PART 2

The moment the door closed, every fear I had fought since chemotherapy came rushing back.

Of course Jeffrey had stayed while I was sick. What kind of husband leaves his wife while she is fighting cancer?

But now I was recovering.

Maybe he no longer had to pretend.

I sat on the edge of the huge bed and thought about my short hair, the scars, the loose skin, and the body I still struggled to recognize. Maybe the months of being my caregiver had destroyed whatever romantic feelings Jeffrey once had for me.

Around nine, he knocked on my door.

“Want to get dinner?”

When I opened it, he was wearing another oversized shirt buttoned high around his neck.

“You look beautiful,” he said.

“Do I?”

We ate downstairs, but Jeffrey talked about everything except the second hotel room.

By the time dessert arrived, I couldn’t stand pretending.

“I’m tired. I’m going upstairs.”

“I’ll walk with you.”

“Don’t.”

I returned alone, crawled beneath the blanket, and cried into the pillow.

I became convinced our marriage was ending.

At 11:30, someone knocked.

Jeffrey stood outside with red eyes.

“I’m sorry.”

“For what? Finally admitting you can’t stand looking at me?”

His expression changed instantly.

“What?”

“Just tell me the truth. I saw your face when you looked at that bed. I know I’m not the woman you married anymore.”

Jeffrey stepped inside and quietly locked the door behind him.

“I didn’t get another room because I didn’t want to be with you.”

“Then why? Is it because I lost my hair? Because of the scars?”

“Stop.”

His voice shook.

“Please stop talking about yourself like that.”

“Then explain it.”

He stood silently for several seconds.

“There’s something I’ve been hiding from you since your third round of chemo.”

My stomach tightened.

“What?”

Jeffrey slowly began unbuttoning his shirt.

The first button.

Then the second.

His fingers were trembling.

“Jeffrey, you’re frightening me.”

“Just let me do this. If I stop now, I won’t tell you.”

When he finally opened the shirt, I gasped.

Dark red lines wrapped around his ribs and stomach, and there were bruised-looking marks across his skin.

“You’re hurt!”

I reached toward him.

“What happened?”

He gently caught my hand.

“I’m not injured the way you think.”

“Then what caused that?”

For a long moment, he seemed too embarrassed to answer.

Finally, he reached into his suitcase and pulled out a black compression garment.

“Men’s shapewear.”

I stared at it.

“Why are you wearing that?”

He looked away.

“Because I didn’t want you to see what happened to me while you were sick.”

“I don’t understand.”

Jeffrey sat heavily on the edge of the bed.

“When you got sick, I stopped taking care of myself. I barely slept. I quit exercising. Sometimes I forgot to eat. Other times I ate everything I could find because it was the only thing that calmed me down.”

He rubbed both hands over his face.

“I’ve gained almost sixty pounds since your diagnosis.”

I stared at him.

“That’s why you’ve been wearing those huge shirts?”

He nodded.

“And why you change in the bathroom?”

“Yes.”

“When you told me we were coming here, I panicked. I remembered our honeymoon photographs and what I looked like twenty years ago. I bought that compression thing because I thought if I wore it all weekend, maybe you wouldn’t notice how much I’d changed.”

I looked at the angry marks around his waist.

“But you can’t sleep in it.”

“No.”

He let out a broken laugh.

“I can barely breathe wearing it. I couldn’t lie beside you all night knowing you might feel what was underneath. So I booked another room.”

I stared at him in disbelief.

“Let me understand this. You rented another hotel room because you thought you were too heavy to sleep next to your wife?”

He lowered his head.

“Yes.”

“Because you were afraid I wouldn’t find you attractive anymore?”

He nodded.

And suddenly, the absurd truth hit me.

We had both spent months hiding from exactly the same fear.

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