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He relaxes his tense posture, and the three of us eat in silence. There’s no cozy chit chat. Mark looks annoyed, and I have nothing else to say. I offer Blake coffee when I realize I forgot to get him some. He shakes his head. “I’m going to go home and get a few hours of sleep,” he says, stifling a yawn. “Would you like to have dinner tonight? Maybe go to the movies?”
“No, Blake. We’re finished.”
“But I thought –”
I push back from the table and stand. “You see me as a victim. Those bastards did horrible things to me, but I’m not a victim. I fought like a fucking wildcat the entire time. That’s why I have so many scars. I’m a survivor, but more than that, I’m a warrior. And frankly, I deserve someone who doesn’t patronize me by insisting he can still see me as beautiful, even if I’m scarred. I deserve someone who doesn’t feel the need to reassure me that he doesn’t see me as a monster.” Blake’s mouth falls open. “Stay away from my clinic. You aren’t a client. If you need to talk to Tom, call him.”
“But Charlie –” he splutters.
I meet his eyes determinedly. “Goodbye, Blake.”
Mark stands and glares at Blake. When he doesn’t get up immediately, he pokes Blake’s foot with one crutch. “You heard her. You can leave now, or you can leave bleeding. Your choice.”
Blake’s face reddens. “Fine. But –”
“Don’t forget what I told you, Blake.” Mark’s voice is soft but laced with warning. Blake shoves his chair back and storms from the room, slamming my front door on his way out so hard that it rattles. Gravel clatters against my porch as he speeds out of the driveway.
“Sorry,” I say in the sudden silence.
Mark stares after him. “Me too. I really wanted to pound the hell out of him.”
I chuckle, coming over to wrap my arms around his waist. He shifts his crutches aside and kisses the top of my head. “What’s that for?”
“For being my enforcer, among other things. Thanks.”
He slips one arm around my shoulders and squeezes tightly. “Anytime, Baby Girl. Anytime.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
CHARLIE
I pass the morning cleaning the house and listening to Eminem via earbuds so as not to disturb Mark. I throw all of my energy into scrubbing fiendishly, working up a sweat. I climb into the shower just before noon, having burned off enough energy to settle my nerves. I even channel my inner Linda and pat myself on the back for telling Blake I’m entitled to someone who will treat me the way I deserve.
My mood shifts when I get out of the shower to find a missed call and a voicemail from an unfamiliar number.
My stomach clenches when I play the message.
Blake’s called from a different phone since I blocked his number last night. He’s also drunk off his ass. His words are slurred, and his normally smooth cadence is disjointed.
That all pales in comparison to his words.
“I can’t believe I thought you were hot. You’re so fucking high and mighty. I offered to overlook your fucking scars. I mean, Jesus. Your back looks like something out of a horror movie. And you think you deserve better?” He laughs, a thin cruel laugh that eviscerates me. “Gorgeous women throw themselves at me, and you think you’re too good for me? You just missed the best chance you’ll ever have. No, you missed the only chance you’ll ever have. Nobody should have to look at that shit, but I was willing to for you. You’ll never find anybody better. All those guys you labeled as losers? Whiners? They weren’t the problem. You are. You and your scars. You’re too fucked up for anyone to want, Charlie, so get used to being alone.”
The phone slips from my hands and tumbles to the floor. Blake’s just voiced my deepest beliefs and fears.
That I look like something out of a horror movie.
That I need to get used to being alone.
That no one will ever want someone who’s as scarred as I am, inside and outside.
I remember the night in Tom’s kitchen months ago, when Maya hugged me after asking if we could always be close.
I remember my sudden, desperate longing, my pointless dream for a home full of love and kids and puppies who don’t know their own strength.
For three-legged cats and science projects and messy faces.
For a man who loves me and doesn’t see or treat me like I’m broken.
