Scarred

by Tess Thompson

  If not, and I’m assuming so, I’ll start with saying how sorry I am about your accident. I was fourteen when my brother and I were chased in our car by two bullies in a truck. Essentially, they caused a terrible accident. My brother was fine, thank goodness, but my legs were crushed. The doctors were able to save them, but my left leg is badly scarred and misshapen and the other terribly scarred. I’m sure you can understand when I say I keep them hidden—all very sad since I live close to the beach. I can see the stretch of sand from my front windows.

  I often watch the young people playing on the beach, so free and happy with the sun on their skin, and I wish I had the courage to do so. It’s like you said, though, the stares and averted eyes are too much to bear. For me, at least. I’m weak that way. Growing up, we were poor. I wore thrift-store specials that never quite fit. If they were decent to begin with, I’d grow out of them quicker than they could be replaced. The mean girls sneered at me and talked behind their hands to one another. Their whispers were loud. She wears the same pants every day. Is that a boy’s jacket? Her shirt is practically see-through it’s so thin.

  If only capris had been popular when I was a child. Instead my pants were called high-waters. I don’t know why children are so cruel sometimes. Do you?

  There was a swimming pool in our town. It cost one dollar to swim for the afternoon, or one hundred for a summer pass. We could afford neither. Isn’t it strange I still remember the exact costs? My brother Stone and I used to stand outside the fence that surrounded the pool, keeping out the riffraff like us, sweating in the heat of the day. We’d watch the other kids go in, wearing bathing suits and carrying towels, and I swear my mouth would water like I was hungry. I would think, someday that will be me.

  I used to dream of the day I could break out of the little town that trapped my brothers and me. I’d get a degree and a job and buy nice clothes and live in a house made of lumber instead of tin and I’d swim at the beach or river or swimming pool any time I could. All those things have come true except one. I have yet to feel cool water splashed on hot skin other than in my own tub. When I moved here, I promised myself I’d put on a bathing suit and go to the beach. But I can’t seem to bring myself to do it. There are so many beautiful people in California, and they all seem to be in my little town at the moment, wearing nothing but a few strands of cloth.

  Well, that was a bit of a mind dump. I don’t know why I just told you all that. It would probably be best if I deleted the entire passage, but I probably won’t. If you’re a con artist, it’ll probably scare you away, which would be for the best.

  To answer your question, the 007 was suggested by my best guy friend. He thought the whole spy reference would be amusing to men. He also thought it was fitting, as he thinks I’m clever and brave like a spy. His words. He’s a friend who thinks a little too much of me. Do you have anyone like that in your life? One who sees you as better than you really are?

  I’ll close with a question for you. This woman you have romantic feelings for—are you good friends? If you are and you want to remain so, it’s probably best to keep it to yourself. Friends are more important than romance. Friendship isn’t based on appearance or sexual attraction, only the connection of two souls. Which is much more important, in my opinion.

  When you answer, please send it to my email address: autumnhickman@xmail.net. It’s less cumbersome than the private messaging on here.

  All best,

  Autumn007

  * * *

  After she finished, she hit send and then shut down the computer for the night. She’d wait until morning to see if he’d written back. If not, she wouldn’t think of it again.

  She ambled into the kitchen and poured herself a glass of wine, then went back to the couch and turned on the television. As she scrolled through the offerings, her phone buzzed. Trey Wattson appeared on the screen. She’d expected his call. He always called after one of her “dates” to check on her.

  She swiped her phone to answer. “Hey. I’m home safe.”

  “Good. Just checking.”

  “What’re you doing?” she asked as she stretched her legs out on the coffee table.

  “Not much. Just finished eating a frozen dinner. Chicken potpie. Not terrible.”

  “Me too. Lasagna. Not terrible.”

  “How’d your date go?” he asked.

  “Completely terrible.” She gave him the rundown, ending with her rant about the pig.

  By the time she finished, he was laughing. “I can’t believe you called him a pig.”

  “I’ve entered some new phase on the douche meter. I have zero tolerance. Online dating will do that to you.”

  “I can imagine it would,” he said.

  “I’m exhausted with the idea of even one more date.”

  “Maybe take a break?” Even through the phone there was no mistaking the kind and supportive tone of his voice. He was that way with her. Always. She could see him on his own couch with his feet propped up and a soccer game playing on the television.

  His sympathy brought tears to her eyes. “Don’t be nice. It just makes me feel sorry for myself.”

  “Dating makes everyone feel sorry for themselves.”

  She held her breath until the threat of more tears subsided.

  “Autumn, are you all right?”

  “Yes, I’m fine. It’s just been a long day.”

  “Well, it’s over now. You can relax with a glass of wine and watch one of your shows.”

  “You know me too well,” she said before taking a sip of her wine. “I’m doing just that. What teams are playing tonight?”

  “Portland and Seattle. You know me too well.”

  She settled deeper into her couch. “Did you just call to make sure I hadn’t been murdered and chopped up into a hundred pieces?”

  His voice sharpened. “Don’t even joke about that. You know how dangerous online dating is.”

  “It’s not, really. I’m careful. You know that.”

  “I’m still going to check up on you.”

  “I already have two brothers, you know,” she said.

  She heard him let out a sigh. “I’m aware of that. But do they call you after one of these so-called dates?”

  “No, they’re too busy with their own lives. Everyone’s left me behind these days. Even Sara. She’s so busy with the baby, and everyone else is blissfully in love.”

  “Not everyone. You still have me,” he said.

  She flushed, shy to say how grateful she was but feeling that it was important she do so. “I’m glad for you every day.” Her words came out husky. Why was it so hard to tell people how much they meant to you?

  “Back at you.” A slight pause. “Do you want to go up to Stowaway with me tomorrow? We could spend the day antiquing. I’m looking for a few more items for Sara’s house.”

  Her mood brightened at the thought of a day with Trey. “Sure. That sounds fun.”

  “We can grab some lunch somewhere outside. It’s supposed to be nice.”

  “I’m in,” she said.

  “I’ll pick you up around nine.”

  “I’ll be ready.”

  “You know you won’t be, but that’s okay,” he said, teasing. “I’ll wait for you. Like I always do.”

  She laughed. “I’m sorry, but I can never decide what to wear.”

  “I’ve seen your bed covered with all the rejects. I know.” There was a short pause before he continued. “Listen to me. The right man’s going to show up. Maybe in the least likely place. Hang in there. Don’t let your heart close up.”

  “Are you speaking from experience?”

  “Something like that,” he said, drily. “Sleep well. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  “You too. Night.”

  “Night.”

  After they hung up, she pulled up the photo section on her phone and flipped through until she found the snapshot she’d taken of Trey last week. She’d meant to send it to him, thinking he might like to put it on the
social media profiles he used to help promote his work. The one he had now was a stiff-looking photo he had done at a studio.

  She looked at the photo. Last week, from her patio, she’d spotted Trey and Nico surfing. She knew it was them because Nico always wore a wetsuit with bright purple sleeves. Taking her coffee and phone, she’d walked down to the bench that overlooked the northern stretch of beach where the waves were the biggest, thus attracting surfers. She’d sat on the bench, located on a grassy knoll above the sand, to watch. Trey and Nico had caught wave after wave. They’d been surfing since they were kids, making it look easy.

  After another fifteen minutes, they’d traipsed out of the surf and stripped to the waist. She’d stood to wave. Spotting her, they’d returned the greeting. Trey had run across the sand with his perfect, muscular legs. To her surprise, her breath had caught at the sheer beauty of the man. She’d also wondered what it felt like to have the strength in your legs to run over sand as if it were nothing.

  He’d stopped just under the knoll. Shielding his eyes with his hand, he grinned up at her. “What’re you doing here?” The sea air had caught his words so that she could barely make out what he said.

  “I could see you from my house. I came out to watch,” she yelled down to him. “Stay right there. I want to take your photo.”

  The sun was behind her, still inching its way up from the east. He squinted and yelled up to her, “I’m blinded by the light.”

  “Smile anyway.”

  He did so despite his complaint, opening his eyes long enough for her to take the photo.

  Now she looked at the photo closely. His hair, normally so neatly combed, was laden with salt water and looked coarse and unruly and almost blond. The arms and bodice of his wetsuit hung over his hips, leaving his muscular shoulders and chest and trim waist bare. Eyes as blue as the ocean sparkled in the sunlight.

  She sent the photo to him via a text.

  I forgot to send you this. You should use this on your Instagram profile. You look great!

  A second later, a text came back.

  I look like a tool.

  She wrote back.

  Don’t be ridiculous. You look hot.

  Almost immediately another one came back.

  Hot? Like “swipe to the right” hot?

  She texted back, smiling into the phone.

  If you ever sank low enough to join the desperate masses, you would definitely be a right swipe for any girl who saw this photo.

  He didn’t reply. She figured the soccer game he was watching must have drawn his attention away from the phone. Maybe someone actually scored a goal. Mostly, it seemed to her, soccer players just ran up and down the field passing the ball back and forth. She yawned just thinking about the games she’d watched with Trey.

  She looked back at the photograph one more time, tracing the contours of his face with the tip of her fingernail. What would it feel like to touch him that way in real life? What if she actually did see him on a dating site? She would definitely be interested but would never reach out to him. He was way out of her league. Not that he had any plans to join one. He didn’t need one, as far as she could tell. Women were always hitting on him when they were out. She supposed he hooked up with some of the women who threw themselves at him, but he never let on to her. He might think she’d disapprove of casual sex.

  Her stomach turned over.

  Did she disapprove?

  The thought of him with someone else, some random woman, didn’t feel right. In fact, it felt the opposite. His entire vow to remain detached from any romantic entanglements felt wrong. Trey Wattson was the type of man who should be married and have a family. With the right woman, of course. Not a cheater like his first wife.

  What kind of woman would be right for him? Nothing came to her, just a blank spot where a picture of the woman good enough for Trey would be. She couldn’t imagine anyone. Maybe, just maybe, a woman like Lisa Perry: kind, beautiful, successful. However, Lisa was already taken. Sara? No, she wasn’t quite right, either. Or was she? They both liked the arts and had sophisticated taste. Sara was beautiful—very symmetrical.

  No, no, no. The thought of Trey with Sara made her want to throw her wineglass at the television.

  What was that about?

  Her phone buzzed with a message from Trey.

  Hypothetically, if YOU saw my photo and profile and didn’t know anything about me, would you swipe yes?

  How did she answer this one? She typed a message back to him.

  I don’t think so.

  The next series of texts were exchanged rapidly.

  Why?

  You’re not my type.

  What is your type, then?

  Men who are a little less perfect than you.

  That doesn’t even make sense. You know me. I’m not perfect.

  To me, you are. Why this line of questioning? Are you thinking about getting into the game?

  Maybe.

  No way. Are you finally ready to move past your divorce?

  Several seconds went by before an answer popped up on her phone.

  For the right woman, yes.

  She stared at her phone, shocked. Where had this come from? Since the first day she met him, he’d said he would never get seriously involved again. Now he was ready? Out of the blue like this? She didn’t like it. Not at all. She preferred his resolution to never marry again. That way he would always be her best friend. Once he met someone, she’d be ousted from best friend status.

  How selfish could she be? If she were really his friend, she should be glad for him, not thinking only of herself.

  She would text him back with words of encouragement, even if it was only a platitude.

  I’m glad for you. Moving on after betrayal is never easy. Putting yourself out there might feel excruciating, but I feel sure there’s a woman looking for you right now. Swiping no after no and wondering where you are.

  I doubt it, but thanks. You should get some rest. Big day of shopping tomorrow.

  They exchanged good-nights for the second time. Then she tossed her phone to the other side of the couch and picked up her wine. She took two long slugs. Trey dating. An image of him and Sara laughing together by the Mullens’ pool came to her. Did he like her? Was that why the sudden interest in dating? God, please, just don’t let it be Sara.

  Autumn just knew she was going to be struck down by the Lord himself for being a selfish, awful friend. Please, God, help me let go.

  She drank more wine and shivered as a memory came to her. She’d been around eight and had wakened from her bed on the couch to the sound of howling outside their trailer.

  Drifting back in time, the scene played out in her mind.

  “Kyle, what is it?” she called down to her brother, who shared a small room with Stone.

  “A coyote,” Kyle said, sounding sleepy. “He’s outside. He can’t get us.”

  She turned toward the window, cold in her thin nightgown. A full moon shone through their uncovered windows and filled the room with an eerie silvery sheen. Another howl caused her to jump. She needed to be with her brothers. Otherwise, the coyote might jump right through the window. Her heart pounded as she dashed from her bed on the sofa and down the narrow hallway.

  “Kyle,” she whispered to the form curled up in the narrow cot. “Kyle, can I sleep in here?”

  He sat up, rubbing his eyes. She just made out his disheveled hair and the faded plaid of his pajamas. “Come on, then.” With a yawn, he crawled out of bed and motioned for her to take his place. She climbed in and snuggled under the blanket he placed over her, still warm from his body. Kyle took the other blanket and lay on the floor.

  “Take the pillow,” she said.

  He lifted his head, and she placed it under him. Seconds later, his even breathing told her he was asleep.

  The howling continued. It was such a lonesome, dreadful sound that made her feel as if her insides were numb from cold.

  Back in the present, she ran
her hands through her hair. She was an adult with a good job and a house. There was nothing to be afraid of now.

  She moved from the couch to the French doors. Occasionally, lovers walked along the boardwalk in front of her cottage. Even with the windows open, the rumbling waves stole their voices, but she imagined they whispered secrets, desires, and wishes they could not share with anyone but each other.

  She went outside and stood on the edge of her patio. In the darkness, she could not distinguish where sky met sea. Lights from the houses along the beach illuminated the white water of breaking waves and clusters of sea bubbles that accumulated at water’s edge. The old lighthouse built on a rock island north of the beach was a faint yellow glow on the horizon. Out at sea, the lights from a cruise ship hung suspended in all that blackness, as if they were floating candles. Sirius, the first star visible from the northern hemisphere, winked to her, as if to remind her she was not alone.

  Was this her fate? Forever looking out to the life that played before her and never really living herself?

  “Will I always be alone?” she whispered into the night.

  The only answer was the sea, crashing and crashing onto the shore.

  She woke around seven the next morning. Despite it being her day off, she was as awake as the sun poking through the eastern windows of her bedroom. She sat up in bed and looked over at the empty side of the bed, where she’d left her laptop open the night before. A pop-up window indicated she had an email message. Would it be from her friend across the ocean? Strangely, she hoped it was. She opened her mailbox, and it was indeed from Artyboy34@hmail.com.

  She decided to save it for a leisurely read while having her coffee. After brushing her teeth, she went to the kitchen to rustle up a cup of caffeine. A few minutes later, she returned to her bed with the steaming mug and opened the message.

  * * *

  Dear 007,

  Thanks for your private email. However, I must advise you, hoping I don’t sound overly didactic, but don’t give this out to men you don’t know. Now I know your last name and could easily stalk you. Not that I would, but there are tons of predators out there, so it’s best to be careful.