"You told me that before you can see what's beautiful inside, you must first see it around yourself. I thought if I gave you something to see, it might be easier for you to recognize it. But if you don't like it, I can take it all away. I just thought you'd like to have something to remind you of our time from the other night. I don't know about you, but it really meant something to me."
I glanced behind me at the room once more, holding her hands tightly. "The pictures can stay … but not the rug or the table."
"You don't like them?" The disappointment in her tone was palpable and struck me deeper than a filet knife could.
"It's not that." I released her hands and walked farther into my living room, keeping my back to her because I knew I'd lose my composure if I had to see her eyes. "I like things simple for a few reasons. One of which is because I don't want to live in a house resembling the one I grew up in. I don't care about living lavishly or having a room full of furniture straight out of those expensive decorating magazines. It's not who I am. And it's not how I want to live. I also don't want you spending your money on things I'll never use."
Her hand came to rest on my shoulder blade. It sent her warmth straight through my back and into my chest, acting as a pacemaker to my heart. But she didn't move to stand in front of me; instead, she chose to keep herself out of sight.
"I didn't find these things in a magazine. There's an elderly couple in the area who makes these. The woman weaves the rugs, and her husband carves wood-all by hand. They both served in Vietnam, and for the last twenty years, they've been creating these amazing tables and other woodcarvings, along with blankets and scarves. They sell them and then donate every penny they make to the local VA hospital."
I slowly shifted on my feet until I had turned all the way around, no longer able to keep myself from seeing her. The pride in her tone was enough to entice, but it was the softness in her words that forced my attention to her.
Her gaze didn't meet mine. It instead focused on the new additions to my living room. The way she tilted her head as she studied the rug and table with her lashes shielding her eyes from me, spoke volumes, yet all I could do was stare and wait for her to continue.
"I can't even begin to imagine the things you see in your mind, or the haunting nightmares you experience on a daily basis. I only wanted to show you how, even with the ugliness you've witnessed and the hatred you've experienced, you're still capable of creating something beautiful-like this couple has done."
Reactive impulses overtook my thoughts, filling my head with so many things I wanted to do to her. I wanted to hold her, relieve the worry from her eyes, and calm the quivers racking her shoulders. I wanted to kiss her, prevent her from saying another heart-wrenching word that threatened to tear my soul apart. I wanted to pick her up, take her to my room, and not leave until we both grew too exhausted to do anything else.
But I didn't do any of those things. Instead, I stood there and watched her, observing how her wary eyes refused to meet mine. Her fidgety fingers played with the hem of her shirt, and her feet wouldn't stay still, shuffling against the carpet as she rigidly swayed from side to side.
And for the first time since coming home, I truly noticed her. I took her in-all of her. She'd changed out of her work clothes and stood in front of me in a T-shirt and cotton shorts. Her feet were bare except a pair of bright-white ankle socks. Instead of the curls she had draped next to her face in my office, she had her hair twisted in an unruly knot atop her head, and her face appeared to be free of makeup. Fucking stunning.
"I don't deserve you." It wasn't meant for her to hear, simply a thought escaping me in the form of whispered words.
But she did hear it, and her line of sight drifted up my chest before settling on my face. Everything slowed down and became fuzzy-hazy. The soothing sounds of the piano faded into silence as her eyes held mine, captivating me … hypnotizing me. She stood maybe two feet away, but it seemed to take forever before her chest was against mine, her heart beating against mine, her breaths mixing with mine.
And then her soft, warm hands rested against my cheeks, making me aware of how clenched my jaw had become.
"You deserve so much … so damn much, but you refuse to allow it. You refuse to accept it, to see it." The soft pads of her fingertips trailed down my jawline to my neck, where she began to unbutton my collared shirt. "Can you do something for me?"
My mouth grew dry. It made swallowing difficult and uncomfortable. Her hands on me, working at the buttons in order to remove it, clouded my thought process and left me with only the ability to nod-not really sure what I'd even agreed to.
"Show me your scars … and I'll show you mine."
The muscle in my forehead grew taut, and even without a mirror, I knew how harsh my expression must've been to her. It became evident in every inch of my face, from my pursed lips to my tense jaw, even the space between my eyebrows ached with tension.
"Just because I don't wear them on my skin doesn't mean I don't have them, Nolan. Everyone has scars. Everyone has dealt with some varying degree of pain. We've all been hurt one way or another."
"And what will seeing your scars do for me?"
She shrugged with her fingers holding onto my shirt, unmoving, simply waiting. "Hopefully make you understand you're not alone. Maybe help connect us in some way. Bring us closer, and allow us to open up to each other in a way we've never been able to with anyone else."
"How could we possibly understand each other's pain?" My voice rumbled heavily as the words escaped me. The oxygen grew thick around us and made it difficult to hold onto my bearings.
Her gaze fell to her fingers once they began to resume their task-pulling my shirt from the waistband of my pants before unhooking the very last button. Then she ran her palms up my chest. Heat spread over me like the sun peeking through the clouds. It left me lost in her touch. Her hands moved to my shoulders, beneath my work shirt, and then torturously down my arms. She pushed my shirt off my body with an unhurried ease.
My white undershirt remained, covering my chest and hiding the unsavory reminders of war. She stood in front of me, staring at my torso like it was a blank canvas, waiting for it to reveal something to her. Gentle fingers caressed the fabric at my sides, leaving behind trails of deep shivers like paths of singed nerves that sparked and sizzled long after her touch had moved on.
Her scrutiny proved to be too much to handle, and without thought, I roughly grabbed the hem of her T-shirt, yanked it over her head, and left her in nothing but a plain black bra. Wide, cerulean eyes met mine, and a soft, airy gasp resounded around us. Her jaw slackened, mouth hanging open in surprise, and I had to stop myself from closing it-with mine.
"What could possibly come from sharing our pain? What is it you think you can offer me that would heal me? How could your scars, your pain, the battles you've fought even come close to mending mine?"
She took a step back and crossed her arms to cover her chest. Her eyes fell to my feet, glistening tears trickling like a river through a broken dam. I moved one foot, intending to close the gap between us and offer her comfort, but she held up a hand and turned to the side.
Pins and needles covered every inch of me, sending sharp and unwanted pain through my veins and into the center of my heart. My arms were heavy with the absence of her, making me fully aware of the space between us-the distance I put there with my harsh words and unrestrained defense.
"Novah … " I whispered, hoping she'd react better to my soft tone and desperate plea. But I should've known better than to assume one word could ease the pain caused by my curt and selfish monologue.
She vigorously shook her head and sniffled before wiping her face and retrieving her shirt. With it balled tightly in her fist, she used it to cover herself, and briskly exited the room.
My feet took action long before my mind had a chance to comprehend her departure. I caught up with her in three strides, but with me at her back, she picked up her pace until she found herself cornered, no way to escape. Two wrought-iron stools boxed her in on either side. The granite slab on the kitchen breakfast bar pressed against her front, hitting her just below her ribcage. I stood behind her, leaving enough room between us to offer her some space, but not enough to allow her past me.
I wanted to touch her, run my fingers over her creamy skin. I ached for her warmth. But more than that, I needed to comfort her. Her shoulders and lower body quivered with her tears and each useless sniffle. She arched forward, leaning farther into the bar as she frantically tried to right the shirt she still held in her hands. But her attempt was futile. She couldn't seem to stop shaking enough to figure it out.