Every time I walk through this door, I tell myself it will be the last time. It hurts so much to look around this room, see the dust clinging to the floors and the foggy floor-to-ceiling mirrors that haven’t been washed in years. I stand in the middle of the hardwood floors, staring at my distorted reflection, and I hate the woman looking back at me.
After Meredith laid it all out for me and stormed off into the spare room, I lost track of time. I stood in front of the living room window, staring over at the stables until the last car of workers from the party had long since pulled away and the main house was shut down for the night.
I don’t even remember leaving the guest house. I don’t remember walking across the acreage to the stables, and I don’t remember unlocking the door and walking into this room, but here I am. The studio always seems to pull me back, even when I don’t want to be here. Being here hurts too much. I want to be angry with Meredith for telling Eli about the accident, but I can’t. I’m honestly surprised he didn’t know, what with the power of Google and all. My mother managed to keep the accident out of national news, but it was plastered all over the front page of Charleston’s small local paper for weeks. It was only a matter of time before someone told him or he found out on his own.
I stare into the dirty mirror in front of me and lower my hand to the long, clingy green skirt that hangs down around my ankles, not having the energy or the care to remove the gown from the party before I came out here. I clutch my hand into the material by my thigh and slowly begin lifting it up, exposing my bare feet, my shin, my knee, and finally my thigh. My nose burns with tears and my eyes fill with them as I hold the material of the skirt, bunched into my hands by my hip and stare at my scarred leg. The indents and ripples where once there was smooth skin and powerful muscles are always so shocking to see. My sobs echo around the room as I stare at the image in the mirror, my other hand coming up to my mouth to try and quiet them. There’s no point in crying over something you can’t change, but I’m unable to stop once I’ve started. I never look at my leg. Not when I’m getting out of the shower, not when I’m changing…never. What’s the point? Why should I stare at something so ugly that I can’t fix? Why should I torture myself even more, looking at a piece of my body that used to be so graceful? Remembering how easily I could lift it above my head when now, I can barely walk from the guest house to the stables without it hurting.
I drop my hand from my mouth and, with a closed fist, thump my knuckles against my thigh.
“I hate you,” I whisper brokenly.
I force myself to open my eyes and look at the damage. I force myself to remember that it used to be beautiful. It used to be my ticket out of this life and it used to be the one thing Eli loved most about me, so much that he gave me the nickname Legs. Now, it’s a mangled piece of flesh that hurts when it rains, my mother always demands I keep hidden because no one likes to be confronted with ugliness, and Landry never touches and visibly winces when he gets a glimpse of it.
I smack my closed fist harder against my broken thigh, ignoring the pain on the outside since I’m too consumed with the hurt on the inside.
“I fucking hate you,” I sob, staring at my hideous leg through the reflection of the mirror.
My head drops forward as I let myself cry for what I’ve lost. My shoulders shake and I move my hand from my thigh and press it against my stomach to try and hold the hurt in, but it’s no use. It’s pouring out of me, dripping down my cheeks and screaming to be let out. My anger and my pain are bubbling right under my skin, clawing to the surface, wanting to be heard.
I feel his presence before my eyes fly up to the mirror and see his face. His arms wrap around my body from behind and I feel myself being pulled back against his hard chest. I let his strong arms soothe me for just a second…just one moment in time to feel protected and loved, and then I pull away, and unleash everything inside me.
Chapter 13
Eli
As soon as I get back to Kat and Daniel’s after my road trip with Meredith, I rush into the office and use their computer to pull up Google. I immediately find a bunch of articles about the accident in the local paper. Seeing the devastation of it in print, reading the truth of the words Meredith spoke to me hurts like a son of a bitch and I have to rub my palm across my chest to ease the ache in my heart.
“Wow, you’re an asshole.”
Rylan chuckles and I take a few calming breaths instead of turning around in the desk chair and punching him in the face.
“First you manhandle her, then you insult her. She’s definitely going to come running back to you know.”
I’m now regretting the fact that I shared everything that happened tonight with him as soon as I walked in the door. I shake my head in frustration, sitting down on the edge of the desk and staring at the screen in front of me like the answers will somehow magically appear.
“Fuck off, I didn’t know about the accident. Jesus Christ, you should have seen the car. She’ll never forgive me for all that shit I said to her,” I tell him, clicking away from the article and slamming the laptop lid closed.
“You’ve got a lot of sucking up to do, man. I know your endgame is to nail Georgia Eubanks’s ass to the wall, but is it really worth it to put Shelby through even more bullshit? You said it yourself—she kept you alive when we were in that shithole. For five years you kept fighting the good fight because of her. Sitting here on your ass, feeling sorry for yourself, isn’t going to prove that to her. Being a dick because you hate her mother isn’t going to make her see what she means to you.”
Resting my elbows on the edge of the table, I put my head in my hands and close my eyes, trying not to think about the look on her face when I accused her of giving up.
“She’s not even going to let me get close to her after what I said and did, and I don’t blame her,” I mutter, rubbing my hands down my face and glancing up at Rylan as he pushes off the desk and stands next to me with his arms crossed over his chest.
“Yeah, she’s gonna be pissed at you and you need to let her. You need to take it like a fucking man, let her rip you apart, let it hurt like a bitch, and then show her you aren’t walking away. Marines don’t give up, so stop being a pussy and go to her,” he tells me with a pointed glare.
“Since when did you become a fucking love guru?”
“Since I had to listen to you mutter in your sleep for five years about peaches,” he says with a roll of his eyes, always finding a way to make light of our situation when it was anything but that.
“Now, get the fuck out of here and give me the laptop. I’ve got porn to catch up on.”