It’s as if God whispers right in my ear, offering a thought. “How about I show you my scars,” I offer resolutely, “and then you show me yours? That sound like a plan?”
She stares at my chest, at what she can see, blinking, considering, then finally nods in acquiescence. I step closer, holding the railing until I stand just in front of her. Cautiously, I gaze up at Mona’s windows, but they’re dark, and I don’t care what she sees anyway. Peeling down the top of my suit, until only my breasts remain concealed by fabric, I reveal the longest scar of all, like a giant arrow leading right to my heart, then the second one that resides beside it. A visible reminder of my punctured left lung, the wound that caused my asthma and left me with a host of other problems, even if it’s the smaller of the two.
Andrea tilts her head sideways, just looking, then reaches out a gentle, cautious finger to touch the big one, and asks what she did on that very first day: “Do they hurt?”
“Sometimes, yes. And they itch,” I confess with a laugh. “A lot. Isn’t that stupid?”
“Yeah, kinda,” she agrees, dropping her hand away, but I catch it in my own, so that she sees the long scar through the middle of my palm. She stares at it with a mix of wonder and surprise, and asks in her breathy voice, “Does that one itch, too?”
“It hurts sometimes. And it itches, too,” I say. “They all do. They’re still healing,” I explain. “Doesn’t yours itch?”
“Nope. Mine just feels like…” She hesitates, examining my palm seriously. “Like nothing. Mine feels like nothing.”
I’m about to ask her what she means when there’s the rumbling sound of Michael’s Chevy on the driveway. She glances toward his advancing truck, almost panicked, and then back at me as if she’s reaching some critical decision.
“It’s your dad,” I explain, although she can certainly see his silver truck herself.
She nods, standing to her feet. And then with all the gracefulness of a girl raised in water, she dives off the steps, arcing into the placid surface in one fluid line.
Gone, into the depths, completely away from me.
Chapter Fourteen: Michael
I’ve got to figure out a way to broach the Laurel topic with Rebecca, and I’ll admit that it scares the crap out of me. Not sure why, except my relationship with Laurel’s so strange and complex, she often feels like a quasi-lover to me. So telling Rebecca about her, well it’s like I’m revealing that there’s another woman in my life, one I’ve kept secret up until now. Feels like I’m sharing private things that belong to just Alex and me, too. I’m not sure I’m ready to let anyone else in on all that just yet, not even Rebecca.
But with one week left until the visit, I’ve got to come clean, and tonight’s as good a time as any. Andie’s asleep in Rebecca’s room, on her bed, and I’m pacing around her small garage apartment trying to gather my nerve, feeling edgy and weird. She already knows me, though, and while she’s cooking in the kitchen, she keeps looking my way, ’cause she realizes something’s off. I’m fiddling with some of her acting awards and her pile of scripts perched on the counter. Allie always said I’m the world’s worst fiddler when I’m nervous, and that’s what I’m doing tonight.
“So what’s going on, Michael?” she asks, leaning over a vegetable dish and tasting it. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say, shoving both hands into my jean pockets.
“Humph.” She goes back to cooking, reaching for a sip of her white wine.
“What?” It comes out sounding more indignant and loud than I mean, and she looks a little shocked, so I explain, “Look, yeah, I’m in a crap mood, okay?”
But I don’t know her well enough yet for this kind of display, and she doesn’t deserve it either. I step close saying, “I’m sorry, Rebecca.” I slip my hands around her waist, drawing her back against me. She smells like suntan lotion and chlorine as I bend to kiss the top of her head. God, I want her; that hasn’t stopped for a single minute in the past weeks. In fact, it’s getting outrageous how much I’m thinking about making love to her. That is, when I’m not thinking guilty thoughts toward Alex about that fact.
“It really is okay,” she assures me, that sexy southern accent shading her words, as she leans back into me. “I’m just wondering what’s going on.”
“I want to make love to you,” I blurt, even though it’s the smallest part of what’s got me so anxious tonight. I feel her tense within my arms; hear her suck in a sudden breath. “I mean, I don’t want to rush things, Becca, but I’m going crazy here.”
“Crazy, huh?” She laughs nervously, slipping away from me, and I’m left standing there in her kitchen, feeling pretty damned stupid, as she works on our meal without ever looking back at me.