Beneath the Scars

“No second chances?”

“No. I don’t give second chances.”

A chill went through me at his tone: firm, unyielding, cold.

“Don’t look so upset, Megan. Even Doc agreed with me on that subject—they’d had more than their share of chances to be decent. Like he said, having a baby doesn’t make you a parent. They should never have had children.”

“Don’t say that. You wouldn’t be here. I don’t—” My voice caught on the last word. “Don’t say that.”

He kissed my head. “Sorry.”

“Do you ever talk to, um, Doc?”

His voice was gruff. “No. He moved on.”

He was denying his feelings—I could tell how much he missed the man. “You should call him. I bet he also misses you.”

“No. I’m sure he’s busy with his grandkids. I don’t want to bother him.”

I rolled my eyes at his stubbornness. “He needed to be with his family, Zachary. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t still care. Sometimes we have to leave the ones we love behind, but it doesn’t mean we’ve forgotten them.”

He eyed me warily. “You think he’d, ah, like it if I called?”

“Yes.”

He glanced away, but I saw the shimmer of more moisture in his eyes. “Maybe I’ll try next week,” he mumbled.

I pulled him back to my chest, cradling his head. “I bet he’d like that.”

“He said something I didn’t really understand until now.”

“What?

“He said once I let myself feel something good, it would change me. It would change how I felt about the world.” Zachary tugged me closer. “He was right. How I feel about you makes me want to change. You make me feel something I haven’t felt—ever.”

“Can you tell me?” I whispered.

He lifted his head. “You give me hope, Megan. Hope I can be better. Hope I can be the man you need me to be. Hope I can leave my past behind me and find a happy future—with you.

“I don’t know how to love someone. I’ve never experienced that emotion.” He traced my face with his fingers. “Before you I didn’t experience many good emotions, but I want to try.”

I turned my face, touching my lips into his palm. “I know.”

“I’m going to fuck up.”

My lips curled into a smile. “I know that, too. We both will.”

“Promise me you’ll stick with me.”

“I will.”

He burrowed into my neck, a heavy, weary sigh blowing across my skin.

“Then that’s all that matters.”* * *Zachary slept...hard. Wrapped around me, his head burrowed in my shoulder, his weary body and soul slumbered deep into the evening. I couldn’t move; when I shifted, he would grimace, moving with me, as if afraid to let me go, even in sleep.

Sleep didn’t come for me, though.

His words, his pain, and his final sweet declaration kept running through my mind.

I had grown up knowing I was loved. Safe in the care of my parents, I had what I always felt was a boring, normal life. There were the usual ups and downs of being a child, but there was always love. Hugs when I needed them for comfort or joy, kisses for scraped knees and good report cards. Conversations over dinner and bedtimes with stories—all of those things I took for granted.

Zachary had never experienced any of them. There was nothing normal about his childhood. He grew up thinking his only use, his only purpose in life, was provided by his face. There was no love given by his parents. They denied him the one thing he wanted more than anything, even if he couldn’t admit it then or now: love.

With slow, gentle motions, I ran my hand through his hair, lifting it away from his face. His face was pale with the emotion of the day, his rough skin and the jagged ridges of his marks standing out in vivid detail. I couldn’t imagine the pain he had endured, or the sense of loss he had felt when he woke after the incident, knowing his entire world had changed.

The guilt, the pain, and the sadness he had carried all these years had made him bitter. He was right; he would never be what would be considered normal. He had experienced too much loss and rejection in his life. He was always poised for flight, ready to walk away and shut off his feelings rather than risk being hurt again. I ached for the loneliness and isolation he had felt his entire life. What most people would consider a gift—his striking good looks—had been nothing but a curse to him. They were, he felt, what defined him. Then when they were taken away he was proven right. His entire world disappeared.

Panic fluttered, building as I studied his face. I wanted to help him. I wanted to prove to him the world wasn’t all bad. If he could accept there were people who actually cared for him, not for what he could do for them, I knew he would find his way, but he had to learn to trust. Somehow I had to teach him to trust.