Page 113 of Shattered Lives

I know he needs to know, if for no other reason than to determine whether or not this path we’re taking is worth continuing down. Besides, Linda’s right. If my past – and present – are more than he can handle, better to find out now.

But not here. Not in a noisy restaurant surrounded by curious onlookers. The thought of anyone overhearing and staring in fascination makes me queasy.

I nod once, resignation sinking my spirit. “I’ll tell you. Not here, though.” I stare out the window into the growing darkness at the well-lit walking path. “There.”

“By the lake?”

I remember discussing Afghanistan with Tom and being able to look at the stars instead of his face. The darkness helped me feel less exposed, and the night air had soothed my ragged soul. “It’s easier to talk about in the dark.”

There’s no more chitchat, just awkward silence and a growing knot in my stomach. I wish I’d foregone that delicious dinner and had a second glass of wine, or better yet, a stiff drink. All too soon, I find myself outside, taking his offered hand for what feels like the final time, setting off down the path. We walk silently as he waits for me to bare my soul.

I wonder if I’m imagining his eagerness. Probably. He doesn’t look excited, merely curious. But it doesn't matter. Once I tell him, one way or another, everything changes.

I tug him toward a bench facing the water, and when I sit, he sits next to me, close enough that I feel the heat of him all down the left side of my body, though he doesn’t actually make contact. The street light is close enough to shine on our backs, but far enough away so I can see the stars. I focus all of my attention on them as I talk. I detach from the pain of my memories, instead noting each flicker, each twinkle in the dark sky above me.

Just like with Tom, I tell him all of it – the kidnapping, how long they had me, and what they did. I show him my wrists, just as I did with Tom. It’s easier to talk about this time, maybe because in the past two weeks, I’ve shared these details with three other people, and definitely because I never meet his eyes, focusing only on the stars. But unlike with Tom or Mark, there’s no comforting touch, no one to draw strength from. Blake remains silent.

He offers no sympathy, no pity, no reassurances, no support.

Yet despite his total silence, I plunge ahead with my biggest bravery test of all, not just for me, but for Blake, too. I’m not just taking a baby step – I’m leaping off the damn cliff. I need to know if he’s going to bother sticking around.

Deep breath.

I glance over at him before reaching back between my shoulders and grasping the zipper of my dress. The rasping sound as I unzip it to my waist is loud, louder than the splashing from the fountain out in the lake, noisier than the songs of the tree frogs in the dark. I fold the fabric vee open, baring my back to him. The night air chills my exposed skin. I glance sideways. Blake’s face is completely devoid of expression.

“Give me your right hand.” He does, and I reach behind me, pressing it palm-side-down against my back. “Touch them. My scars.” His eyes widen. “I’m serious. You wanted to know what happened. Feel. Better yet, there’s a streetlight – take a good look.”

I’m terrified on the inside, but my exterior is calm, and I sweep my hair out of the way and shift my back toward him, letting the light hit my exposed flesh.

Light fingers skate over my skin, tracing the scars. I close my eyes as his other hand pushes the fabric aside for a closer look. I’m trembling now, not because I fear his touch, but because I’m scared to death of how he'll react.

His sharp intake of breath as his fingers move lower makes me wince. He’s found the top part of the brand. His thumb traces the flat white scar.

He gulps audibly. Then he snatches his hands away and zips my dress back up. I turn to face him, bracing myself for his reaction.

He looks horrified. Appalled.

This was a mistake. A massive, disastrous mistake.

I shoot to my feet and grab my purse. “I’d like you to drive me home, please.” I don’t wait for his answer, striding in the direction of his truck. I hear him follow, his long legs easily catching me. I stop long enough to yank off my heels, then march ahead, barefoot. He unlocks my door with his key fob, and I clamber inside without waiting. He climbs in and closes his door, sitting in the darkness without speaking. He makes no move to start his truck.

I can’t just sit here. I’m dangerously close to ugly-crying, and I refuse to do it in front of him.

“Forget it. I’ll call an Uber,” I say stiffly, pulling my phone from my purse. He shakes his head and starts the motor.

He never says a single word.

Not. One. Damn. Word.

The ride home is short, presumably because he can’t escape fast enough. I know I can’t. The truck isn’t even fully stopped when I fling the door open and jump down. The gravel bites into my bare feet, but I don’t care. I slam his door closed and run up my stairs. My keys are already in my hand, and I unlock the door and close it quickly, leaning against it. Only when I’m inside do I hear him pull away.

Mark doesn’t come out to greet me. I poke my head into his room and hear his shower running. I take my handgun out of my purse and place it on his bedside table with my phone, then go upstairs to my own shower.

Not a word. Not one single goddamn word.

Just a loud gasp before he snatched his hand away from my scars like they’d burned him, racing to get me home, to be rid of someone so horrifyingly repulsive.

Blake’s reaction reinforces what I’ve known all along.

---