I wanted it to be hate. Hate for those eyes and the woman behind them. Hate for what she had done.
Yet, I was never able to feel that hate. Not for her.
No matter how hard I tried, it was impossible.
Somewhere, deep in my heart and my brain, was the smallest seed of disbelief. Doubt that the woman I had finally lost my heart to could have ever betrayed me that way. I wanted it to be real; I wanted to believe her sweet words and gentle ways had been real—meant only for me.
I wanted to believe she had seen the man behind the scars and loved him, despite them—despite his past.
A tiny part of me refused to believe she hadn’t loved me. In the darkness of the night, when I lay awake and the memories washed over me, that quiet voice told me I’d been wrong.
I was missing something and Megan loved me.
Which only fueled the rage even more.
Any reporters that had been hanging around Cliff’s Edge had long since left. The story became old and not interesting enough to stick around for in case I reappeared, but, as a precaution, I was determined to keep a low profile. Early fall was now upon us, and the town slowly began to empty of tourists, yet I still stayed close to the house and beach. I only ventured into town once, late at night, to pick up supplies. I hadn’t even let Ashley and Jonathon know I was back, and I knew Mrs. Cooper would never violate my trust. She was the only person I had contacted when I returned.
Jonathon had been in touch on the rare occasion I would check emails in the small café that had internet access. My cabin was far too remote to offer such amenities. He begged for my return or at least for new pieces to sell. Every painting the gallery possessed was sold, and he wanted more. I never answered back, but I had a few upstairs he could have if he wanted them, as well as the ones I had brought back with me. Perhaps being back would help inspire me. I shook my head as I took a sip of wine, unsure I would once more feel inspired. I returned to close this part of my life, to decide whether or not to sell the house. I wasn’t sure I would ever feel the same about the place now, or ever feel as safe as I had before everything happened. The memories were too many and far too fresh.
As hard as I tried to deny it, Megan was everywhere. I could hear her laughter in the house; see her walking on the beach. Certain times when I would walk into a room, I swore I could smell her fragrance lingering in the air, even though I told myself it was impossible. This morning, when I awoke, a bright color caught my eye. Tucked behind the lamp was one of her many hair ties. She was forever losing them and I would find them scattered all over the house. For a brief moment, I stared at it before lifting it to my nose. It smelled of her—floral and light. A burst of anger tore through me and I grabbed the trash can, tossing in the hair tie. In the bathroom, I found her lotion in the cupboard and flung it in the can. I yanked the top dresser drawer open, almost snarling at the sight of some of her socks. She always had cold feet and was in constant need of warmth. My fingers closed around the fuzzy material, an image of her feet resting in my lap, as we watched a movie, caused my eyes to burn with unshed tears. I emptied the entire drawer, not caring what all was inside.
Downstairs, I grabbed a trash bag and dumped the overflowing tin into it. Megan, or whoever had removed her things, had done a lousy job, and I was determined to finish it. Elliott followed me, low whimpers escaping his throat. I tore open cupboard after cupboard, ignoring his discomfort. A half empty bottle of corn syrup ricocheted off the floor as I flung it blindly, remembering her sweet smile I thought was only for me. The pictures Jared showed me proved I was wrong. An unopened jar of raspberry jam hit the bottom of the bag so hard it shattered, as I thought about licking the sticky mess off her fingers one morning, then making love to her on the kitchen floor. Her face that morning had been glowing and alive. Not like the last time I saw her, pale and ashamed, a face in the crowd, his arm holding her. With a roar, item after item went in the bag. I wanted no reminders of the woman who deceived me. Nothing that would sneak up on me and cause the ache in my chest to burst into life and throb with an intensity I thought would kill me.
Tucked under the edge of the sofa, I saw a pair of her flip flops. I shoved them in the bag and walked all around the house dragging the bag behind me. I paused at the bottom of the stairs, panting. All that was left was the studio—the pictures.
The memories.
Leaving the cumbersome bag, I walked up the stairs, my feet feeling heavier with each tread. Outside the door, I paused, glancing toward Elliott, who was lying with his face buried in his paws, low whimpers in the back of his throat. I knew he could sense my anger, and it was upsetting him. I wasn’t entirely sure myself where all my anger had come from after so many months. With determination, I stepped inside and yanked the collage board out, planning on carrying it downstairs and disposing of it. Instead, I leaned it on the wall and stared. Her sweet face, Megan’s sweet face, with those wondrous eyes, stared back at me. Ice-cold fury morphed into pain. Twisting, ripping pain that made my throat tighten and hands shake. Weariness draped over me, as I realized: she was still there, in my heart. As firmly entrenched as my hatred of my parents, was my love for her. No matter what had transpired, no matter how much I wanted to hate her, I never would. I couldn’t forgive or forget, but she would always reside there. She would always be with me.
I fell back heavily against the wall, my legs too shaky to hold me up. I had to leave this place. Go away and start over. It didn’t matter if I emptied the entire house; she would still exist within these walls.
I slipped the board back to the front of the pile. It didn’t matter if I tried to hide it. I could see it, and her, every time I closed my eyes.
Quietly, I shut the door and went back downstairs, calling Elliott to come with me.
I left the bag where it lay.
Later that night, I was startled by three sharp raps at my door. Elliott stood up—a low whimper in his throat, meaning whoever was at the door wasn’t a stranger. Warily, I approached it, the evening light casting a shadow through the covered glass, showing me it was a woman. My heart skipped a beat and my hand tightened on the knob. The person on the other side was small; surely it wasn’t Megan. She couldn’t know I was here. The house down the beach was empty. I hadn’t seen anyone since I arrived back.
I opened the door, surprised to find Karen standing on the other side. Her expression was less than friendly, a scowl on her face as she gazed at me.
“So, it’s true. You’re back,” she snapped as she breezed past me, stopping in the hall.
“Do come in,” I murmured, sarcasm dripping from the words. “Make yourself at home.” I walked past her into the living room. “Can I get you a glass of wine? Or would you prefer my balls on a plate?”
“Since I don’t think you have any, I’ll take the wine.”
I arched my eyebrow at her but fetched a glass and poured her some wine, unclear as to why I wasn’t simply ordering her out of the house.
“How did you know I was here?”
She tossed her hair in defiance at my annoyed tone. “Chris was here last week. He said he heard Mrs. Cooper on the phone with you arranging the house to be cleaned and groceries brought in.”
“Ah. I should have emailed, I suppose—less ears. Shame the place I was staying at had very little internet access.” I sat down in the chair across the table from her, feeling weary. “What do you want, Karen?”
She slammed a large manila envelope on the table in front of me. “I brought you this, Zachary.”
I eyed the thick package with suspicion. “What is it?”
“The truth.”
“According to you, you mean?”
“Listen you egotistical, insufferable man. Take your head out of your ass and read what’s inside.”
“I don’t think I’m interested in more stories, but thanks anyway.”
Her eyes narrowed in anger. “Are you always this pig-headed and stupid?”
“So I’ve been told.” I pushed
the envelope back toward her. “Thanks for dropping by.”
“Have you really been that out of touch?” she asked, her voice incredulous. “Have you not been keeping up with the news?”
“Aside from the local paper, which is a weekly publication where I was staying, and is about six pages in total, no. I didn’t need to read more bullshit and gossip, but I can fill you in on the current price of local fish, if you’re interested.” I sighed, growing impatient with the conversation. “Whatever”—I swallowed, having trouble even saying her name—“Megan sent you here to tell me, I’m not interested.”
“She has no idea I’m here.”
“Which is why, again?”
“Maybe because I can’t stand to watch her suffer anymore.”
I shrugged, trying to ignore the small pang of pain at the thought of her suffering. “Guilt can do that to a person.”
“She blames herself, but not for the reason you think.”
I was getting aggravated and I wanted her to leave. “You’re not making any sense.”
“Megan blames herself for what Jared did, but not because she was in on it. He used her as much as he used you. That’s what he does—uses people.”
“What?”
“She didn’t lead him to you. He followed her here, Zachary. He watched you together. He decided to use you to crush her. He found out who you were, then he caused this disaster. Not her—she had no idea.”
“So she says,” I argued, but my eyes looked at the envelope sitting on the table.
Karen stood up, slamming her hand down on the table. “It’s the truth. She blames herself because you were hurt in all of this mess. She wasn’t even surprised how easily you believed his lies. She told me you were so used to being hurt and taken advantage of it would be your first and only reaction.” She paused, her voice becoming softer. “She forgives you, you know.”
I bit back my angry retort. “I will ask again, Karen. Why are you here?”
She pushed the envelope back so my hand was touching it. “Read this.”
“Maybe later; after dinner with my coffee. I like a good story while I digest.”
“You’ll find it very enlightening.”
“Enlightening? Does it give me insight into how to find love? Heal the broken heart you think I have?”
“I’m not sure at this point, you have a heart.”
I laughed, the sound dry and forced, echoing off the rafters above our heads. “Now you’re getting the picture. If there isn’t anything else, I have things to do.”
She stood up, anger emitting from her body like the waves pounding out on the beach.
“Read it.” Her hands were clenched at her side. “If you won’t do it for me, then do it for my husband, who I know you respect. If he hadn’t been so busy right now, it would’ve been him handing this to you, not me. I know you wouldn’t refuse him.”
I frowned at her words. Why would Chris want me to read this so much he would send his wife to deliver it? I had no idea, but I didn’t like how I was feeling right now: trapped, cornered, on edge.
“Is there a pop quiz later?” I snapped.
“I don’t know why I bothered,” she hissed, turning and hurrying out the door, the slam of it behind her shaking the window glass. I watched as she stomped down the steps and crossed the beach. Once she turned around, flinging her arms up as she yelled words carried away by the wind and waves. I highly doubted they were pleasant.
I shook my head as I regarded the innocuous looking envelope, wondering what it could contain.
Why I was bothering to find out, I didn’t know. Chris had been a quiet, but good friend over the years—I knew him far better than I knew Karen. He never asked about my past or scars, accepting me as merely his neighbor. He had my email address and was kind enough to let me know, a couple times, that he was watching the house after I fled last time. He never mentioned Megan, for which I was grateful. But now this envelope—it had to be important to him.
Sitting down, I opened the flap and dumped the contents on the table. News articles, press releases and documents piled up; and as I went through them, I saw they were all clipped together in some sort of fashion, and date order.
With a sigh, I topped up my wine and started to read.
Two hours later, I was banging on Karen’s door. I paced the deck waiting for her to answer, my heart pounding in my chest, my mind racing with the information I had read. Thoughts and words echoed in my head, the envelope clutched in my tight fist.
The door slid open and I pivoted around when she stepped out, her arms crossed over her chest. We stared at each other, my eyes searching hers for answers.
“Do you have something to say, or did you want to borrow a cup of sugar?”
I stepped closer, my fingers jabbing at the envelope. “It’s true? All of it is true?”
She huffed as she straightened up. “Yes. All of it is true. Not only did Jared steal Megan’s manuscript, they’ve proven he stole all the books he published. She didn’t lie to you, Zachary. About her book or anything else.”
“She didn’t use me.”
Karen’s arms flung out, gesturing wildly. “Hallelujah! The man finally gets it!”
I grabbed her arm. “Why, Karen? Why are you here? You hate me—why did you come to give me this information?”
Her brow furrowed. “I don’t hate you, Zachary. I don’t understand you, but I don’t hate you.”
“Why?”
She stepped back. “You’d better come inside.”
I followed her in, my knees almost crumbling as I inhaled.
Megan.
She was everywhere.
Her scent soaked the air. Her favorite sweater was draped over the back of the chair. Her sneakers were lying on the floor by the door, looking as if they had been kicked off moments ago. The journals I’d given her were sitting on the table. I looked around in panic, expecting Dixie to come running, barking out a greeting, or to see Megan’s sad face looking at me.
My gaze flew to Karen, who shook her head. “She isn’t here.”
“But she was.”
“Yes.”
Reaching behind me, she shut the door. I stepped forward, only to let out a muffled curse. In three strides, I was across the room, standing in front of Tempest. My fingers flew over the canvas, confused. I had left it behind. In one angry stroke of a knife, I had destroyed the image. Severing the completeness of it, the way Megan’s betrayal had severed my heart. I left it to her as a symbol, torn and jagged, yet it was here, mended and complete.
“How?”
Karen stood beside me. “It broke her heart—almost as much as you leaving. She asked Ashley for help to have it restored.” A small humorless laugh left her mouth. “She wouldn’t take money to fight Jared, or accept help for anything, but she asked me to loan her the money to fix your painting.” She moved away and sat down. “It arrived back this week. She was going to give it back to Ashley for you, but she couldn’t bear to part with it yet.”
I sat down across from her, my legs feeling too weak to hold me up anymore. “Where is she?”
“You don’t have the right to know the answer to that question.”
“Please.”
A weary sigh shook her frame. “She’s been staying here.”
I swallowed the thick feeling in my throat. “But she’s gone now?”
“She went back to Boston. She was meeting with some people about her book.”
“She’s being published?”
Karen shrugged. “She hasn’t decided yet. Things are…complicated right now.”
“Is she all right?”
“Do you really care?”
I had no idea how to answer that loaded question. For months I’d been fighting feeling anything besides anger and betrayal. I’d been trying, so hard, not to feel anything except contempt for her. It was a battle I knew earlier today I had lost before I’d even begun to fight it. I missed Megan so much, it made me even angrier, which made my den
ial stronger, and the whole time I’d been wrong.
So fucking wrong.
“Yes, I care.”
“You have a strange way of showing it.”
“I thought she lied to me. I thought she was using me.”
“Because you chose to believe the lies of someone other than her. You never even gave her the chance to explain!”
I could hear the anger in her voice. “It made more sense,” I offered, knowing it was a feeble excuse.
“It made more sense than her loving you?”
“Yes.”
“You’re more fucked up than I even thought, aren’t you?”
“I don’t understand love.”
“You made that obvious.”
I frowned at her, not understanding. “Did Megan not tell you my past?”
Karen leaned forward, almost sneering at me. “Listen, Zachary, and listen well. Until a very short time ago, I knew nothing about your past—about who you were. Megan kept it all private.” She sat back, her eyes drifting to the table. “Until this moment, I didn’t realize how well she wrote it.”
“Wrote what?”
She stood up and picked up Megan’s journals. She held them in her hands, as if making a decision. She withdrew the red colored one and placed it on the table, then handed me the rest of the books. “She wrote your story.”
I was shaking as I took the books. “Why?”
She sat down again. “Partly to get the memories out, I think. Mostly though, to heal. She wanted to remember all of it. She didn’t plan on doing anything with them, except to write them out of her head. It was better than her sitting here, staring into space, which is what she did for a few days. I got up one morning and found her writing, as if her life depended on it. I knew she’d be okay—it would take some time, but she would recover. If she could write it out, she’d get through this.” Her eyes narrowed. “And she has.”
Beneath the Scars Page 25