Page 23 of The Scars I Bare
“Pretty sure those never stop.”
“That’s what I’ve heard,” I replied as he looked down at me, those mesmerizing green eyes capturing my gaze like tractor beams.
“What’s it like? Single-parenting, I mean. Being raised by one, I should know, but it’s not really the type of thing you ask your mom, you know?”
I hadn’t forgotten his mother—or much else about Dean Sutherland. It surprised me how familiar the Southern drawl in his voice seemed to me, like reuniting with a long-lost friend rather than a fleeting patient from years ago.
“I don’t know honestly,” I answered. “I haven’t been doing it terribly long. But, so far, I’d describe it as scary, intimidating, and overwhelming. Those are just the words that come to mind at the moment. But, when I look at her, running around that backyard with that silly streamer in her hand, happy as she’s ever been, I know right down to my core that I’ve done something right, so it’s got to be okay, you know?”
“It will be,” he said. “And hey, now, you have an entire island to help you out.”
I knew he was just joking, but the words struck a nerve.
I didn’t want help.
I didn’t need it.
I would not be that helpless person again.
“Hey.” His hand found mine.
The warmth of it seeped into my bones, reminding me of a simpler time.
When a boy could touch me and it meant nothing more than an innocent caress.
When a man could kiss me and it wouldn’t be followed with the memory of fear or violence.
Pulling away, I felt the heat vanish, and I rubbed the spot where his hand had been. “I’d better get to bed,” I said before realizing it was nowhere near bedtime. “I have an early morning.”
His eyes were fixated on my hand, the way I rubbed where he’d touched me, like I was trying to erase it from history.
If only I could explain. If only I could find the words.
It wasn’t him I was trying to erase, just the memories he’d touched.
“Right. Of course,” he said, his voice quiet and lifeless.
It was then that I realized the error I’d made. When he’d touched me, he’d reached out with his right hand. I’d been so frozen, so paralyzed by his touch, I hadn’t even noticed how different it felt when the false hand rested on mine.
Was that haunted look he now carried in his eyes rejection? Was the pain he was showing because of me?
I assumed he’d seen the tragedy in my own haunted stare, but I’d failed to see it gazing back at me.
“I’d better go,” I said, feeling the need to flee growing stronger.
Baggage.
It was weighing us both down, heavy and burdensome. There was no doubt we had our own truckloads of it following behind us like a lead weight. And, if there was one thing I remembered about Dean Sutherland, it was that he deserved better than me.
I’d gone to bed that night, feeling like a failure in more ways than one.
I’d made a mess of things with Molly and never had the chance to make amends, and I’d basically done the same thing with Dean less than two hours later.
It was like I’d taken a manners and etiquette class from Kanye West himself. I’d come to Ocracoke to start over, yet at the first sign of a fresh start, one full of friends and laughter and fun, I’d turned it all down.
Why?
Because I was a damn certifiable mess, and as much as I craved it—the attention, interaction, and kindness—I wasn’t sure I even knew how to be genuine anymore.
