Beneath the Scars

I shook my head in wonder. Once again, she was making me feel and say things that were out of character. “I’ve done a few. I use photography with those. It helps sometimes when the moment is right, and I need to capture something to use later.” Teasing, I tapped the end of her nose, wanting her to smile. “Like now. Would you let me take your picture, Megan, if I asked? Paint your portrait?”

“Yes,” she breathed, her cheeks flooding with color.

Her sudden shyness and simple answer warmed my chest. I wanted that camera in my hands immediately.

“Maybe later this week we will. I want this light behind you when I do. It’s fading now, so when I see it again, we’ll act on it.”

“All right.”

Neither of us acknowledged the fact we both assumed she would be here.

Somehow, though, we both knew it.* * *Elliott stood up, stretching, shaking his head. “I need to take him for a walk.” Easing Megan off my lap, I got off the sofa. “I’ll take Dixie, too.”

“Are you going in the woods?”

“No. I’ll take them on the beach.”

“I’ll come with you.”

“You shouldn’t be on your foot.” I frowned.

“You wrapped it so well, it feels fine. It’ll be good to stretch my legs.”

The thought of walking on the beach with her appealed to me, so I didn’t argue. It was better than me worrying about her sitting here alone, perhaps crying again. I paused, wondering when the last time I had worried about another person had been, or why worrying about Megan seemed so natural. Offering her my hand, I helped her off the sofa, watching her as she walked in front of me. Her limp was still there, but it seemed manageable. Still, it was probably a good idea to walk in front of her down the steps. They seemed to be her weakness.

Despite the sun, it was still cold outside. Megan grimaced as she observed my usual habit of walking barefoot on the sand. “Do your feet not get cold?”

“Not anymore. I’ve been walking this beach for so long it feels strange to have shoes on. I do when it snows, but even then, not all the time. I like the cold.”

She shivered, and I chuckled at her dramatics. I wrapped my arm around her waist, drawing her close as we walked the hard sand. She fit so well under my arm; her head tucked against my shoulder as we strolled. I kept back from the water, knowing she had no desire to feel its icy fingers wrapping around her ankles, soaking into her skin.

“Have you lived here long?”

“Almost ten years. I’ve owned the house longer than that but only used it for vacations before—”

“Before?” she prompted.

“Before I came to live here permanently,” I finished. I wasn’t ready to tell her my story yet; I hoped she wouldn’t push me on it today.

She nodded, bending down to pick up a small piece of driftwood, tossing it for the dogs. We spent the next while smiling and laughing as we threw the stick. They bounded up and down the beach chasing it, bringing it back, wanting it thrown again. It felt very strange to be sharing the beach with her, and to be laughing and almost carefree. Done with throwing the stick, the dogs ran around, chasing each other. Leaning against an outcrop of boulders, I looked down at our clasped hands—my scarred flesh wrapped around her perfect, smooth skin—wondering why she allowed me to touch her with such ease. Glancing up, I met her gaze, finding only warmth looking at me. She smiled, understanding in her expression. “Your scars don’t bother me, Zachary.”

“They should,” I answered tersely, feeling the same anxious undercurrent I had whenever anyone brought up my scars or got too close.

“Why?” she asked, her brow furrowed. “Because someone told you they should?”

“Because they're hideous.”

She shook her head as she planted herself in front of me. “They’re marks. They tell me you survived something terrible. They don’t define you.”

“They’re a pretty good fucking indicator,” I sneered. “You don’t know me, Megan. Stop trying to romanticize me in your head. I’m not some sort of hero.”

She didn’t respond to my anger. It didn’t have the usual effect of pushing someone away. Instead, she inched closer. Her voice was gentle when she spoke, its soothing cadence comforting to my jumbled nerves. “We all have scars. The only difference is some of them are easier to see. Yours are visible and appear painful, I know. They hurt you physically and emotionally. They hurt me to look at because I know they cause you pain, but they don’t make you less in my eyes.” She drew in a deep breath as she lifted her hand to my face, cupping my scarred cheek, ignoring my stiffening posture. “I don’t see you as a hero, Zachary. I see you as a human being. A man in pain and alone.” She stepped closer, her chest leaning into mine. “I don’t want you to be alone. Let me in.” A soft, shuddering sigh escaped her lips. “Please.”