My Starry Valentine

Chapter 5

Chapter Five

LUNA

I can still feel the warmth of Ledger’s muscular body on my arm and side as he turns on his heels, heading back toward the front door with a grumble. “Make yourself at home. I’ll get the rest of your stuff.”

I admire him from behind, his physique large and muscular, at well over six feet tall. He’s got the build and perfect posture of a Marine. The angry red scars on the left side of his face, which he tries to conceal with his long hair, make me think he’s a wounded warrior.

Of course, I shouldn’t jump to any conclusions, but it’s clear he’s been burned. By his mannerisms, it’s also obvious he’s attracted to me and feels uncomfortable with me in his space. I wonder if this has to do with his appearance or something else.

There’s no telltale wedding band on his left hand, but after taking off my snow boots and setting them on the mat near the front door, lined with man-sized snow and work boots, I walk around his cabin slowly, looking for signs of a wife or children. Instead, I find the accouterments of a cowboy. A rack lined with Stetsons in various shades and hand-tooled, well-worn leather boots in the line by the front door.

The living room includes an impressive hearth constructed from local granite, which complements the rich, dark tones of the expertly finished wood lining the walls and floors. Ledger meant it when he said cabin, and I admire the beautiful Persian rugs covering the floor and imbuing the chilly air with a sense of warmth. I can only imagine how cozy this place will feel with a roaring fire.

Rustic, rough-hewn, wood-framed couches invite visitors to sit on overstuffed leather cushions lined with tribal-patterned accent pillows. I don’t know if the designs are Native American or from farther afield, like the rich rugs.

The back corner of the room draws my eyes to a modest memory box containing a photograph of a breathtakingly handsome, clean-cut Marine. The youth and lack of scars, long hair, and beard veil his identity, making me scrutinize the image closely. But I recognize Ledger in the kind, sky-blue eyes and rugged square-cut jawline.

The box also contains a smaller candid photo of him in full camo and gear overseas with his firearm. The background is orange and sandy. I can’t tell if it’s Iraq, Afghanistan, or elsewhere. Besides photos, there are a handful of medals, including a purple heart. The last time I saw the glittery memento with George Washington’s profile in relief was as a little girl, stealing a forbidden glance into my grandpa’s top bedroom drawer where he keeps his most sacred possessions.

The front door flies open, and the whistle of the blizzard fills the room with a burst of cold air. I turn around, my face heated with guilt, feeling like a voyeur caught mid-gaze. My eyes lock with Ledger’s intensely blue ones for the briefest of moments, and it hits me again. The inexplicable zing of electricity crackling in the air between us.

But then, he turns again, shrouding his left side in hair and shadows and breaking the moment. It’s awkward how he tries to veil the painfully obvious, though I saw his scars as we unloaded my car.

His refusal to make full eye contact feels oddly dismissive, though unintended. I can’t shake the inexplicable sense of familiarity between us. Like I know him from somehow or, at a bare minimum, should know him. The strangeness of this sentiment sparks irrational frustration as he continues to hide from me, physically and emotionally.

“There’s a guest bedroom in the back, where I’ll put your stuff. I’m sure you don’t want to hear this, but I think you’re more or less stuck here. At least for the night. The weather’s pretty crazy outside.”

His words don’t surprise me, but I still let out a tired little sigh, struggling to grasp the craziness of the day. His shoulders hunch as he walks past, and he says under his breath, “I’m sorry to relay the bad news to you. I’m sure you have other places you need to be. But in Ouray, nature always gets the first say.”

“It’s not that,” I call after him, kicking myself for seeming ungrateful. “I’ve just had the most insane day ever. And yes, there is somewhere I really need to be.”

He pauses at the sound of my voice, listening attentively without turning. “I’m sorry,” he says before disappearing down the hallway.

In his absence, I go back to surveying the room. Black and white Ansel Adams photographs line the walls, and the cabin has a large open-air plan with a skylight punctuating vaulted ceilings. It must be glorious on summer days, but now it amplifies the wildness of the storm outside. The sky looks angry and dark overhead, and I imagine my host is optimistic in his forecast that I might have to spend one night here. It doesn’t look like this blizzard will let up any time soon.

The Marine strides back into the room, his perfect posture restored and that contagious energy rolling off him that drew me to him during the Jeep ride. I can tell he’s a man who enjoys life, savors it to the best of his ability despite the cards dealt him. It’s an odd and alluring juxtaposition against the severe nature of his disfigurement.

He turns to the side again, not making eye contact with me, and I hate it. I hate the fact I make him uncomfortable in his own home, and I hate that he feels the need to conceal his scars from me.

But I don’t know him well enough to know how to proceed. My gut tells me to be forthright and state the obvious. But for some wounded warriors, this may be an unforgivable sin. I know this because my grandfather was a double amputee, and many veterans injured in combat visited our house.

Grandpa lost both legs to a landmine and spent most of his life working from a wheelchair because he found prosthetics uncomfortable. As much as he never let his injuries keep him down, he also despised people talking about them. I wouldn’t call him a proud man, but he told me once that he was tired of his missing legs being the icebreaker for every conversation with every person on the planet. I wonder if Ledger feels the same way.