Page 65 of The Scars I Bare
“You swear, man? ’Cause, literally, it’s taking all my strength to even look at you right now.”
A small smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth, but I quickly erased it. “I swear. Will never happen again. I honestly only did it to pull your chain. I don’t think of her like that. At all,” I stressed.
His eyes narrowed on mine but then proceeded, “She thinks you and Cora are, like, destined or whatever. You know how she gets.”
I nodded. “I know; she’s told me.”
“And?”
I let out a breath. “And I don’t know. The idea that fate has something to do with my life, that there’s a plan to all of this? I struggle with it because it means that, somewhere out there, someone decided this”—I pointed to my right arm—“was supposed to happen to me. And what good can come from this? But do I think Cora and I could be something great?” A small smile spread across my face. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”
“Well, all right, let’s talk beaches,” he said. “Women love dinner on the beach.”
By the time I got out of there, I had enough date ideas to last until our fifth wedding anniversary, maybe longer.
And I’d never appreciated my best friend more.
Too bad he’d have nightmares of me and his fiancée doing the dirty for weeks.
Dear Friends and Family,
So much to update you on. Gosh, where to begin? Elizabeth—or Lizzie, as we lovingly call her—is thriving. She’s so smart.
And I know every parent says that, but I have a feeling not every parent has a kid like Lizzie. She’s either going to be president one day or our evil overlord. It’s a toss-up.
My parents—hi, Mom and Dad!—will be visiting soon! Mom’s birthday is coming up, and as she’s one of the only normal-ish people in the house who would rather go see a musical than the latest Marvel movie, I’m taking her to a show. In style. Because why the hell not?
On a more serious note, there was a terrible accident off the coast last week. Down by Hatteras, a ferryboat exploded, causing more than a dozen fatalities and nearly double that in injuries. They’re calling it one of the worst ferry accidents in decades.
One of the patients I’m caring for lost his arm. I don’t know why, but I’m captivated by him.
His strength and his sorrow.
The way he seems to smile only when he speaks of home.
I wonder, what kind of place could bring such joy to someone so sad?
Anyway, if any of you are the praying type, please pray for my patient.
His name is Dean.
Molly was in the kitchen when I approached her. She was standing there, looking effortlessly beautiful, as usual, in a casual pair of shorts and a black tank top, humming under her breath as she put together some last-minute breakfast items for the next morning for the small family who was currently staying overnight.
Since school had started, the inn had gone from boisterous to silent nearly overnight. Molly had explained it was normal, the bookings reducing to almost nothing in the next few weeks, but for an outsider, it was a strange phenomenon.
“Hey, Molly,” I said, nearly tiptoeing into the large space.
Normally, the kitchen felt kind of cozy when it was just Lizzie and me in the early hours before the guests came down. But, when Molly was at the helm, manning the burners, it felt like I was intruding on her inner sanctum.
“Hey. What’s up? Are you ready?” she asked before turning around.
I bit my lip, fumbling with the hemline of my T-shirt. “Um, well…that’s what I wanted to talk to you about.”
She pivoted around, a wooden spoon in her hand, and her eyes widened in shock. “You’re not ready! Not even a little bit!”
“I know!” I cried. “You know how I said I wasn’t the makeover type? Well, I lied. I need it, Molly. I need all the help I can get because, when I look at my closet right now, sweat starts pouring from my armpits, and that’s not sexy.”
“No, not at all.”
