What's Left of Me by Amanda Maxlyn Read Free Book Online Page A

many times I try, I still can’t go out in public with a bald head, a wrap, or short like it is now.   People stare.   They don’t say anything, but I know what they’re thinking.
    “Oh, that poor girl.   She must be sick.   Maybe she has cancer.”
    I don’t want anyone’s pity.   I get enough of that from my family.   They’re constantly watching my every move.   Making sure I’m eating right, taking my medications, or resting frequently.   When I go out in public, I just want to feel like and be seen as me.   That’s why it’s so hard to go without my wig: because then I’d have to face the world as a woman who has cancer rather than a woman who is just trying to fit in.

    I clip my wig back on after my shower and spend the remainder of the afternoon napping and reading. I hear the soft knock on the door before my sister's words come through the small crack, breaking my concentration from the pages I’m reading.   “Dre, can I come in?”
    “Of course,” I reply, not looking up from my Kindle.
    I see movement out of the corner of my eyes as she makes her way around the boxes of my things.   Scooting over, I make room on the bed for her, setting the Kindle down next to me.
    I can tell by the expression on her porcelain face that she wants to have one of those heartfelt talks.   Like the ones from an episode of Full House that end in happy tears, soft music, and hugs after discussing a life lesson.   My sister means well, but in this moment the last thing on my mind is talking, especially about whatever she has in mind.
    “Did you have fun last night?”
    “Yeah, we had a really good time.”
    “I gathered.”   She laughs.   “You two stayed out all night.”
    I don’t respond.   Normally I tell my sister everything, but I don’t feel like telling her about my one-night stand.
    “Did I tell you I love that color on you?   It suits you.”  
    I look down, taking in my pink tank top and black shorts.   I turn to face her, raising my eyebrows in question.   Reaching out, she locks a small strand of my hair and twirls it around her finger.   “Your hair. You look beautiful as a brunette.”   She gives me a soft smile before letting my hair drop back against my chin.   Turning her head away from me she focuses her attention back on my room.
    I hate saying that.   My room.   It doesn’t feel like my room.   It feels more like a prison.
    “Are you going to unpack?” It’s been eight days since I moved in.  
    “Soon.”   I’m not sure I’m ready to unpack every box, making my stay here permanent.
    She nods in agreement, frowning at the boxes stacked on top of one another.   Genna is a neat freak, so I doubt she’s fond of my decorating style.
    “We can paint it if you'd like.”   She gestures toward the beige walls, still not looking at me.
    Beige.   It’s such a mundane color. This is the only room in their three-bedroom house that is lacking in color.   The rest of the house is filled with vibrant colors, making the rooms feel full of life.   Maybe that’s why she gave this one to me?
    “It's fine,” I reply, looking around at the walls.
    Genna sighs softly, but she doesn’t speak.   She doesn’t need to.   I know she knows that it’s not fine.   We’re women.   Women don’t use the word fine literally.
    “Genna, thank you.”   I feel as if I should say more, so I add, “For everything.”   For some reason, I think I should also say some words of encouragement to take that sad look off her face, but nothing more comes.
    She leans her head on my shoulder as she takes my right hand into hers, lacing our fingers together.   “Dre, whatever you need, or want, just tell me.   I want you to be comfortable here.   Don't feel like you can't make any changes.   This is your room and your home, despite what you say or think.   Jason and I want you to be comfortable.   You can decorate this room, paint it, or do whatever you want.   We just want