Page 22 of Our Secrets and Scars

Maybe it was so easy for me to love you because you’re the only person who has ever really known who I am. The scars on my face didn’t matter to you because you never saw them. You didn’t care about the way my makeup hides them because you never saw for yourself how dramatically it changes the way my face looks. You were the only person in my life other than Bexley who didn’t give a crap about appearances. You only ever cared about what was in my heart. And giving it to you was the easiest thing I’ve ever done.

And I know that people might think it hard to believe that I was able to love you even when I didn’t know the feel of your arms around me or the softness of your lips or the touch of your fingers combing through my hair the way lovers do. But I didn’t need all that to know the way I felt for you, the way I still feel for you, was real. Love isn’t something you can explain. It’s a truth only your heart knows, and when it starts beating in time to someone’s name, all you can do is trust it. And after all this time, my heart still beats to yours.

It’s okay though. In time, I’ll learn to forget you. Though it will be as impossible as trying to unlearn the words to your favorite song. The lyrics of you will linger for a long time, but that’s all right. I don’t mind so much. There are worse things to have stuck in your head, I suppose.

Goodbye, Fletcher, it’s been… something.

All my love,

Kinsley

The letter sits in my lap with the wordsReturn to senderemblazoned across the envelope. I was expecting it, but it doesn’t make it hurt any less. The pain still makes me feel as if I’m choking on air. Tears fall and stain the paper, the ink smudging. It makes me cry harder.

“Girl, you better not be crying over a boy.”

The door slams and I look up to find Isla staring down at me with her hands on her hips and her eyebrows scrunched together.

I say nothing, and she takes my silence as an answer.

“See?” she says, tossing her hands into the air. “This is why I date women.”

Despite the rolling tears on my cheeks, I laugh. “Maybe I should give it a go.”

“Nah, girls are nightmares too. You’re better off just sticking with me.”

I throw a pillow in her direction, and she ducks, letting it soar above her head and hit the wall behind her. She tuts, then takes a seat at the edge of my bed, looking at me with concern. She doesn’t ask for details though. We have an unspoken understanding that we both have secrets we’d rather keep to ourselves. I don’t ask about hers, and she doesn’t ask about mine.

“Dry your tears, baby girl. It’s Saturday and we’re going out.”

I sniff, wiping my face with the back of my hand. “Not sure I’m feeling it tonight.”

“Don’t care.” She walks over to the small closet on my side of the room and starts rifling through my clothes, finding a dress she deems acceptable and tossing it at me. “That girl I like from my class invited me to a party on sorority row and I need my wing woman. Plus, you can dance and drink your boy troubles away. It’s a win-win.”

I roll my eyes, fingering the soft material of the dress between my fingers. “Fine.”

“Good. Fix your makeup, your tears have ruined it.”

My hand flies to my face, panic rising at the realization that she might have noticed my scars. Isla catches the movement and shakes her head.

“For God’s sake, Violet. We’ve been roommates for like a month now. I’ve seen your scars before.”

My mouth falls open as I let my hand slowly slip from my cheek. “Why didn’t you say anything?”

She shrugs. “If you wanted to talk about it, you would.”

“They don’t disgust you?”

She snorts. “Why the fuck would they disgust me? They’re scars, Violet, not dog shit.”

I stare down at my hands as my cheeks heat. I’ve never had someone react so casually to my scars before. As if they make no difference to them, as if they’re not important. I’m so used to the cruelty I received back in high school that I don’t know how to handle Isla’s kindness.

But it feels good. It feelsfreeing.I’m not sure I’ll ever feel comfortable enough to keep my face bare in front of her, but at least I don’t have to feel like there’s this huge secret I’m keeping. I feel lighter for it.

I grab the dress off the bed and head for the shared showers down the hall. “Give me half an hour.”

My skin feels sticky as I rest my back against the wall inside the Kappa-Psi sorority house an hour later. Music beats heavy and violent like a sea storm as I tug self-consciously at the hem of the dress as it rides high on my thigh.

It has a sweetheart neckline that makes my small breasts look larger than they are, thin straps that rest delicately on my shoulders, and a seam around my middle that makes my waist look minuscule. And, as if I didn’t already feel uncomfortable enough, it’s in the most striking color—scarlet. I couldn’t have stood out more if I had come dressed as a traffic cone.

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