The Scars That Made Us

by Inda Herwood

  “A goat. In your house.” I shake my head, placing the now drenched towel on the counter. “Only you, Cyvil Montae.”

  As Grim continues to hydrate, she remains silent, face blank. I’m wondering if I offended her with the comment when she asks, looking at Grim instead of me, “How much of my conversation with my father did you hear?”

  I release a breath, already missing the light conversation of goat ownership with her. It was a nice distraction from our reality. “Most of it,” I admit, watching Grim as well. She baaaahhhhs once before going back to drinking again.

  “I’m sorry.”

  I wave away her concern. “Don’t be. There’s nothing to apologize for.”

  She pauses, the rain hitting harder on the roof. “Isn’t there?”

  She turns to look at me now, hair still wet, but slightly curling at the ends, the layers framing her face like a picture. The caramel of her eyes looks even brighter against her pale, wet skin – the flush of her cheeks. Her scar just barely peeks out the side of her forehead, the majority covered by her tangled hair. Again, the longing to know what caused it and the many others plagues me. I wonder if I’ll ever know their story.

  “No. Because like I said, neither of us chose this or each other. The truth of the matter doesn’t offend me. Would it bother you if I’d said the same to my father?”

  Her eyes blink three times before she answers. “No. It’s just the truth. You’re right.” Looking back at Grim, she says, “I was thinking that we could come up with a schedule for the summer, get our events in order to make it seem more legitimate for our parents. My dad will be looking for inconsistencies, so we need to make sure we’re on at all times when he, or even his associates, are around.”

  I nod before she’s finished talking, having had the same idea after our meeting at Serendipity. To look realistic, we’ll have to appear as though we are actually ‘dating’ to everyone else. “What did you have in mind?”

  Cyvil

  “Do you want to sit down?” I ask as I refill Grim’s water bowl in the kitchen, looking over my shoulder to see his reaction. It’s really unfair how much hotter he looks when drenched in rain water. Where I look like a drowning cat, he looks like he just walked off the set for Versace cologne for men. With eyes that look like the sky before a storm, and his ink black hair curling over his eyes, he looks…he looks…unattainable. Another wave of guilt washes over me.

  And why, you ask? Because for the entire summer he’s going to have to look like he’s actually engaged to me. Going to charity events, holding hands, smiling like this relationship makes the most sense in the world while everyone else is going to be thinking what the hell did I do to get him. For him, this is going to be embarrassing, and for me, it’s also going to be embarrassing, but for a whole different reason.

  I try to stamp down the self-degrading thoughts as he answers with a quick “Sure” before I put the bowl back down for Grim, wiping the excess water from my hands onto my jeans, which is pointless considering they’re wetter than my hands. Asking him to wait for a minute, I go to my room and quickly change out of my water-logged sweater and jeans, throwing on a long sleeve thermal Tee and cotton, loose fitting yoga pants that make me feel like I’m wearing air. With all of my scars, having clothing that doesn’t grate against the sensitive tissue is very important. That’s why I’m usually wearing shorts or tank tops when I’m by myself. But since I’m not alone right now, I go with the second best option.

  Returning to the living room, I find Jagger sitting on the couch, Grim in the corner on her bed, the two of them staring at each other with unimpressed looks on their faces. Knowing he must be as wet as I was, I throw the large gray T-shirt at him, his arms quick to catch it once he notices I’ve rejoined him. He stares down at it, dark brows raised.

  “My brother in-law left it here one night when he and my sister stayed over. I figured you’d like to put on something dry.” Thank heavens his shirt is the only thing that seems to be uncomfortably wet. I wouldn’t have had a spare pair of jeans for him to wear if his had gotten the same treatment as his shirt.

  “Thanks,” he says, standing up. I’m about to tell him he can go change in the bathroom when he grabs the bottom of his water stained shirt and heaves it over his head, letting it slip to the floor as he takes Quincy’s T-shirt that has the logo for Star Trek on it and puts it on. But not before I get a good look at what’s hiding underneath.

  I was right. He has a nice little six pack under there, glistening with water droplets and the shade of honeyed bronze, just like the rest of him. He’s got those weird, V-shaped lines going down the sides of his hips, the band of his Calvin Kleins showing above his jeans. No joke, his chest is sculpted like Captain America’s, and I wonder where his damn shield is, because he practically puts Chris Evans to shame with the width of his shoulders, the curved muscles of his back. My mouth goes dry just looking at him, almost dying inside of shame at how beautiful he really is. And just like that, my sister’s voice comes back to me.

  “Why couldn’t Dad have made me marry a model?”

  She’s right. It should have been her, not me.

  A second later my view is cut short, the stupid nerd shirt taking it away from me without remorse. I try to swallow and find I have no saliva left. Forcing my eyes to stare at the floor, I say with a tight throat, “You could have used the bathroom, you know.”

  “Yeah, but then I wouldn’t have been able to see the priceless look on your face.” He smirks as he straightens out the hem of his borrowed shirt, eyes full of amusement. I don’t know if the comment is meant as an insult, or he thought I would be shocked at his impropriety. Either way, it kind of stings.

  “It’s not like I haven’t seen half naked men before,” I say, moving to the other end of the couch, placing the blue and gold throw pillow over my stomach. My fingers mess with the loose thread on the end that I haven’t gotten around to cutting yet.

  “I don’t doubt it.” He, too, returns to a sitting position, his right arm sprawling across the back of the couch, his body facing mine. “But people always have the best reactions when you take them by surprise.”

  “And is that something you like doing,” I say before I can stop myself, “showing off?”

  “What am I showing off exactly?”

  His smile turns into a pleased grin the longer I stay silent, a sure sign he damn well knows what he’s flaunting, and I refuse to take the bait. “We were supposed to be talking about strategy,” I remind him.

  “Yes, but this is so much more fun.”

  I ignore this, too. “I think we should start with the Summer Blitz. That’s the next event on the roster.”

  He snorts. “The roster? You have a roster for rich people events?”

  “You haven’t gone to one of these things in a while, have you?” I say, knowing that had I seen him at one before, I would have remembered him. And with his lost-in-the-ocean look at the doll charity disaster, I’d say I’m right.

  He shifts on the couch, looking something other than relaxed for once. “No.” He doesn’t divulge any further, and I don’t ask, why not?

  “Well, there’s three major parties every year for the summer, along with smaller, less important events, like the Doll Ball; the first being the Summer Blitz at the beach, followed by the Tea Party at the Pierce’s house, and then the end of season finale with the Rindell Ball.” He gives me a horrified look as I list them all. I hold up a hand before he can panic. “It sounds awful, and it is, but it’s only three events. Other than that, all we have to do is keep up the charade when our parents are around, and then it can all end after December.” When put that way, it really does sound like a business arrangement, making my stomach slightly churn. I never thought I would have to sink to this, to pretend to love someone for my own selfish gain.

  I try not to think about it as he says, dark gray pools watching me, “That easy, huh?”

  I shrug, still feeling the uncomfortable ache in my gut. “
To a degree.”

  He stays silent for a minute, a crack of thunder echoing in the distance. Neither of us flinch. And then he says, “What about everything else?”

  Everything else? “What do you mean?”

  “If we’re really going to fool everyone, then I think we should know as much about each other as we can, in case someone asks us something trivial about the other, and we don’t know. That wouldn’t look too good now, would it?”

  My shoulders tense at the idea of divulging any more information to him than I already have, but I have to admit, it’s not a bad idea. We have to look like a real couple, which means knowing each other as such.

  I hold the pillow a little closer.

  “What do you think we should know?”

  He takes a second to think about it, his eyes straying to Grim’s. The Pigmy ignores him as she comes to jump on the couch, walking in a circle before finally resting at my side. I give her ears another scratch, and she rests her head on my lap.

  “What was your favorite subject in school?” he decides should be his first question.

  At least it wasn’t something overly personal. “Spanish and French.”

  He looks surprised. “Really?”

  “I like languages. It’s a fun challenge to learn one.” And also very helpful for when a foreign speaking patient comes in and you don’t have time for a translator to get there.

  He laughs, almost to himself, and I find myself asking him cautiously, “What?”

  He shakes his head, still smiling. “I should have guessed. Your file said you knew four of them.”

  I pause, listening to the rain pattering on the roof. “My file?”

  His face says he realizes he said the wrong thing. His hand tenses on the couch cushion. “Uh, yeah. I kind of figured after you knew who I was that you got one too.”

  “I did,” I admit, kind of annoyed I didn’t assume he received one as well. “I just didn’t think…”

  “Didn’t think that I’d want to know who I was marrying, too?”

  I sigh, continuing to pet Grim. “No. I just didn’t think I would have enough information to even create a file for you.” I confess.

  “Oh, much to the contrary. I think there’s more than enough, most of which wasn’t even mentioned in it.” At this he looks disgruntled.

  “And what exactly have you discovered?” I’m almost afraid to ask the question.

  He holds up a hand, ticking each one off on his long fingers. He starts with his index. “You have a house goat as a pet, for one. You don’t exist on the internet. You’re a secret ninja in your spare time, and you’re at your calmest when you’re helping people.” The last one gentles his eyes, his lips barely turning up at the corners, seemingly proud of his deduction.

  I nearly choke when I ask, “Did you try to Google me?”

  “Of course,” he says without guilt. “Did you not do the same?”

  I shake my head. “No. But my sister did.”

  He looks puzzled for a second, but then his expression evens out, and a lick of humor enters his eyes.

  “What?” It seems like I’m always having to ask him that question.

  He chortles, the vibration of it shaking the sofa. “I wondered why she said that Google images didn’t do me justice. Now I know.”

  At the thought of my sister, I mutter, “I never did apologize for her, did I?”

  A smile. “No, you didn’t. But then I didn’t say sorry on Moon or Rosy’s behalf, either.”

  “Call it even?” I suggest, putting out my hand to him.

  He nods, “Deal,” and takes it, holding it in his for a little too long, his eyes slowly latching onto the hatched scars in my fingers, the top of my knuckles and hand.

  I pull it away as though he bit me.

  He immediately looks remorseful, eyes darkening. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s fine,” I lie, my throat thickening again. “Everyone does it. I’m used to it.”

  Jagger hesitates, then says quietly, the rain still falling steadily above us, “You shouldn’t have to be.”

  He’s right of course. I shouldn’t be used to the sinking of my heart when people stare at me like I did this to myself, as though I chose to look like a science experiment. But it’s how people are. They forget that you can see their faces, read the disgust in their eyes before they have a chance to wipe it away. It’s as though they think with the lessening of my looks, my feelings can’t hurt any more than my body already is. And that’s the biggest lie of all.

  I shake it off and attempt to restart the conversation, this time in a better direction. “What’s your favorite movie?”

  Recognizing what I’m doing, he kindly lets me proceed with it, answering my questions with honest, and sometimes hilarious, answers.

  Me: Favorite movie?

  Him: Mad Max. Worst fear?

  Me: Spiders. You?

  Him: Someone shaving my head.

  Me: *trying not to laugh* What?

  Him: Moon played a prank on me in school our Freshman year by shaving my head in my sleep. It took six months for me to grow it back, and the process was humiliating. I start shaking when I see electric razor commercials.

  Me: Oh, my gosh. I’m so sorry. *still trying not to laugh, hand covering mouth now, picturing him in a bald cap*

  Him: Yes, I can see it’s eating you up. *rolls eyes* Favorite dessert?

  Me: Cheesecake. Happiest memory?

  At this he stills, eyes losing their lightness, shoulders noticeably stiffening. His hand curls around the back of the sofa cushion, face tight. Trying to make up for it, he gives me a strangled smile. “Buying my first car.”

  I stare at him for a while, my gut telling me he’s lying, but I don’t know why. Wouldn’t remembering something pleasant make you happy, not stressed?

  “Yours?” he asks quickly before I can say anything about it.

  I let him do it, saying, “Learning my sister was pregnant, and then when I found out I had gotten into my first choice school.”

  He smiles at that, seeming to relax into himself again. “When is she due?”

  “Next week,” I answer, feeling nervous just saying it. “I’m afraid she won’t be able to handle it.”

  He leans back further, the sofa shrinking with him. “Why is that?”

  I shake my head, grinning down at Grim who has now fallen asleep. “My sister has the lowest pain tolerance of anyone I’ve ever seen. She once cried for two hours when she bumped her arm against the cushioned arm of her couch.” Now that was a memory. I couldn’t stop laughing when she said she thought she should go to the emergency room.

  He winces, also trying not to laugh. “That should be interesting then.”

  I nod. “Extremely. I already feel bad for the nurses. She’s going to be a nightmare.”

  We both laugh, and as the rain comes to an end and the sun slowly begins to shine behind the clouds, so does my mood. Maybe this thing with him isn’t going to be so bad. Perhaps my lie to my father won’t even be a lie at all. Maybe Jagger will actually become a friend to me.

  -10-

  Let the Show Begin

  One week later I get a call, the name popping up on my screen making me pause the treadmill. Pulling out my ear buds, I put the phone to my ear and answer with, “Is something wrong?”

  “No. Well…it depends by what you define as wrong,” Cyvil says nervously, barely able to hear her above the sound of gym equipment being used around me.

  “What is it?”

  “My parents want to invite you and your dad over for dinner tomorrow night.”

  “Okay, how is that a bad thing?” I ask, stepping off the treadmill completely and grabbing my bag, heading for the locker room to hear her better.

  “Because we’ll have to be on, as in we have to look convincingly happy.” She still sounds slightly frazzled, and it makes me chuckle. Her questioning “What?” doesn’t sound nearly as amused.

  “I can be happy. Can’t you?”
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  “…Yes, but it’s going to be for a whole hour. You think you can do that?”

  I shrug, forgetting she can’t see me. “If you’re that worried about it, tell them I can’t make it and we’ll have to reschedule.”

  “My father will think it’s suspicious.”

  I pause mid-step. “What, that I have a life?”

  “No, the fact that you have one that doesn’t have me at the forefront of it. I know it sounds ridiculous, but he basically thinks that I should be the center of your universe at the moment. And if you bypass the dinner for something more important, it’s not going to leave the best impression.”

  I sigh, sitting down on the bench, wondering what’s going to make her happy. She doesn’t want to do this, and yet she says we don’t have any other options. “Then I guess I’ll just see you tomorrow then.”

  As I’m about to hang up, I hear her voice say, quiet this time, “I’m sorry.”

  I stare at the locker in front of me, painted an ugly gray that reminds me of the sidewalks of New York City. It feels like every time I talk to this girl she’s apologizing for one thing or another. I’m sorry I cut your neck. I’m sorry I have to refuse you. I’m sorry my father is a jackass. I’m sorry you heard the truth. I can’t imagine what this one is for.

  “You’ll have to be more specific.”

  A sigh, a pause, and then, “I shouldn’t be putting my anxiety on you. Instead I should be glad that at least one of us has a calm head. I’m just worried that we’ll say the wrong thing and it’ll all be over, deal absolved before it could even begin. There’s so much riding on this that it has me breaking out in hives, and I never get hives. And then my sister called today and said that she’s freaking out because today is her due date and she’s worried something will go wrong and I –”

  “Have you ever golfed before?” I ask, stopping her before she loses consciousness from saying all that in a single breath.

  “I – golf? No, why?”

  I don’t go into details, just tell her where to meet me and ask if she could be there in an hour. She’s hesitant at first but says “Yes” all the same, and I hang up, hoping this works.