by Samantha Bee
I take a shuddered breath and cross my arms in front of my chest. Scar slips the gun into her waist band before slowly moving over to me. "Don't do that," she whispers.
I stare at her, not understanding what she means. "Let yourself feel the pain, don't shut it down. If you need to cry, cry," she continues in a soft voice. She gently places a hand on my arm and exerts the slightest amount of pressure. Just enough to encourage me to drop my arms but not enough to force me to.
"I have no tears for that man," I spit, even as a sense of overwhelming sadness rushes through me. There's relief too but I hadn't expected this unwelcome ache in my chest. I drop my arms anyways and am grateful when she steps into my chest, mimicking the position we had been in outside.
"Not for him, Ry. For you. For Jen. For every single thing that man robbed you of. I'm here to hold you through it if you need to fall apart."
I don't want to. I don't want to admit just how much hell he put us both through. Don't want to think about how many times I failed my sister, not only in not saving her but so many times before that. Every time he raised his hand to her. Every time I purposely provoked him, and she stepped in to take my punishment. So many times she protected me, and I was never able to do the same for her, no matter how hard I tried.
The tears flow. Scar says nothing more, just stands there holding me together just like she promised she would. Not letting me get lost in my own grief and regrets. Just a silent support so I can take this moment.
I don't know how long we stay there. How long I cry in her small arms, letting her soothe some of the hurt with featherlight touches. At some point we move to sitting on the floor by the stairs, her petite frame, in my lap as she hums under her breath and runs her fingers through my hair. I recognize the song as the one she sings to Rowan, somehow it helps. I lean more into her touch like an eager puppy.
She wipes the tears from my cheeks, and stares at me intensely for a moment, all the while still humming. After several, more moments like that, she stops humming and starts talking. "A bullet between the eyes," she whispers, her eyes still locked with mine. "It's the same way my father died."
I can tell talking about this costs her something big. I stay silent but slip one hand under her jacket and start to trace patterns on her skin, as she has been doing for me all day.
"He hurt me. Bad." She looks off in the distance and I can tell she's trying not to drown in her memories. "When my mother found the state I was in, she shot him. Right between the eyes. One shot and he was gone." Her eyes lock back onto my face and I see the confusion swirling in those green depths. "I didn't even know that she knew how to shoot."
She looks down at the hand still in her lap. "I thought she was saving me," she continues as she picks up my hand in her own. I let her guide my hand to her chest, waiting to see what she's doing. She presses my fingers into her sternum, and I feel the bumpy, raised skin of her scar. I've noticed it before but never asked. I haven't asked about any of her scars. "She shot me instead."
I hear myself gasp. Knowing her story was bad and hearing how bad are two very different things. She stops talking and I know there's more to the story, but I don't think she's capable of sharing anymore. I trace my fingers down her scar, memorizing the evidence of just how strong this woman is.
"I cried for them," she says after several quiet moments. I continue running my fingertips along her scar and she shivers under my touch. "I don't know why. They never showed me love. My nanny raised me," she pauses like she's thinking, "but still. I cried for them. I cried they weren't who I thought they were. I cried that they failed so miserably. I cried for the life I thought was ours."
I watch her as she tries to figure out her own emotions. Somehow her words take the sting out of my own grief. I'm not alone in these conflicting emotions. I can be relieved and upset. I cannot understand everything I'm feeling.
"Do you forgive them?" I ask her.
She tilts her as she considers my questions. Running her fingers through my hair once more. "I don't know. What does it even mean to forgive? Can I forgive someone who isn't here anymore? Does it matter?"
I consider her point. "I don't know," I agree. "I guess it's accepting what happened and letting go of your anger over the past, over things you can't change."
"Can you let go of your anger over what happened to Jen?" She doesn't snap her question. There's no judgement or defensiveness. Just her own curiosity as she thinks about my question.
"I don't think I can. I don't think I'll ever be able to look back and be okay with what happened."
She nods. "I think forgiveness is about realizing that every human being is flawed. We all are broken in some way, we all have our sharp edges and jagged pieces. Some more than others. I think forgiveness is partially about accepting that you're going to get cut by other people's shattered pieces, leaving you a little more broken than before. I think it's about accepting their sins are now written on your skin, changing you in some way because everything we go through changes us a little bit, right?"
She shakes her head, like she isn't even sure what she's saying but it all makes perfect sense to me. The more she talks though, the more I feel like sometimes forgiveness isn't even an option. It's not about doing the right things or even the right thing for yourself. Sometimes forgiveness is just an impossibility.
"When someone breaks your heart, or lies to you, or steals your mail, I think you can forgive those things. The effect on you so minor, it's easy to accept the damage done as a lesson learned, a chance for personal growth. Chances are, years later, you won't be able to dredge up that same anger, even if you wanted to. But when the damage is soul deep, when it uproots your life, molds, and reshapes you into someone you don't even recognize. How do you accept it and grow from it? How do you stop being angry when someone maliciously and purposely set out to destroy you?
"They say forgiveness is just as much about yourself, right? But what if I like my damage? I like my broken edges, I like who I became. Not just who I became, I like the storm my anger creates.
“I don't accept what happened to me. I didn't grow and become a better person, maybe someone else in my shoes could do that and they might be able to forgive, but not me. I let my anger mold and shape me into who I am today. I'm okay with that. I would rather be destroyed by my anger than absolve them of their sins. They didn't make me, my rage did, my fight did. They don't get to be written off as a lesson learned. Maybe I'll let go of all that when they're all dead. Maybe I'll find my forgiveness through their blood."
"You think so?" I ask skeptically. I've never seen anyone who has relished in the chaos they create as much as Scar.
She grins up at me, her lips so close to my own, "Probably not. I thrive on the mayhem. I think I'm too far gone to save now."
I flick my eyes down and watch as her tongue darts out to wet her lips. I'm as transfixed by that little move as I was by every word that came out of her mouth. She put every unnamed feeling, every messy thought I had swirling in my brain and made them make sense. "You don't need to be saved," I whisper, leaning towards her just a fraction. Her eyes meet mine, swirling with something. I just don't know what.
My heart starts to beat an unsteady beat, pounding through me, urging me to close the distance between the two of us. The silence hangs heavy around us until I swear, I can hear her own heart racing to the same insane beat as mine.
Neither of us move or speak, living in this one single moment. Fuck, I said I wouldn't cross this line, but she isn't moving away. I go to move another fraction, waiting to see if she mirrors the movement but just as I start to, a shrill sound shrieks between us.
We both startle back as the Facetime ringtone continues to chime on her phone. She gives this half laugh and pulls her phone out and gets up. I cough and run my fingers through my hair, looking anywhere but at her.
"Hey, Roe baby," she coos into the phone. I force my heart rate to slow down and put all thoughts of what almost just happened out of my mind. As
much as I'm not looking at her, she is actively not looking at me either. The awkward tension between us is palpable.
I listen as she promises Roe to be home for dinner and hangs up. I stand up off the ground, looking around and it dawns on me that this entire time, we've been sitting mere feet away from my dad's dead body.
"So, uh." I run my fingers through my hair. "What do we do with him? It?"
She scrunches up her nose. "I don't like dead bodies. Mikey and Ronan will take care of it."
I stare at her in disbelief. "You don't like dead bodies?" She nods as she starts to move back up the stairs. "You realize you're like a glorified serial killer, right?"
"First off, wrong. Serial killers have a pattern, a routine they stick to. I do whatever works. Second, they aren't fun when they can't scream anymore. Mikey and Ronan always help dispose of the bodies."
I raise my brows and scoff, glad for the distraction this conversation provides. "Serial killers tend to have a pattern. The definition is three or more kills in a period of over thirty days with a cooling off period in between and the motive being for some type of psychological gratification."
"Huh." She stops as she opens the door that leads back to her cyber room. "But I don't have a cooling off period. I just kill who needs to be killed when they need to be killed. I see the other part though. Still think assassin works best."
I follow her up. "Of course." I grin. "How could I forget? The hacking assassin."
She smirks. "Can hack your most private information or your head off," she finishes what I had first said when they told me all about their empire.
I never would have imagined we would end up here when she first saved me.
Chapter Eighteen
Luca warned me they were going to be late today. He didn't tell me what they had to do after training but it's probably safe to assume it's something that I'm not supposed to have any idea about.
It’s gotten harder every day since Scar has been home to keep up the facade that I don't know anything about the other half of their lives. I know that it's weighing on her to keep such big secrets from me, but I also know she isn't ready to face the two halves of her world colliding like that yet. If we push her too fast this time, I think we will lose her for good.
Not that I think she will run away, I don't think she could handle it again. I just think that we would end up losing vital pieces of who she is. The goal is to help her move forward, put herself back together, not push so hard that she falls apart again. She's taken the steps to be open to us and now I think it's important we let her do this thing at her pace.
I let myself into Luca's place and head straight for the room I've been staying in, desperate to get into more comfortable clothes. I kept my own place, but I've been staying here more often than not. It might be time to get rid of the apartment, especially now that Scar is back. I can't remember the last time I actually stayed the night at my own place. I mostly just go to get more things that I need.
I run my fingers through my hair as I consider bringing it up with Luca and Scar. They already agreed we should all be staying here. I wonder if Kade has gotten rid of his place yet? I know Scar sold the apartment she was staying in, but I think she still has her old place from before she ran.
I check my phone to see if there is an update from any of them and find a text from Luca letting me know we're having dinner at Joe's and they'll be back at the house, I pause to check the clock and smile. They'll be home within the hour.
I head to the kitchen to grab a beer when I hear the doorbell. Curiosity fills me at who could be here. There's only a handful of people who would be able to make it up to the front door without buzzing through the intercom, but Luca didn't warn me about anyone else coming.
I open the door and find Declan there. I smile in greeting and he just gives me a subtle head nod. I let him in, figuring Scar invited him over but didn't say anything to Luca. Things have still been weird with all of us. We haven't been able to fall back into the easy rhythm we had before she left. It's all still too messed up for that.
Declan has been here quite a bit, but his presence only adds to the tension. I don't mind him as much because I see the effect he has on Scar. She still feels very much on her guard around us, especially when Kade is in the room but she settles when Declan is around. Somehow through this shit show, he became someone to lean on, a way to keep herself grounded.
"Hey, man. They'll be home in about forty-five minutes or so," I explain after closing the door behind him. I don't really know much about the guy. He's been almost wary of us even as he encourages Scar to mend things between us.
He nods, looking around. His eyes land back on mine and they carry that same heavy feeling, as if he's assessing my worth, that they always do. He finally seems to come to a conclusion as he moves into the living room. "Scar told me she should be home before six." He makes himself comfortable on the couch before turning on the television and pulling out his phone. He doesn't say anything more and I stand there for a moment staring at him and rubbing the back of my neck, unsure of what to do next.
Why the fuck do I have to be the one alone with the silent fucker?
He gives off the same unapproachable vibe that Luca does, but I've gotten used to him at least. He's not nearly as standoffish as he first appears to be. Declan seems like he couldn't give a fuck if the rest of us like him or not.
Fuck. I guess I should take this chance to get to know him better, or at least try. But hell. I really don't want to. I sigh as I head into the kitchen, cursing myself for being both awkward and curious. I want to know more about the guy that has become so important to Scar so quickly but I also really don't want to have to talk to him.
I grab a couple of beers before heading back and sitting on the couch with him and handing him one. He grunts a thanks before going back to his phone. I take a long swallow of mine as I contemplate what to say.
I watch him out of the corner of my eyes as I rub the back of my neck, coming up short with anything to say. Fuck. Why is this so uncomfortable? He doesn't even seem bothered as he just taps away on his phone like he doesn't even notice me here.
After several more tense minutes where I fail to come up with anything to say, he finally sighs as he puts his phone down. "Just ask whatever it is you want to ask?"
"Uh," I hesitate, turning to look at him. "It's just," I trail off, still not knowing where to start. "I guess I just don't know much about you." I leave it open ended, hoping he can just take the lead.
"I'm Scarlett's friend. What else is there to know?" Okay, so no luck with him taking the lead. It's like he's purposely trying to be difficult, but I don't actually think he is. I think this is just who he is. Ryder was right, he is a douche.
"Well." I try again. “It just seems like you're going to be around for the long haul." He nods in agreement, he's already proven his devotion to Scar and to protecting her. "Don't you think we should get to know each other?"
Surprise flashes across his face. "You want to get to know me?" he asks, confusion lacing his tone.
"Uh, yeah?" I tilt my head as I watch him. "If we are both going to be a part of her life, we might as well get along, right?"
He doesn't respond right away, just watches me before slowly nodding. "She would like that." He gets quiet but I have a feeling he isn't quite done yet, so I wait before responding. "I just thought you all hated me." He shrugs.
The absolute indifference in which he says it, makes a chuckle burst through my lips. It's really as if he doesn't care at all if we did. "I don't hate you," I tell him honestly. "But I don't totally understand you either."
I think about the others and a small smile forms on my face as I continue. "I think Luca actually likes you but is enjoying giving you a hard time." Luca is welcoming to anyone who is good for Scar, but he's also a little jealous of Declan for having her to himself the last couple of months.
"Ryder avoids you because he feels like he doesn't have the right to care, even th
ough he does care." Declan's head cocks to the side and he chuckles at that, but I don't fully understand why so I just continue on. "Kade, well yeah. Kade hates you. He probably imagines ways to murder you every time he sees you, but he won't actually do shit about it."
His face hardens at the mention of Kade. I've always gotten the feeling there is more than what we know about the animosity between the two of them. Declan was hard on all of us when he first showed up but now, he's mostly indifferent, except for with Kade. The anger and tension between the two of them sends prickles of energy through the room. Eventually, it's going to explode.
"I'm not a big fan of his, either," he admits.
"Why?" I can't stop myself from asking. We've all been wondering about the barbs the two of them trade back and forth. Why they seem to be so much more hostile towards each other. No. Declan is hostile, but Kade actually seems more defensive. At first, I thought it was because Declan had come in and called us all out on our bullshit. The same way Joe had. We had just as much blame as Scar did.
Now that I look back at the past few weeks though, it feels more than that. It feels like there are still more secrets being buried under aggression and pointed insults.
"It's not my story to tell," he admits, pausing, "but he has more to make up to her than the rest of you and he hasn't even tried."
There it is, another hint that there is more going on than what we all know. I sigh, "We've really got to stop all the secrets." It's starting to wear on me. There are so many and it's draining.
Declan hums and I can feel his glare boring into me. I've noticed how often he does that, just analyzes us. As if he's constantly grading us, estimating our worth, or figuring out where we are lacking.
"And how many secrets do you still have from her?" he asks, and I feel the blush creeping up my neck. I respect his willingness to call it like it is, even if I hate him a little bit for it.