Beneath the Scars

He settled behind me, drawing me into his arms, and tucking me under his chin. “We’ll take it as it comes.”

I knew that was as far as we’d discuss it today, so I hummed in agreement. “Okay.”

“Is it too soon to tell people?”

“Maybe my parents, and Karen and Chris next time they’re down. Other people can wait a bit.”

Karen and Zachary were still, to this day, restrained. They both accepted their place in my life and made great efforts to be cordial, but I knew they would never be close. They couldn’t see how similar they were, and still liked to argue over the most inane things, trading insults with each other until Chris or I stepped in. There were times I swore they did it on purpose, secretly enjoying riling each other up.

Zachary and Chris were closer and spent many evenings bent over the chessboard; often with a curious Matthew disrupting their game. Some very unique forms of chess were played by the three of them.

My parents supported me, having come to accept Zachary. They knew the whole story and it took them a while to warm to him, but they adored Matthew and visited when they could.

Our world was still fairly isolated. Zachary was far more comfortable now, but still wary of strangers. We both knew once Matthew was older we would need to move closer to another town for him with school, but we both agreed our life was best in smaller, more remote places. The fallout from Jared’s stunt had been minimal, affecting our lives in the smallest sense. To be safe, Zachary installed a gate at the end of the road, protecting our privacy even further. He was relieved to discover he’d been gone from the spotlight long enough that the odd reporter who did surface, quickly moved on to newer, bigger stories when a lead to Adam Dennis didn’t pan out to much of anything. Slowly, the fears of his past ebbed from our life and we were able to move forward—together.

My book had finally been published and was successful. My second book was now in the hands of editors and the outline of a third was taking shape in my head. Much like Zachary, I disliked the publicity side of my work and kept a very low profile. My publishers were pleased with the success of the books, and I still enjoyed the process. Although I had learned what made me happiest was the world I had here with Zachary and Matthew. My life with them fulfilled me like nothing else.

I no longer wrote the stories out by hand—Zachary’s gift of an ultra-light laptop had ended that habit. It was far more productive to type out the words as they came to me, saving the document when a certain little boy would interrupt the process. It also gave me the protection for my work, which, after all that happened with Jared, was a professional gift I treasured.

Zachary had converted a small room on the third floor into an office for me. I would sit, tapping away at the computer, finding the same inspiration in the beautiful vista spread out before me as did Zachary. He had tucked my desk underneath a large window and built shelves around it, which held some of the treasures found by Matthew. They also contained countless journals—a never-ending gift from him. I never knew when a fresh one would appear on the shelf, waiting to be filled. Now they contained happy memories I wrote out of our life together. He loved reading through them and reliving those special times we shared as a family.

Wrapped in Zachary’s arms, we watched our son playing in the low waves, picking up bits and pieces off the beach that the tide had deposited overnight; adding them to the small pile he’d started. We did this most days. Picking, sifting, sorting through his treasures, keeping only what he loved best, and putting it with the larger pile on the deck of the house.

Zachary’s hands covered mine, resting on my stomach. His fingers continually traced the back of my hands, finally tapping out a steady rhythm on my ring finger. I glanced up at him, caught in the intensity of his stare.

He lifted my hand, kissing my finger. “It’s time, Megan.”

“Time?”

“I want the mother of my children to share my name.” He tapped my finger again. “I want to put a ring on here and marry you.”

“Oh,” I breathed. We’d never discussed marriage. Neither of us felt the need of a piece of paper to know we were a couple. Until it seemed, this moment.

“Please. Live your life with me.” He paused and smiled softly. “Let me tell the world you’re mine.”

His.

I liked the idea of belonging to Zachary, and him to me.

I drew his head down, pressing my lips to his. “Yes.”