Page 87 of Knot Just for Show

Though our first mornings together involved a bit of whispering about how ‘for real’ Teddy is, Mavren seems content to sit back and watch how things unfold after his date with Ursula last night, in which she seemed to confirm that Teddy was still on the level, despite our over-protective worrying.

Ironically, Teddy tends to be the next one up—hazy and sleepy until he’s had coffee or a protein shake. Once that himbo braincell of his gets up and running, he’s off to do his own training—calisthenics, barre work, carefully walking through several high-level katas from different martial arts disciplines I don’t recognize.

Ursula wakes before Ash, a mostly nocturnal creature in his line of work, and Lysander—our pack’s theta prince of slumber.

Mavren starts breakfast once our princess wakes—serving out hot plates of eggs, pancakes, bacon, grits, fresh fruit, and tangy dressed greens as Ash and Lysander stumble sleepily into the kitchen, wiping sand from their eyes.

“You two all packed up for your little excursion today?” Mavren asks as he hands Ursula and me glasses of freshly squeezed orange juice.

“Mmmhm, no idea what they have in store for us though.” Ursula gives an excited little shimmy—sitting between Lysander and I at the long breakfast table.

“I promise I’ll have her home before your date tonight, Mr. Ewing,” I tease Lysander—who is visibly panicked about his rapidly approaching date with Ursula. He doesn’t even have the words to respond—just nods manically—his big brown eyes fixed somewhere in the distance.

“What do you think, sugar?” I ask Ursula, munching on a rasher of bacon. “Are they going to put us up in a seaside gazebo with a bunch of flowers so we can make bouquets orarrangements? I can’t dance, cook, or croon—all I’ve got is being a plant daddy.” I waggle my brows playfully and smile, but I’m feeling more than a little self-conscious about how I measure up next to my other packmates.

“If they do, I’m stealing all the spider lilies if they got ‘em. Be prepared!” She shoulder checks me gently, and I can’t help but be endeared to her. Whether Ursula senses my worry or not, she seems to always know how to set me back on the right track.

As has become our custom—Ursula makes her way down the receiving line of the rest of our pack on our way out of the villa; a deliciously short linen sundress—its breezy fabric revealing the blue and white chinoiserie print two piece bathing suit beneath as she steps into the full light of the sun—her wide brimmed straw hat casting tiny pinpricks of light through the gentle shadow across her face.

Kimmy and Timmy inform us during the van ride we will be dropped off at the base of a small waterfall on the resort property. Once we arrive, we can see the small pop-up canopy furnished with a woven reed mat and cushioned rattan furniture—a small table replete with food and drink nestled at the temporary shelter’s center.

“Well, this looks better than the flower arrangement I was imagining.” I offer my hand to Ursula—helping her keep her balance as she steps out of her cork wedge sandals, the air hot and thick with moisture around us.

“Without the sea breeze, it’s really steamy. Not going to lie, I’m really looking forward to getting in the water.” She plucks her hat from her head and tosses it like a frisbee onto the nearby high-backed rattan chair.

“Yeah it’s hotter than a two dollar pistol,” I concur, sweeping my sweat-drenched hair back from my brow, perspiration pooling beneath the two leather cuffs on my wrists, the underarms of my linen shirt soaked through.

The two of us stand there a moment, unsure of how to go about removing our armor in front of one another.

Ursula has been so brave throughout this whole process—I decide in a momentary rush of confidence I can be brave, like she has.

Trembling gently, I work the buttons on my teal linen shirt—little discs of shimmering abalone, like burning coals under my worrying fingers. All the while, Ursula watches—her golden eyes soft but searching.

I let the thin garment drop from my shoulders, slipping out of it and tossing the shirt in a messy ball onto the pile of my ratty messenger bag and abandoned Birkenstocks. I can feel Ursula’s eyes travel from my bare chest and stomach, up and over my shoulders, down my arms—her gaze alighting on the explosion of colorful tattoos, continuing more tentatively to the leather cuffs still snapped to my wrists.

While I haven’t worn the cuffs the entire time since the reveal, I would be lying if I said that I hadn’t strategically taken them off only during periods of time that weresaferthan others—in low light settings, while underwater, or to go to sleep. Now, I reach for the triple snaps that fasten the cuff of leather to my right wrist—Ursula’s hands clutched in the hem of her sundress.

The several inch wide strips of leather come away from my wrists easily—the skin beneath, hot and sticky with sweat. I see her eyes catch the shine of scar tissue beneath the deep greensand vibrant colors of the flowers tattooed over it—I look away when I see her lips part, hear the tiny strangled gasp she makes.

I keep my eyes on the woven mat beneath my bare feet—my view beginning to cloud with tears, despite my best efforts.

“I’m not proud of it. I had thought about attempts for years before I did it, but after my great aunt died and left me thefluff’n’fold…I just stopped being able to see a way forward for me. There was no future that didn’t seem like…well, pain.” I struggle to breathe through my barely-leashed sobs.

“I met Mavren during the last cover-up sessions. Kal, my artist, specializes in covering these kinds of self harm scars, even though that’s not what Mav was there for.” The tears stream down my face in scalding rivers of saline, my eyes pressing shut as the sobs take me.

“You can’t see mine so easily,” Ursula’s voice reaches me seconds before her soft hands do, palms running up my chest, over my shoulders—down my biceps—fingers trailing from the tender place inside my elbow down to the vertical slashes of scar tissue at my wrists, her hands closing gently around them before she brings my hands to her lips, placing a line of tender kisses on my palms—moving slowly upward.

“But the scars are there. They run deep.” Ursula guides my hands to the hem of her sundress and together we pull the gauzy white fabric up and over her head, her breasts—barely contained by her swimsuit top, bouncing down slightly—her soft stomach marked with silvery-lavender slivers of stretch marks against her olive gold tan.

“I couldn’t say in the bubbles, but I was hospitalized for an eating disorder.” Ursula does her best to keep her voice steady, but I can hear the tears threatening to choke the sound from her.

“Things got pretty serious, there was a question of whether or not I was going to make it—between the anorexia and the selfharm,” she sniffles, pressing her petal-soft lips to the scars at my wrists.

“Look at us—‘damaged goods,’ eh?” I blink away my tears, my hands moving to touch the soft flesh at her belly, my hands curving around to the small of her back, drawing her against me.

“Just taking it day by day—every day,” Ursula sighs, resting her head against my chest—our bodies settling against one another in quiet comfort.

“If the past few days have felt kind of like—what do you call it? The thing in Japanese culture—where broken pottery is mended by filling the cracks and missing pieces with gold?” I nuzzle my face into the part of her hair, sweet smelling and soft.

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