The Scars That Made Us

by Inda Herwood

  And with a thoroughly stumped expression, Mrs. Montae stomps off in the opposite direction, looking over her shoulder several times to see if her eldest daughter follows. She does not.

  “Well,” Till says with a sigh and a smile, parking it in the chair next to Cyvil, “at least you got the worst guest out of the way. Just be thankful I convinced Dad it’d be creepy if he snuck down here and spied on you.” She rolls her eyes before they land on me. “Gotta say, I was impressed by the look you gave our mother, Jaguar. Not many fake fiancés would stare at their fake mother-in-law to be like they’d murder them for their fake fiancée. That’s goals.”

  Um, Jaguar?

  Cyvil laughs, finally losing the disappointed look her mother had caused her. “Thanks for coming to break up the reunion. I was two seconds away from calling her something I know would get me cut out of the family for sure.”

  “Hey, maybe that wouldn’t be such a bad thing. At least then you wouldn’t have two pains in your ass anymore,” Till says with a snort, adding, “I saw Mom slipping away from the party and decided to follow, having an inkling she was probably going to come down here and look for you.” Eyes scanning the beach with a smile, Till sighs, leaning back in her chair, getting comfortable. “I remember attending this party when I was your age. So much more fun than the boring adult party where everyone complains about their joints and the youth of America. Ooh, is that a beer?” Cyvil’s sister’s hand reaches out like a python, lightning quick as she confiscates the bottle from the sand, popping it open and taking a long drink.

  “Till, aren’t you nursing?” Cyvil asks, eyeing her worriedly, the reflection of the flames licking the side of her face.

  “Nope. Kal-el is on formula. Momma gets to drink whenever she wants.” I chuckle to myself as she takes another drag, as though it’s the first and last time she will ever consume an alcoholic beverage.

  “Speaking of your newborn son, where is he?”

  Atillia gives Cyvil a droll look. “With his father, little miss Judgmental. Don’t I get a twenty-minute break?”

  “To booze and slum it with your sister and her fake fiancé? No, you don’t.” Confiscating the beer from Atillia, she empties the rest of its contents in the sand, making a dark little puddle by the fire.

  “So that’s where you get it,” I say to her, making Cyvil shake her head.

  “Get what from where?” Till asks, looking between us.

  “Doesn’t matter. You should get back to your husband. Those people are probably eating him alive by now,” Cyvil says, eyes serious.

  Till sighs. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” Standing up and smoothing out the wrinkles in her dress, she turns around to give her sister one last, genuine smile. “Hey, I wasn’t lying before. You really do look beautiful. You should show yourself off more often. Make this one nervous about his competition.” She throws her thumb at me.

  “Atillia.” Cyvil hisses, looking properly embarrassed now.

  “FINE! I’m going. Whatever.” Throwing her hands in the air, Atillia starts to walk in the direction her mother had a few minutes ago, but not before screaming so everyone on the beach can hear her, “ENJOY YOUR YOUTH, PEOPLE. GETTING OLD IS A BITCH!”

  Not a single person doesn’t stop dancing to look at her like she escaped some sort of institution.

  Cyvil’s head falls into her open palms.

  I laugh harder than I have in years.

  “It isn’t funny,” Cyvil mutters through her hands miserably.

  “Yes,” I say, starting to get winded, “it is. And you should be lucky to have such an awesome sister. I wish I’d had siblings,” I admit, the rest of the party resuming its normal volume once Atillia Devoux is no longer in sight.

  “But you kind of do. Don’t you think of Moon and Rosy as brothers?” she asks, no longer hiding her face.

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right. But…I wished I’d had them growing up, you know? Like when I was in middle school. It would have been nice to have some friends to play with.” I know I said the wrong thing when her eyes sadden in surprise.

  “You didn’t have any friends when you were a kid?”

  I really wish I had something to mess with, a stress ball, a bottle to spin around. Anything to keep from looking her in the eyes and having to see pity in them. I focus on the fire instead. “I uh – I was pretty shy. Kept to myself mostly. What about you?”

  Seeing that I want the spotlight off of me, she says, eyes moving to the fire as well, “Kind of the same. But I had a few friends. Well, until the incident.” Gold looks down at pink, raised skin, crisscrossing her arms like a sick puzzle, scored and flayed, the same as her legs. “After that, my friends were too scared to play with me anymore. That’s when I got into reading. I liked pretending to be other characters, living a different life.” Realizing what she admitted, she says, voice chastising, “Wow, that was really dramatic, wasn’t it? It’s not like I was sad or anything. You adapt pretty well as a kid. I just had to find a different form of companionship, you know?”

  Looking at her profile against the fire, her hair almost the same shade of red as the hottest flame, I find myself saying, “I would have played with you.”

  This makes her smile, slowly at first, and then it blossoms across her face, changing it completely. “I probably would have made you otherwise.”

  We both laugh.

  And then, a different song starts bleeding from the sound system, less techno and more ballad, and I smile, making her ask, “What is it?”

  “Well, we’re here to look like a couple, right?”

  “Yeah…”

  I stand up and hold out my hand. Her brows rise in surprise. “Couples generally dance at parties.”

  She stares at my outstretched fingers like they have a disease on them. I try not to laugh.

  “Come on, it’s not like it’s hard,” I say, taking her hand for her and hauling her up with me, her expression still uncertain.

  “Great,” she mumbles under her breath, scanning the beach. “If the dress didn’t embarrass me enough, my lack of dancing skills will seal the deal.”

  We quickly arrive at the patch of beach in-between the three bonfires dedicated as the ‘dance floor’, crowded by couples as they slow dance to “Bad at Love” by Halsey. I swing her around in a dramatic circle before she connects with my chest, her lips smiling against her will. But as soon as I begin to move, it disappears.

  “Jagger?” she says with a worried look in her eyes as I move her arms to go around my neck, my hands going to her waist a second later. I begin to sway with the music, leaving her no choice but to follow.

  She keeps looking around, no doubt trying to find someone that’s watching her and use it as an excuse to stop. I take my hand and gently tip her chin in my direction. The silent fear hasn’t disappeared from her eyes, and I ask myself how to take it away.

  “The key to dancing is to keep your attention on your partner, and let everything and everyone else fall away. And besides, all we’re doing is swaying, not the mambo. And no, there isn’t a single person here looking at you. Everyone is too absorbed in their partner,” I say pointedly, making her give me a half-hearted grin, recognizing what I said is true when her eyes do one last look around.

  Cyvil

  Okay. So all I have to do is focus on the gorgeous guy with his arms currently wrapped around me and act as though the rest of the world doesn’t exist. If it were any other situation, you wouldn’t have had to ask me twice. But after what my mother said, and the insinuation that I have no right to show myself like this – despite what my sister said – I find myself feeling like I’m in a fish tank with a three-hundred and sixty-degree view for everyone to see, and I can’t escape. Whether they are actually looking at me or not doesn’t matter. It’s the paranoia of looking like a neon sign in the middle of the galaxy, the main source of attention, that has me squeezing my hands in a vice grip behind Jagger’s neck.

  Doing the best I can to follow his advice, I
find a part of him to focus on, eventually settling on his scent of all things. Under the smoky essence of fire on his shirt, I detect the smallest hint of his clean, masculine scent. Closing my eyes, I move closer, letting my forehead rest against the side of his cheek and away from the crowd since my touching him doesn’t seem to be bothering him. With every breath I take, my nose bumps against his neck, constantly inhaling the warmth of his skin.

  He’s right, this is helping.

  Slowly I let myself relax against him and go where his body goes, swaying like he said to. Another song comes on over the speakers, but it’s still one you can slow dance to, and not a single couple leaves the makeshift circle we have created. Resting my head completely on Jagger’s shoulder now, I force my eyes to stay open, to not shut and refuse to reopen with sleep. The combination of the pleasantly warm weather, the gentle sway of the dance, and feeling Jagger’s thumbs running circles over my waist makes it a hard battle.

  “I take it you’re feeling better now?” he asks lightly against my ear, and despite my better judgement, I let a shiver run through me; fearing he felt it.

  His lips graze my ear in a smile.

  Yep, he definitely felt it.

  “Yeah, the sedatives I took earlier are finally kicking in,” I say in response. When he stills under me, I make sure he can feel my lips against his neck, cracking open in a grin. “Kidding.”

  He relaxes. And deciding this is as good a time as any, I say, “Thank you,” my hands resting on his strong shoulders, feeling the cords of muscle through his shirt. Damn.

  “For what?” he asks, tilting his head to rest against mine, and I feel his curly hair tickle my neck. This is almost too easy, natural even, being like this with him. It should be a harder task to pretend like I’m head over heels for Jagger Wells, a guy I hardly know. And yet right now it feels as simple as closing my eyes and feeling the pulse in his neck tap a rhythm against my fingertips.

  “For doing what Atillia said earlier.” I clarify.

  “And what is that?” he asks quietly, voice hazy against my skin. Wait, when did I start playing with his hair? When did we stop swaying?

  -17-

  Blurring Lines

  I’m not sure when it happened, but the music has since turned to something annoyingly poppy, and the sandy dance floor has all but vacated except for the two of us, the others joining those by the bonfires.

  Huh.

  When I feel his hands tense on my back, I suddenly remember what we were talking about.

  “Um, well. Most people would have agreed with my mother, that I shouldn’t be out here looking like this. I’m sure every guy here feels the same sentiment, but…not you. You’re…supportive, encouraging, kind. Do you know how many people I find that are like that? Maybe two out of a hundred. And I – I really appreciate it.” I can feel the tears slipping around on my eyes, wanting to spring down my face, but I keep them in, looking at a far-off point to try and distract me.

  He doesn’t let me, though. Nope, he guides my chin to look up at him, unable to hide the manifestations of his actions in my eyes any longer. I watch as his Adam’s apple bobs in his throat, his jaw grinding as though he’s upset. Crap, what did I say this time?

  “You should never have to thank someone for accepting you as you are, Cyvil. It’s how it should always be. You’re beautiful in every way, and don’t let anyone ever convince you otherwise.”

  I inhale deeply, catching an intoxicating mix of the salty ocean air and him, feeling myself rise with another wave of emotion.

  Screw it, I’m going to let the tears win.

  I let them fall and absorb into his shirt, his arms holding me close when I hear someone near us say, “Aw, they’re so cute! Why don’t you ever hold me like that anymore?” It’s quickly followed by a male voice complaining about being smacked in the arm.

  I smile into his shoulder, wishing I could stay like this for a lot longer than I’m allowed. Like the lifetime we falsely promised each other…

  Jagger

  Once again, I came within an inch of kissing her, wishing I could sweep away every tear she wouldn’t let me see with my lips; doing all I could to erase the terrible thought process she has developed over the years, all thanks to her rotten parents and the people much like I was to her in the beginning. I would do just about anything to take it back, to redo our first meeting of each other. But I can’t. All I can do is keep being the man she thinks I am, the one that sees her as a friend, a partner in our messed-up crime. Not the guy who’s using her to pay back an unpayable debt, who secretly races cars every weekend because he wouldn’t mind if things went wrong and he didn’t make it out of it this time.

  The guy who wants this thing with her to be real.

  My eyes are constantly darting to her as we make our way back to her house, her eyes shut in sleep; her body resting against the door, her forehead cooling against the glass. From this angle, I can’t see any of her scars. She could just be a normal girl I picked up at a party, having gotten drunk and passed out in my car. It’s happened before. I’ve had to dig in a girl’s purse, find her phone, and call someone to ask if I could drop her off with them, carrying her in the house and depositing her on the couch. It was sad how surprised her friend was that I had done the honorable thing, the same thing that every man should have as their first instinct: to respect and honor women.

  But Cyvil isn’t drunk, and she’s not some girl I picked up at a normal party. She’s a survivor. Someone with more strength in her pinky finger than I’ve ever had in my entire life. A girl that still manages to smile, despite the horrors she’s experienced, and thrive like a flower that has survived the worst of rains. She’s still standing against all odds.

  Well, except for now. Now she’s drooling on my leather seat. I’m almost tempted to take a picture and use it as blackmail.

  Pulling up to the guest house, I turn off the engine, noticing that her parents aren’t home yet, the lights still off in the house. Looking at Cyvil, my mighty flower, she’s still passed out cold, her eyes shut, her breath even. She looks…peaceful. And I’d really, really hate to disturb that.

  With my decision made, I open my door, close it, and walk around the front of the car until I’m on her side, carefully opening the passenger side door so that she’ll fall into my arms instead of on the pavement. Her head and upper body slump against my shoulder, and I use my right arm to scoop up her legs, my left to cradle her back. Lifting her up, I shut the door with my foot, thankful that when I get to the guest house that it’s open and I don’t need to go fishing for a key.

  I don’t bother to flip on the light. I know the layout well enough to not have to use it, especially since it could wake her up. All I can pray is that Grim decides to call a truce with me so her crying doesn’t wake up her mother.

  Stepping further into the house, I breathe a sigh of relief when I see the tiny goat sleeping in her Sherpa bed in the corner, her name monogrammed on the front of it. I smile to myself at the thought of Cyvil going to such lengths for that mean little creature as I step into her room for the first time.

  Though it’s dark, the moon illuminates the space enough for me to see that she’s made some personal touches since she moved in. Just like the rest of the house, this room has her added touch of color in it. A blue bedspread, an orange rug, a green desk, and even an array of colorful pillows scattered across her bed. She has photos in frames sitting on her nightstand, most of her and Atillia, and one of Kal-el from the hospital. After my mother died, I put away every picture of her I had, hiding them in drawers and cabinets I never open. Every time I saw her smiling face staring back at me, I felt like it was a mockery of what had happened, and I no longer had the right to receive her smiles anymore, even in death.

  Looking away from the Cyvil of days past, I look at the present version, still dead asleep in my arms. I walk over to her bed, placing her down on the millions of pillows that almost swallow her whole. I then make sure she has enough support
under her head, a blanket over her exposed skin to keep away the chill. Moving down to her shoes, I slide them off and place them on the floor. I would do the same for her dress, but I’m definitely not taking that liberty if she isn’t awake to consent.

  Knowing I should go home, let her sleep, and somehow forget what it felt like to feel her face nuzzled against my neck, like I was her sole comfort for a moment, I instead feel myself moving towards her, not away. Standing at the head of the bed, I look down on her sleeping face, so still and serene. Letting my finger glide over her right cheek, I feel it rise and fall with her biggest scar.

  As I’m about to pull away, she moves, stretching her back with a groan, as though it hurts her. Lifting her arms to rest by her head, her fingers capture mine, her lips mumbling something I can’t make out at first, but then decipher upon hearing it a second time.

  Stay.

  Oh boy.

  Feeling like that guy in 127 Hours, but with my two rocks being a hundred and twenty-five pound girl and my resolve, I struggle over what to do. Do I try and slip my hand free and risk waking her, only to have to explain why I was petting her face in her sleep? Or do I sit down on the side of the bed, let her hold my hand, and find a way to escape before she wakes in the morning?

  As though she could hear my internal dilemma, Cyvil’s hand intertwines with mine, holding it tight against her. When her closed eyes wrinkle, her strangled, tired voice calls out, “Jagger…Jagger please. She’s coming back. The lady with the sharp thing is coming back.” Her hand spasms against mine, and I can feel the hard beat of her heart against my skin.

  Shit.

  Not giving myself a choice anymore, I flick off my shoes and carefully crawl on the bed. Since she has my right hand, I lay down behind her so that I can hold her more easily. She doesn’t resist. Instead I feel her hold my hand tighter, moving backwards to be closer to me. My head dips to fit against the crook in her neck, allowing myself to breathe in a deep breath of her, my nose getting lost in her hair. It’s so soft…