Page 76 of Beautiful Scars

Chapter 19

CILLIAN

She didn’t peach me. Well, she did, but we’re a bit too fucking far down the road for that now. She didn’t peach meagain, is what I mean.

But I’m beginning to think I know when a peach is necessary with her.

So I’m giving her space without giving hertoomuch space. Without abandoning her completely. I’m sweating my arse off rearranging the room while she sits on the bed watching me.

Because if she’s watching me, she’s not thinking about that scar. At least that’s the best logic I can come up with.

Me and Cole had a fort when we were younger, but it was more effective at keeping the bad shit out than this thing.

We had one of those mid-level cabin beds that we shared, with the drawers and the pull-out desk normal kids would have used for homework. You could pull the desk out, crawl under, and slip into the space behind the drawers. Sometimes we’d steal a bar of chocolate and a can of cola from the shop, take it back to the fort and hide there for the weekend. We never lasted the full weekend of course, but we planned to.

We made lots of plans in that fort.Colemade a lot of plans in that fort.

We’d build ones like this too, all flimsy and useless. But they were just for fun, not protection. My old man would have torn a thing like this down easier than I did last night.

The couch is in position at the foot of the bed. I just need the bedcovers and pillows, but she’s still sitting there and I can’t work out if this is working or not.

Choosing not to disturb her, I cross the room to the far wall and grab the pelmet that’s holding the drapes up. Two pulls and it comes down. Shoddy workmanship if I say so myself. I bring them back and arrange them over the sofa.

When I glance over she’s looking at me like I’m the man who hung the moon. Or pulled down the drapes. I’d like to believe that tonight they’re the same thing.

I shove my hands in my pockets, feeling like a spare prick now that I’ve finished.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she finally says.

I swallow, fully aware my voice is going to come out hoarse. “We both know I did.”

She gives me a weak smile. “You’re good at that.”

“What? Building forts? And to think I’ve wasted thirty years trying to be a… businessman.”

Her smile gets a little stronger, and I like it. “I wasn’t talking about that.”

I know she wasn’t.

“What were you talking about?”

She shakes her head, like it doesn’t matter.

But it does matter.

I approach the bed, and she doesn’t scarper. Which is surely a good sign. “Tell me.”

She frowns just slightly and shakes her head.

“I’m good at knowing what you want, when you don’t even know yourself?”

Her eyes flick up to my face, and then she looks back down at the fort at the end of the bed.

“I’m good at knowing what you need.” This time it’s not a question, it’s a statement. She deals with statements better than questions. Orders better than choices.

“Lie down for me, Meisie.”

She does it. But not before making sure both halves of the shirt are covering her completely.