Scars of Love

by Lindsey Hart

  “I don’t see any glass in there.” Her body trembled, half with sorrow, half with a hard wave of pent-up longing. God, she’d wanted to touch him for years. Years. “It’s just cut up, but I don’t think it needs stitches. I’ll wash it out and bandage it.”

  She realized she had no idea if they had a first aid kit or peroxide or bandages. She stared blankly around the bathroom. Finally, she decided to check under the sink. She got lucky. Her hand shook as she wet a cloth and poured the peroxide onto it.

  Tommy didn’t even wince when she cleaned out his hand. Her own palm stung, just staring at the raw, cut up wounds. She’d never been good with blood. She carefully bandaged it, just with a few cheap, stick-on bandages, since there wasn’t anything else under the sink.

  “What about your knees?”

  “What about them?” Tommy’s blue eyes bit into hers. His hard, square jaw flexed as he ground his teeth together. Even with the scarring on his right cheek, he was still a handsome man. He had that strong brow that was so attractive, ice blue eyes, a straight nose, high cheekbones, square jawline. He’d cut his dark hair into some strange, military looking style, but it suited him somehow.

  “I-uh- you’re bleeding. It’s soaking through your jeans.”

  “Leave it. It will heal on its own.”

  Della hesitated. “Just take your jeans off. I’ve-uh- seen it before.”

  He stared hard at her, a silent battle of wills heavy in the air between them. Finally, he shrugged. He stood shakily. He used his good hand to undo the button on his jeans before he ripped them off, harder and rougher than was necessary.

  “Jesus,” Della cursed.

  “I know it’s ugly. I told you just to leave it.”

  “I’m not talking about the scars, Tommy. Your skin, it’s all cut up.” She stared at the worst of the cuts, wondering how the glass could have nipped in so deeply through the denim. There was a gaping hole just above his knee. The unscarred one. Like a shard of glass, probably from one of those plates, had bitten right in when he’d fallen on it.

  “I can’t even feel it.”

  “Is that because you’re drunk or because you just… can’t?”

  “I don’t know.” He answered her honestly before he sunk back down. He stayed that way, unmoving, while she poured peroxide over the cuts on his legs and applied the last of the shitty bandages.

  “I should go to the store and get something decent. Gauze or something.”

  “Why bother? It will knit back together. What’s one more scar?”

  Tommy’s lips, once so full of life and easy to smile, actually quirked up in a sad ghost of what could have been dazzling.

  Is he actually trying to make a joke?

  “I could use a cup of coffee,” Della admitted. She paused. “Do you think we can find one mug that survived the trauma?”

  Tommy snorted. It was as close to a laugh as she was going to get.

  “I guess we can go down and find out. I’ll clean it up.”

  “I’ll order a new fridge… pay for new dishes…”

  “The fridge is still working fine, I bet. If it is, leave it. I never really liked it that much anyway.”

  “What?” Thomas studied her intently and Della’s heart pounded at the mess up. She knew her sister loved that thing, she just hadn’t been thinking.

  “I mean, I thought I did, when I picked it out, but it always gets so full of fingerprints. Maybe now that it’s got a couple dents I can stop worrying about cleaning it all the time and just let it be.”

  “Just let it be…” Tommy echoed. He disappeared on her, just like that. Went from being in the room with her, present, to somewhere else completely.

  She didn’t try and bring him back. Della stepped aside as he stood and just let him wonder, still half shaky, likely from the whisky, out of the bathroom and down the hall.

  When he was gone, his scent still lingered in the bathroom. The bloody cloth she’d used to wipe out his cuts was still on the vanity. She breathed in, filling her lungs with the deep, heady scent. It used to be so clean, natural, the smell of hard masculinity and fresh outdoor air mingled with the woodsy cologne he preferred.

  It was changed. Like everything else. Like that battle scene of a kitchen down there. This wasn’t Tommy. Not the Tommy she knew. This was the Tommy her sister couldn’t live with or love.

  Della should have been afraid or intimidated. She rinsed out the cloth, watched as the pink water swirled down the drain of the white porcelain sink. Washed her own hands. Her little bubble, the fantasy, and hope she’d always held, wasn’t the same. Just like Tommy’s scent and everything else about him, it had changed. It had morphed into reality. She’d touched him, wrapped her arms around him, stared into his eyes as the woman he loved and trusted.

  Evie might have lost it, lost the love she’d started out with, but Della could tell that Tommy hadn’t. The way he’d stared up at her in the kitchen, waiting for her to… what? Scream at him? Berate him? Tell him she was walking out on him because he was too far gone? Whatever was in that look, broke her heart. That darkness in a soul that had once been so filled with light should have worn away whatever fantasy she’d held. Instead, it only deepened and affirmed the reality of what she felt. That love that she’d often thought so irrational, scalded her heart. Tommy was there, like a brand.

  She chanced a glance at her hand, which trembled violently on the counter of the vanity. Her sister’s engagement ring weighed heavy on her finger.

  She was here to help Tommy Porter find his way back to life so she could leave him. She needed him to be okay when she broke his heart. She just didn’t know how she could do that without breaking herself in the process.

  CHAPTER 5

  Thomas

  Somewhere in the span of the year they’d lost, while he lay confined to a hospital bed, his body and spirit torn apart, they’d changed. Both of them.

  The fiancé Thomas thought he knew was now a stranger. Since coming home from the hospital a week ago, she’d barely said two words to him. When she did look at him it was like she was disgusted by him. That was, the times she even noticed he was still there at all. Then that afternoon, in the kitchen, she’d held him so tenderly. Told him they were going to get through this. Bandaged his hand and legs where he’d cut himself even though she couldn’t stand the sight of blood.

  He knew this was hard for her. Hell, if he’d lost himself then she’d lost him as well.

  He’d gone to bed early and he shifted, trying to get comfortable. His stomach churned from the aftershocks of the whisky, finally worn off. Tremors ripped up his spine and his chest compressed in on itself, the old dread of falling asleep raring its head once again. Now that the numbing power of the whisky was gone, his hand ached. His knees ached. His whole body hurt.

  There were painkillers from the hospital in the en-suite bathroom, but he would rather die than touch them.

  The shuffling of footsteps outside the door announced Evie’s presence. Thomas froze. He hiked the sheets up a little higher, so everything but his face was covered.

  The handle of the bedroom door turned and it swung open with a small creak. Evie stepped into the room. She’d done her long blonde hair up in a very un-Evie like high, messy bun. Her heart-shaped face looked almost angelic in the light spilling in from the hallway. She was a beautiful woman, there was no doubting that. Thomas used to wonder how he was lucky enough to be the one with her. Wide, pale blue eyes, high cheekbones, a dainty jaw, full pink lips and a perfectly straight, petite nose made up a face that was pretty enough to be stared at for hours.

  Her slender frame was clad in a black camisole with lace at the top. It was the kind of flimsy fabric that left little to the imagination. The peaks of her nipples were evident in the chill of the room. She wore fuzzy pajama bottoms, the kind kids preferred. He didn’t even know she had them. He’d never seen her wear anything like them before.

  Thomas shifted, pushed back the sheets in question and sat upright
when it was evident by the way she walked into the room, that she meant to sleep there. His body responded instantly. His cock hardened, pounded under the sheets. Nausea left his stomach and was replaced by a series of tight knots. His throat turned to dust and his heart raced so hard he could almost feel the pulse jumping on the side of his neck.

  “What are you doing?” He managed to choke the words out. He cleared his throat at Evie’s confused look.

  “Sleeping here?” She glanced around, confusion tightening her features.

  “Oh… uh-why?”

  “Why not?” She looked at him strangely, as if she hadn’t just spent the past week sleeping down the hall in the guest bedroom while he suffered and sweated and shivered with night terrors, utterly alone.

  He wanted to tell her to get the hell out. To leave him to his own demise, as she saw fit to do earlier, but he couldn’t force the words out. The truth was, he wanted her here. Beside him. Warm and comforting. Even if it meant he had to stay awake all night to keep the nightmares at bay, he would do it.

  Evie’s eyes darted around the room that had been their bedroom before the accident. Even back then, before the crash and the burns and the scars, she’d been pulling away. He’d sensed it. He wondered why she’d even stayed with him all this time.

  Duty?

  She was too proud to leave, tail tucked between her legs. She always had cared far too much about her image and what people thought of her.

  “I… I don’t have to if you don’t want me to,” she whispered. Her eyes flitted around again, finally landing back on him.

  He was shocked to see the actual raw emotion in those depths. Longing, even. For him. A sparkle of compassion shimmered at the surface of her blue eyes. She looked at him like he was a person. Her person. Not just a thing, a terrible burden or duty she’d been stuck with. He’d caught her before, in the hospital a couple times, staring at him like that, when she didn’t think he was watching.

  Whatever had been there before, whatever hard feeling that steeled her heart against him when he needed her the most, was gone. She looked so much like the old Evie that he couldn’t refuse her.

  “No. I mean-it’s your room too. By all means…” Thomas couldn’t wait to watch what she did. He turned over, hating the vulnerability he’d just displayed. That was the thing about trusting people. About needing them. When they didn’t need you in return, it fucking hurt. Hurt far worse than any burns or any scars.

  Silence. Dead silence. He waited. Held his breath. She probably changed her mind. Who wouldn’t? Who would want to sleep next to this?

  The bed dipped. The sheets and comforter rustled as Evie slid in beside him. Thomas’ entire body stiffened. A shiver rippled up his spine. She slid close, then closer still. Her heat warmed him. Her body called to him, the most primal call, as old as mankind.

  He didn’t respond. Couldn’t. Even though he wanted her so badly he ached. He hadn’t so much as kissed Evie in over a year. He couldn’t just turn over and roll on top of her, thrust into her tight, warm heat.

  God help me.

  He wished she’d roll closer, but she didn’t. She stopped, tucked her hand under her pillow like he expected. He waited. Minutes ticked by. Eventually, her even breathing told him that she was asleep.

  Thomas sighed. His body hurt. That ache had nothing to do with the burns or the cuts from the glass and everything to do with a hope for a physical relationship that he’d given up on a long time ago.

  He turned on his back and stared up at the ceiling. He wanted to glance at Eve, to watch her face, serene in sleep, but he didn’t. He couldn’t look at her without wanting her and he couldn’t want her if she didn’t truly want him.

  A hard wave of fear washed over Thomas, bathing and soaking him until he was raw and shivering. He thought about a future alone, pictured a time when Evie wouldn’t be there. He knew it was coming. He couldn’t mistake the compassion she’d shown him earlier in the kitchen with actual feeling. Desire and love weren’t on the table for them any longer. He knew the time was coming, he just didn’t know when.

  CHAPTER 6

  Della

  Della dreamt of flowers, oddly enough, considering she never gardened. She had a plot of land. Rough, dirt that had been tilled up. It wasn’t in the city either. That little plot of land was in the country somewhere, though she wasn’t sure where. A small house, more like a cottage, stood just behind that plot of dirt. It was quaint, picturesque, beautiful. She’d lived her whole life in the city, but oddly enough she could see herself happy there.

  She turned and Thomas walked out of the cottage. He stood on the doorstep, dressed all in black. He smiled at her. His eyes sparkled and her heart turned over. He was happy. Happy here. Finally.

  All of a sudden, the sky changed. It went from brightly sunny, not a cloud in sight to a dark grey. The wind picked up and howled, savagely around them.

  Della’s hair whipped around her face. Her eyes stung as dirt from that plot of land flung upwards, whipped and tore at her skin.

  She glanced back towards Thomas, to tell him to get back inside the house, to take cover from whatever storm they were about to face.

  It shocked her to see the happiness on his face vanish like the blue sky was suddenly grey and storm-tossed. His mouth opened in a scream. Silent at first and then the sound hit. Louder than the wind, louder than the roar of a freight train. Deafening and violent in the intensity of horror.

  She ran to him, gripped his arm and shook him hard. It didn’t make a difference. That scream, that horrible, ear-splitting scream continued. It was like he was in a trance. She shook him harder, harder, but couldn’t wake him. He just kept screaming, his eyes glassy and locked on a horizon she couldn’t see no matter how hard she looked.

  Della started awake, breathing heavily. She was soaking wet, covered in sweat and tangled sheets. It took her a second to realize the sweat wasn’t all hers. The screams were real. Thomas thrashed beside her, writhing, tangling himself further in the twisted sheets. He wore a grey t-shirt and plaid pajama pants. In the grey light of dawn that crept through the half-shuttered blinds, she could see his hair was sweat soaked and plastered against his skull.

  His eyes were closed and he writhed and moaned, the high pitched screams punctuating the horrible sounds.

  She couldn’t imagine what kind of nightmares went on after he’d nearly burned to death in that car. He probably relived it every single night. The pain, the fear, the hours and hours of operations, grafts and painful healing.

  “Thomas!” Della reached out and shook his shoulder. “Thomas, it’s alright. Wake up. It’s okay.”

  His moans changed in intensity but didn’t stop. His eyelids fluttered. His lips parted and a horrible wail, a wail that broke Della’s heart, filled the room.

  “Tommy, please,” she begged, shaking him harder. “Wake up. Come on, wake up.”

  Thomas’ eyes flew open. He sat up so hard he knocked her over. She lay, sprawled at the foot of the bed, watching the man she thought she knew so well. This man was a stranger. Like someone else had come into his body and inhabited it.

  His head whipped around wildly, fearfully, while he gained his bearings. His mouth parted and he drank in great gulps of air, in ragged gasps. When his eyes finally latched onto her he covered his face with his hands.

  “Oh fuck,” he sobbed. “Fuck!”

  Della lay there, too frozen in shock to move. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t normal. She knew she needed to talk to her sister. There was so much Evie hadn’t told her.

  Thomas scrubbed at his face, all the while taking those ragged, raspy gasps of air. The sounds he made were like sobs, hard and broken, but there were no tears. At least, Della couldn’t see signs of wetness on his face when he pulled his hands away.

  “Tommy,” she finally whispered. She forced herself to move and once she did it was like all the elasticity and blood came back into her limbs. They were no longer frozen with shock and uncertainty. She scrambled
forward, over the ruined wreckage of sweat tangled sheets.

  He tried to push her away. He shoved her arms off his shoulders, pushed at her, but without the strength of conviction. She saw the shame shining in his eyes when he glared at her, but she wasn’t going to leave him there like that.

  “It’s alright.” She tangled her arms around his shoulders and neck once more. He let her this time. His arms fell to his sides and he let her cling to him. She pressed her body against his, her damp clothes meeting his soaked ones. His skin was clammy and cold but as she pulled him against herself, it warmed slowly.

  There was a strand of dark hair plastered to his forehead and she reached up and brushed it back up where it belonged.

  His chest heaved against hers, his breaths still coming hard and fast. Slowly, so very slowly it was like he hadn’t even moved at all, Tommy reached up and wrapped his arms around her back.

  He clung to her, dipped his head into the crook of her neck and sighed heavily.

  “It’s okay,” she whispered again, more for herself than him. She wanted it to be alright. Needed it to be.

  Della leaned back a fraction. Just enough to reach up and caress Tommy’s cheek. It was his left side, the good side. The skin was so smooth and below that, raspy with the growth of fresh stubble. She glanced at her hand and her eye caught on her engagement ring.

  The ring that isn’t mine. None of this is mine. Not this life, this house. Not Tommy.

  Dark eyes locked on hers and she realized how dangerously close she was. Their lips were only a fraction apart. Their breath mingled when they exhaled. If she wanted to she could lean forward and taste him. Taste and claim his mouth as she’d longed to do for years.

  She pushed back slightly and shook herself. She didn’t want to hurt him. Doing this now, even if it was about comfort, would just confuse everything. It would only make her want him more.

  So instead she settled for another caress of his cheek, gentle, soft. He closed his eyes and leaned into her.