Page 77 of Something Like Sunflowers

Because I can’t stand to see it.

My scar.

My eternal reminder of the day I lost my baby.

I finally turn around, looking up at Hunter while I finger the line that stretches across my stomach in a thick, solid chunk, longer than a C section scar and thicker than one too. Because mine slices both ways. Up and across.

The first slice up was a wooden shard from the electrical post about as thick as the blade at the deli, the recovery nurse told me later. It shot through the car after our impact with the Mack truck ricocheted our vehicle violently off the shoulder, the pole coming down above us and the sharp, broken edges piercing right through me.

I passed out then. I didn’t get to see the blood.

Or the wreckage. There are times I wonder if I’ll ever remember the in-between. And worse times when I think I do. But the brain fills in the gaps for you, the doctors told me. What I think happened is most likely the fear, a nightmare in my mind, not unlike most dreams. You make parts up based on things you’ve seen or heard in real life.

I hope that’s the case. Because the dreams I have don’t seem like ones God would ever allow to have occurred.

And yet.

Don’t go there, Devyn.

I didn’t hear anything after the screams that filled the car as Hunter and I held on to one another, praying for protection.

If we’d landed only centimeters to the left, the post would have punctured my heart. I’d have died.

Maybe our baby would have lived. I haven’t forgiven God for the way he answered my prayers that day. Not yet.

And truth be told, I don’t think I’ll ever believe when someone says ‘everything happens for a reason.’ I’m not sure that’s true.

I think everything just happens. And maybe things will come of it, or maybe they won’t.

But here we are together again, leaving me to question all I know.

I wring my hands, dropping them from their place of protection around my waist, turning toward Hunter and forcing my body to calm. This isn’t just anyone I’m being intimate with. My scars are his too, and I want desperately to share everything with him right now.

My soul. My mind. My whole body.

Even my scars.

He senses my hesitation, his brow drawing inward as he reaches for me. But I don’t shove away. I take his hand, letting him tug me closer, into his embrace, his warm arms, wrapping around my shoulders and his lips placing soft, supportive kisses on my shoulder blade.

“I don’t have many great experiences with intimacy,” I admit, unable to meet his eyes. I keep my face forward, his touch on my body grounding me, bringing me complete peace to talk about this without the anxiety that normally seizes me when I do. He squeezes me lightly, a gentle nudge to go on.

“Once they see my scars, it gets awkward. They say things, and I can’t brush them off, and then it’s just over after that. It ends almost immediately in that moment.”

As much as I wish I could pretend Chad was just a horrible human, he wasn’t so bad. I mean, yeah, he was conceited, but most people in the city are. He was still a decent guy.

But it always feels the same. Once I’m finally willing to be vulnerable about my past, the scar itself is either too much for them to handle, or it becomes too much once they realize what it means.

I’ll never bear them any children of their own.

A doll with a broken body doesn’t last on a trophy shelf. Even with the shiniest crown.

“Who made you feel like shit about your scars, Dev? You tell me names, right now.” He grinds his teeth, his eyes burning so fiercely I believe he would actually take those names and do something with them.

Is it normal to be horny about that?

It’s probably normal.

It’s definitely hot.

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