Page 58 of Our Secrets and Scars

How could she ever think I’d be disgusted by her?

“Kinz…”

“Don’t.” She drops my hand from her face and steps away again. “It’s okay.”

I move back into her space and seize her by the arms, refusing to let her get away before she hears me out.

“Listen to me right now,” I command, low and deep. “I’ve told you in my letters, but perhaps you need to hear it from my lips to finally fucking believe it. Your scars don’t bother me. With or without them, you’re beautiful. Not just in the way you look, but the goodness of your heart and the warmth of your soul. Iknowyou, Kinsley. I fucking know you. And there is nothing about you that could ever disgust me, do you understand? One day, you’ll trust me enough to show me your scars and I’ll worship every fucking one of them.”

A tear escapes, and I catch it with my thumb. I tremble with the need to kiss her, but she’s not ready for that yet. Instead, we just look at each other. She stares at me, her brown eyes dappled with gold dust as she lets my words wash over her, absorbing them. Processing.

Finally, she releases a long sigh and says, “I need to get to class.”

“Okay.” I nod, conceding just a little. “But come by the studio later?”

She looks at me dubiously. And I know it’s a cheap shot, but I give her my best puppy dog eyes.

“Please? We’ll do something fun.”

“Fine.”

And though she tries to hide it, I see the lift in her shoulders that wasn’t there before, the lightness to her step that she hadn’t had before she’d spotted me waiting for her. It gives me the reassurance that I’ve been so desperate for. It gives me hope.

Because I know with certainty that this is only the first hurdle we’ll have to face together. The worst is coming. I can only keep my fingers crossed and pray that she’ll care for me enough to stay when that day finally arrives. That she’ll accept me despite the secret I’ve been keeping from her for years.

That, by some miracle, she’ll find a way to forgive me.

Fifteen

Kinsley

Mymomusedtosay I was too stubborn for my own good. But from what I remember, Bexley was always the most stubborn out of the two of us. I just tried to parrot her, to mimic the way she behaved, as if in doing so, I could become her somehow.

We already looked the same. Maybe, I thought, that if we acted the same way, people might like me as much as they did her. That my parents would love me the way they loved her.

It might have worked if I’d kept the act going long enough, but the truth of who I was would seep in through the cracks in my façade and render my efforts useless. Everyone still gravitated toward Bexley. And eventually, it became so exhausting to keep trying to be someone else that I put my efforts into trying to be a better version of myself.

I loved cheerleading, but it wasn’t enough to just be on the team. I had to be the captain. My clothes can’t just be cute, they have to look like they’ve been lifted straight from a fashion Pinterest board. It’s not enough just to get straight As, I have to be top of the class.

And I’ve achieved all that, I’ve done it. Even today, my academic advisor called me into her office to tell me that I’ve made the Dean’s list this semester and that she’s put my name forward for an Academic Achievement Award as a result of my flawless GPA.

But it still doesn’t feel enough. I still want more. I still want to be better.

It makes me yearn for the ivory pillars of Athens even more than usual, the crystal seas and the feta cheese. Just imagining what it would be like to breathe the Greek air brings my chaotic mind some sense of solace, some peace amongst the thoughts of self-loathing.

Fletcher’s letters always had the same effect on me. And I guess that’s why I’m here, knocking on the door to the apartment of the man I now know as Holden. Because while I’m terrified of him breaking my heart, I know that he is the only chance I have of finding relief from the thoughts that plague me every day.

And if I allow myself to admit it, I can’t stay away from him. I need him, whether I like it or not.

“Holden?” I call through the door after knocking for several moments with no answer. “Holden, you there?”

“He’s just finishing up in the studio.”

I jump at the sound of the gruff voice behind me, causing whoever it belongs to to chuckle.

“Sorry, peach, didn’t mean to startle you.”

I turn around to find a man in his late fifties standing at the bottom of the stairwell that leads to Holden’s front door. His hair is tinged with silver, a similar color to his eyes, and his face is decorated with the kind of crinkles that speak of a life well lived.

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