Noticing the long shorts she’s wearing now, I remember that day at Mona’s pool and her scar. “You could wear your spring suit,” I suggest, understanding the real issue finally—or at least one of them.
“But that’s geeky. It’s summer.”
“That’s not one bit geeky. It’s cold out there.” Father and daughter are both hiding, each for their own reasons.
“I just don’t know if I want to surf without Daddy, that’s all,” she admits, thrusting the kite string back at me. I take it, nodding in understanding.
We sit quiet for a while, me slowly winding it back in—and then I take a bold risk. “You know, I showed you my scars, but you never did show me yours. That day at the pool.”
“You didn’t show me all of yours.” She challenges me with her clear blue eyes. Somehow, she knows it wasn’t the full truth.
“Well, sweetheart,” I draw in a strengthening breath, “I showed you the ones I could.”
She pulls her knees close up to her chest, protecting herself. “You’ll think mine’s stupid,” she half-whispers into the wind. So quiet, I have to lean my ear down low toward her, to be sure I hear. “That it’s stupid,” she repeats, wanting to be sure I understand her meaning.
I shake my head in sharp disagreement. “I would never think anything important to you is stupid.”
She looks up at me, the pain she’s been battling to conceal since we met vividly apparent. “Promise?” she asks, and I hear tears in her small voice.
“Andrea, of course, sweetheart,” I assure her. “Deep down, you know you’re safe with me.”
She stares at the ocean, thinking on that statement. “Yeah,” she agrees after a time, “I guess that’s why Michael likes you, too.”
“I’m going to try surfing again,” I offer. “Want to go out with me?”
Her dimples pop into view. “You’re just really cool, Rebecca. And you’re tough, too.” God made me durable, I want to say, but I’m not sure she’d understand what I mean.
“You could wear your spring suit,” I continue, “but I hope you’ll show me that scar some day.”
The smile fades. “Yeah, maybe.” Then, “Rebecca? Do your scars make you think of what happened? Every time you see them?”
“Not every time, sweetheart,” I reply. “But a lot of times they do.”
Memory. I read once that every cell in our body warehouses our memories on a microscopic level. Maybe scars have memory, too. Maybe that’s why they’re so powerful, because they contain all that happened to us in that one explosive event, branded onto our bodies organically.
Watching the memory and pain dancing across young Andrea’s beautiful face, I wish that I could wipe her scar away. The one on the inside, that she lives with, that reminds her of such a violent loss. The one that she runs from, pushing her other daddy perpetually away.
“You know, surfing late is the best,” she answers knowingly, rising to her feet. “’Cause you get to paddle into the sunset. Sometimes you can even surf until dark.”
“Maybe we’ll try tomorrow,” I agree. She brushes sand off her hands and knees, walking back toward the house.
“Rebecca?” She turns back to me like an afterthought.
“Yes, sweetie?”
She shoves her hands into her pockets, a shy smile forming on her face. “Thanks for bringing those kites for me.”
***
As the sun begins to set, Michael seems quieter than usual, and I wonder at first if my time with Andrea troubled him somehow. When we have a moment alone on the deck, I ask him if he’s okay.
“I just wish I were getting more time with you,” he says, dropping into one of the lounge chairs. “Alone, I mean.”
“I thought maybe you were mad I didn’t try surfing earlier.”
“You kidding me? I don’t care if you never go out there.” I consider filling him in on the details of my conversation with Andrea, then think better of it.
“But it’s your thing.”
“I like it. Hell, I love it,” he says. “But I don’t need you to love it. Not really.”
“I’m still trying to picture your butterfly,” I confess.
He looks up, daring me a little with his eyes. “We can arrange for a viewing,” he says. “Sort of a ‘you show me yours, I’ll show mine’ kind of thing.”
“You flirt!” I laugh, feeling my face burn hot. And it’s not because of the hazy late-day sun.
He clasps my waist with both of his large hands, dragging me closer toward him. I feel so small comparatively, and think of his assessment that day on the lot: that I’m delicate and feminine. With an easy flick of his wrist, he unfastens the bottom button of my shirt. “I could peek right now,” he cautions, but I catch his hand.
“Or not,” I say.
The stormy eyes narrow like a cat’s. “I’ve waited long enough.”
“Then strip, Warner.” I command, taking a step back from him. “Out of that T-shirt.”