Stop thinking about yourself, Shayda. He needs this, to heal, to become whole.

“I’m glad.” I manage a smile. But a part of me is furious with him.

Why now, Hafez?

The worst thing I can do is leave him. Not when he’s so close, when he’s finally reaching for help.

It’s not fair!
Another part screams.
IT’S NOT FAIR!

I get up. “I think I’ll go for a drive.”

“I’ll go with you,” says Hafez.

“No!” Again it’s too harsh. “I just need some time alone.”

We walk back to the house in silence. Hafez stands on the side of the driveway, holding two slices of cold pizza, as I back out.

I feel like I’m running away when I’m most needed, but I can’t stay. I need to clear my head. What do I do with this life that’s been spared? How do I spend it? Here, with my family, being a good mother and a good wife? Loving them as they deserve to be loved? Or there? With Troy? Tingling with anticipation at the dawn of each new day, feeling more alive than I ever have?

The tires squeal as I step on the gas, leaving a trail of spinning gravel behind.

“Troy!” I swing the
door to his loft open. “Troy!”

I walk in, turning corners—the kitchen, laundry room, pool, library. No Troy.

I take my jacket off and slump into the sofa, burying my face in my hands.

“Shayda?”

He’s standing in the hallway, a towel slung around his hips, his hair wet from the shower.

He’s never looked better.

I rush to him, throwing my arms around his neck.

“I’m slipping away, Troy.”

“What hap—”

I don’t let him finish. My mouth devours him.

“I need you. I need you so bad.”

“Are you sure this is all right? The surgery—”

“I don’t care.” I yank his towel off and sink to my knees, taking him into my mouth, all of him, as far, as deep as I can.

“Shayda...” He leans back on the wall, trying to slow me down.

I suck his balls. I lick his shaft. I wrap both hands around him. With each bob of my head, each flick of my tongue, I reclaim my power, my femininity, my hacked up body. My hunger for him unleashes a shameless, greedy beast. I moan at the taste of the first bead of his arousal, rubbing the tip with my thumb, spreading it around.

His thighs tremble. His fingers clench my shoulders as he gives in to me. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop. Don’t fucking stop.”

I swirl my tongue around the edge, under the head. He jerks. I look up and find him watching me with an intensity that shoots electric arcs of desire straight between my thighs.

“God, I’ve missed you,” he whispers hoarsely.

I keep my eyes on him and keep going. He tugs my hair, signaling his climax, but I keep my lips wrapped around him, pushing my face further between his legs.

“Unhh!” He pounds his fists back into the wall.

The immensity of his explosion fills my mouth. I wrap my arms around his clenched buttocks until I’ve milked every last drop. The gagging sensation is overwhelming, but I don’t want to waste a single drop. I want to absorb all of him, every last bit of his essence.

He leans back against the wall, trying to catch his breath.

I let him slip out of my mouth, holding him with my hand, while I run my face back and forth over him. I don’t want to let go. I don’t want it to end.

He slides lower, inch by inch, dragging his back down the wall, as if he can’t hold up any longer. He tucks the towel around himself and pulls me into the crook of his arm. We sit like that for a while, our eyes closed, listening to each other breathe.

“You turn me inside out.” His voice crackles with emotion.

Then he looks at me and frowns. “Is everything all right?”

“I’m fine.”
Now that I’m with you
.

“I’m glad you’re here,” he says. “There’s something I want to show you.”

He leads me into the bedroom and turns the light on.

What used to be a window seat is now converted to a custom desk, set flush against a view of the lake.

I’ve always wanted a place by the water.

On the desk is a leather bound notebook, a laptop, fine sheets of cotton vellum, notepads; pens, pencils, sharpeners, erasers—neatly arranged in mini silver pails.

I wanted to be a writer, to touch someone with words, to inspire.

Four colorful photos hang on the wall, arranged in a two by two configuration: an endless stretch of blue sky, melting into the ocean; a bungalow on stilts, perched above a tranquil lagoon; colorful fish nibbling on coral; a fern-bordered waterfall surrounded by red and pink flowers.

...a trip to the South Pacific. Falling asleep in an overwater bungalow to the sound of swaying palm trees. Snorkeling unexplored reefs, dipping your feet into waterfalls that cascade over volcanic cliffs.

“You like it?” he asks.

This is what it feels like when someone wraps up your hopes and dreams, and presents them to you on a sunny afternoon.

There is nothing to hide anymore. When love looks at you, when it truly pins you down and stares into your soul, it renders you defenseless. And in that moment, in that state of humbling nakedness, it makes you completely invincible.

I reach down the front of my blouse and undo the first button. The rest come apart easily. I shrug out of it and unzip my pants, letting them fall around my ankles. My bra drops to the floor, heavy with the fake breast forms. I stand before him in my panties, letting him see me for the first time.

He doesn’t flinch, but he doesn’t cover it up either. His fingers trace the jagged incisions. The left one is squiggly, veering up and then taking a downward swoop. The right cut is longer, extending under my arm.

“God, Shayda.” He drops to his knees and pushes his face into my stomach, as if trying to find comfort in the soft roundness there.

You have beautiful breasts, Shayda.

I should be eating this cake off those breasts.

His arms go around my waist, pulling me closer. I feel his shoulders quake. Quick, short, soundless heaves. Of helplessness. Of being unable to protect someone you love.

When he’s done, he gets up. The power is back on. I see will and strength and determination in the set of his jaw.

“Come here.” He pulls me into bed.

His kisses are long, languid sips of lips and tongue and hope.

At first.

Then he takes me hard, without a shred of tenderness.

I know what he’s doing. He’s punishing my body for turning on me.

Take that, you evil, insidious sickness.

You can’t have her, you rogue, renegade, diseased cells.

He flips me over and claims me from behind, one hand holding my face down to the mattress, the other digging into my hips. He chases the demons away, fast and furious. And in that exorcism, the darkness disappears.

I cry out as brilliant white light explodes around me, shattering into a billion jagged shards. But he keeps going, like he’s on some mindless, frenzied quest. When he finally reaches his release, he pulls out and comes on my back, panting, heaving, covered in sweat.

“Shit,” he says between shallow breaths. “I wanted it to be more special.” He rolls over and enfolds me in his arms.

“It was exactly what I needed,” I reply, nuzzling into his chest. “I’m tired of everyone handling me with kid gloves.”

“Oh? Why didn’t you say so? I’ve been waiting to introduce the leather paddles and restraints.”

“Really?” I laugh. “It didn’t look like you were going to stop for anything.”

“Quiet wench, or ye shall be punished some moreth.”

“Moreth? I think Shakespeare just rolled over in his grave.”

“Thankfully, I’m not the one who’ll be writing on yonder desk.”

I turn to my side and look at the little corner he’s carved out for me in his room. The late afternoon sun filters through floaty curtains, turning it into a golden, ethereal space.

“I love it,” I say.

He tucks his arms around me and we watch the clouds cross the sky.

“They’re white,” I say.

“The clouds?”

“Your bed sheets. I used to wonder what color they were.”

“Are you telling me you used pictured me in bed, Beetroot?”

“I did.”

“For future reference, I’d rather you picture me without the sheets. Are we clear?”

“Clear.”

We close our eyes, feeling the sun on our skin.

“So when do you start the chemo?” he asks.

“Next week,” I reply.

We lapse back into silence.

“Troy?”

“Yes?”

“Are they really ugly?”

“What?”

“My scars.”

He turns me on my back and kisses them gently. “They’re your battle scars, Beetroot, a testament to your strength. But I never imagined anything so harsh. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it’s going to take me some time to adjust to your noobs.”

“My noobs?”

“No boobs. And I don’t just mean physically. I mean in my head, because I fantasize about you
all
the time. So do I go with boobs or noobs? What’s the proper etiquette?”

“There’s no place for etiquette in fantasy.” I play with his fingers. “You think I should get implants?”

“Get them, don’t get them. It won’t change the way I feel about you. You are pure delicious, through and through.”

I lift the bed sheet over our heads, letting the light filter through the soft cotton, while we hold hands in our private little fort.