Page 25 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

"Um, no. I use a dating app occasionally."

"What about social engagements? Friends who visit? Places you like to go?"

I glance at my second bodyguard, who seems like a guy who'd be the life of the party. Mike seems like someone who enjoys hosting and probably has tons of friends. I already know he's happily married, so my lack ofeverythingmust look pretty pathetic.

I stare at my bookcase, suddenly fascinated by a microscopic scuff on a shelf edge. I shake my head, answering all his questions at once. "I don't really… do social things."

"Same," Sean says through a chuckle, but it's like he's laughing at himself rather than at me. When I caution a glance his way, he says, "Ugh, people."

I grin. I like that we have an inside joke already. "I do have one friend," I tell him. "So I'm not a complete social outcast. But she's in Australia. We talk online."

"Yeah, I have… a good friend myself. Two of them now. It's good to have someone who notices when you're hibernating too long."

"It is. Not everyone is intolerable."

He laughs, and I'm realizing I love making him do that. All the anxiety I had before they arrived has mellowed out, and it's because of each little, gentle smile Sean sends my way. Also, his natural charm and ability to lighten the mood.

"You're really good at reading people," I blurt out. I'm expecting him to say something funny or give me a knowing look, but he surprises me.

The corners of his lips melt downward like they're being washed away in the rain, and his gaze becomes vacant, as if he's no longer seeing me but someone else.

Who did I become inside his mind?

He turns to Mike, our warm moment replaced by professional distance suddenly. "We should discuss expectations," he says and Mike nods.

Mike gestures toward my couch. "Mind if we sit?"

"Oh, uh, the bathroom," I say. "We didn't discuss putting a camera in there."

Sean and Mike exchange a glance.

"We don't usually put cameras in the bathroom," Mike says.

"But there's a window," I protest, hearing the note of desperation creeping into my voice. "Someone could climb in. It needs to be covered too."

Mike's eyebrows lift. Sean's expression remains neutral.

"I know I sound crazy."

"Wanting to be safe isn't crazy," Sean counters immediately. "It's survival. It's good to pick up on threats others miss."

I like that he said that. My therapist said similar things, but hearing it from someone like Sean—someone whose job is literally looking for threats—makes it land differently.

"Thanks," I say, though I'm not exactly sure what I'm thanking him for. Being understood?

"Let's take another look," Sean says after a beat.

I lead them down the short hallway to my bathroom, passing through my minimalist bedroom where baggy clothes are draped over a dresser and scattered on the floor. The small bathroom feels absurdly cramped with three people, the faded floral shower curtain and single bare bulb overhead making everything feel smaller than it already is. I press myself against the sink, creating as much distance as possible between our bodies.

Mike waits by the door while Sean moves to the window. It's white-framed, frosted glass, and about three feet square. He examines it carefully. His fingers trace the latch and test the frame. He's frowning.

"First," he says, "this window is small. An adult would have some difficulty getting through."

"But it's not impossible," I say.

"Second, and more importantly," he continues, meeting my eyes in the mirror's reflection rather than turning to face me—a small courtesy that doesn't go unnoticed—"a camera in the bathroom is an invasion of privacy we don't recommend."

"But someone could get through there, right?"

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