Page 21 of Beautiful Scar

“Crap,” I whisper to myself, terrified to my core. “Oh, crap, oh, crap. Oh?—”

Tigran reaches out and takes my hand.

I stare at it. Callused, thick, strong. I hold tightly, not really caring that it’s him, as I squeeze my eyes shut. I’m desperate for comfort right now, and he gives it to me. The fear’s still there, but it dims when he’s touching me, and before I realize what’s happening, the plane touches down.

I yelp, but he holds my hand tighter as the plane brakes and slows down.

“You’re okay,” he says gently. “We’re down.”

“Right. I’m fine. I did it.”

“And you even finished all your crackers. I’m proud of you.”

I glare at him. “Are you always like this?”

“Not always. Just with you.” His eyebrows raise, and he looks down. “You can let go of my hand if you want.”

I had forgotten about that. I quickly shove his palm from my lap and turn my back on him, arms wrapping around my body. “I’m fine, okay? Would you stop looking at me?”

“If I have to,” he says, and I’m pretty sure I hear a smile on his face.

I refuse to look. I’m not giving him that satisfaction. Instead, I watch the airport filter past as the plane taxis to the private terminal.

Baltimore’s a lot like Philly.The row homes are mostly red brick. There are green spaces, lots of rundown neighborhoods, and tons of life. People mill around the streets, even in the late evening as the sun sets. There’s a downtown with skyscrapers, and I can almost smell the inner harbor.

Another one of Tigran’s drivers takes us into an upscale neighborhood. The houses here are in great shape, with lots ofglass and windows. Roof decks, gastropubs on every corner, life, movement, and excitement.

It’s overwhelming to a girl who hasn’t been out of her suite much in the last decade, but it’s also fascinating.

“Sometimes I feel like the world moved on without me,” I murmur, forgetting for a second about my husband.

But he’s always got to remind me that he’s there. “You act like the horse-drawn carriage was the primary mode of transportation when you were last moving around outside.”

“No, obviously not, but it’s just—” How do I make him get it? That everything just looksdifferent?

“Try to explain,” he says patiently.

“I was a little kid back then. Mostly I remember what the city was like from the perspective of a thirteen-year-old. Now I’m twenty-five, and it’s like…”

“Everything’s smaller?”

“Yeah, that, but also it’s just different.” I’m frustrated with myself because I can’t put it into words. The way trains and buses aren’t magical anymore. Buildings aren’t incredible. “Everything lost its shine.”

“You’re jaded,” he says like he completely understands.

I look back at him. “I don’t feel jaded, but maybe that’s the right word.”

“I was like that too, you know, back when I was young. I thought the world worked one way, but as I got older, it became clear that it just doesn’t work at all.”

“That’s pretty depressing.”

“Liberating, I think. Now that I understand life doesn’t mean a thing, I have the freedom to do what I please.”

I shrink away from him. “I think life has meaning.”

“Do you? Funny, coming from a girl who’s been hiding from life for more than half of hers.”

I turn, about to argue, but it dies in my throat. What if he’s right? I always imagined my life had purpose—that even if I was hiding away, I still mattered. What if his sad, nihilistic viewpoint is real, and nothing really matters at all?

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