Beautiful Boy(23)

"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.