Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
LEDGER
M y angel excuses herself to the guest bedroom to freshen up, and I set up the bread machine to make pizza dough and start pre-warming the oven. Then, I head for my bedroom to get washed up. After a long day of ice climbing, I can only imagine how I smell and look.
I shower quickly, not allowing myself to stay long under the hot spray. But I find myself using the best shampoo and body wash combo I own. Something my mom bought me last Christmas. Something I was pretty sure was a total waste of her money.
Now, I thank the wise woman for her providential gift. Even when reality smacks me hard and ruthlessly upside the head. Why would Luna care about how you smell? She’s here against her will. And she’ll leave as soon as the blizzard breaks.
But the nasty inner critic can’t drown out the pounding of my heart or how my mind flashes to all that’s adorable about her—pretty much everything, as far as I can tell. The way she purses her full, kissable mouth while thinking deeply. How her eyes flutter up to the right as if searching the sky or ceiling for answers. The silkiness of her soft voice and how she squeezes her hands in front of her when she’s nervous. The stunning arch of her eyebrows when she’s curious. The pink flush of her cheeks when embarrassed…
I’m obsessed, and I’ve known her for less than one hour. Is this how moths feel pursuing the moon? If so, I’m ready to fly all night.
Maybe I indulge in these feelings and thoughts because it’s been so long since I thought about loving or being loved. Maybe it’s because I realize inherently the fleeting nature of this moment. After all, an insurmountable problem exists…one I can’t ignore forever.
Time for a little mirror therapy. I start with the good side. The side that could almost convince me I’m worthy of love. It’s not too shabby, even though wrinkles around my eyes and mouth attest to a life thoroughly lived. Then, with a grimace, I turn to the left. Flipping my hair back, I absorb the mass of red, shapeless scar tissue punctuated by my lashless blue eye.
I’m luckier than many burn victims. My nose and lips are intact. But my cheeks look angry and thick, and my left ear is little more than a melty lump. My beard doesn’t grow on that side, except in weird little patches, and I have no eyebrow. I read somewhere that eyebrows are essential to facial recognition. Good luck with this hunk of flesh.
The scar tissue extends down one side of my neck, over my shoulder partway down my back and along an angry patch over my chest to where my abs start. It cuts more than one of my Marine tattoos in half, making my anchor, bulldog, and full-chest Sailor Jerry eagle ink look like fizzled-out kindergarten artwork. Some comrades in similar positions have suggested redoing the ink to fill in the missing areas and make my appearance more tolerable for others. But is “tolerable” a way to live a life?
The scar tissue and grafted skin feel tight, itchy, and hot to the touch in spots, and the colors vary from angry red to a pasty white, bumpy in some spots and pulled taut in others. Frigid temperatures slice through the damaged nerve endings like a butcher knife, and visions of me have made little kids and grown women cry.
How’s that for a soulmate? I sigh long and hard, forcing myself to look and look and look…until I feel despondent.
The VA keeps trying to connect me with a facial reconstruction program out of UCLA that may be able to make me look more presentable, even create a prosthetic ear for me, and help me with eyebrow and beard implants. But I’ve already been through so many surgeries and endured so much pain. And in the name of what? To never recognize the patched-up person staring back at me.
Focusing on my lashless and eyebrowless left eye, I say out loud, “There’s no way in hell Luna would ever be attracted to you. She’s perfect. She deserves the best the world has to offer, not a burned-out shell of a man.”
Never one to engage in self-pity for long, I keep the pathetic self-lecture brief. To my surprise, its after-effects are even shorter lived. Toweling off my hair, I dress quietly, my head buried in too many thoughts and feelings to sort out properly. Try as I might to convince my heart to take it down a notch, what I feel for this woman is undeniable.
What is harder to explain, though, are the looks she gives me in return. Breathless ones with a warmth simmering behind her eyes that I used to recognize but fear to acknowledge now.
Why me? Why a man disfigured past the point of recognition over one-third of his body?
But I’ve been down this road countless times, and I know hate-filled self-talk won’t get me anywhere. Instead, I need to focus on action. In this case, whipping up the best pizza Luna’s ever tasted. And finding a way to make my limited time with her unforgettable. If there’s anything my thirty-nine years on this planet and near death have taught me, it’s the precious and fleeting nature of life.
In the kitchen, I pull the raised pizza dough out of the bread machine, cut it in half, and place one round on a floured breadboard for kneading. Working the rubbery stuff to the perfect consistency, I spread it out on a large pizza pan before poking holes in the crust, sprinkling it with Italian seasoning, and popping it into the oven to bake.
“You are not!” I look up at the sound of Luna’s silky voice, and a knot of desire lodges in my throat. I made an incalculably bad error by suggesting Luna borrow some of my clothes for after the shower. What else could I do, though?
The stunning brunette with snapping brown eyes swims in one of my olive-drab Marine sweatshirts that falls past her knees with sleeves hanging beyond her hands by several inches so she has to bunch up the ends. Coupled with gigantic, matching sweatpants rolled up a few times at the top and bottom, she swims in the layers. There’s one massive problem with all of this: she looks like mine…
Mine, mine, mine.
And I like it way too much. Swallowing hard, I try not to devour her with my eyes, all the time feeling akin to the big, bad wolf.
“Hi,” she says, blushing, and I realize how intently I’m staring.
Shaking my head and clearing my throat, I manage, “Am not what?”
“You are not making pizza from scratch.”
I look down at my hands buried in another round of white dough and my apron covered in flour, scrunching my forehead. “Uhh…yeah, I am. Is that a problem?”
“Not at all. My grandparents—who I grew up with—always had Saturday pizza night. And grandma insisted on making it from scratch, so this makes me feel right at home.”
“Except it’s Friday, not Saturday,” I reply, shrugging and looking at my watch.
“You’re right,” she says. “And it’s Valentine’s Day, to boot.”
A loud breath escapes my lungs, and I’m not entirely sure why. I guess because my body has decided to go all out and embarrass the heck out of me with my physical reactions around this woman. Fortunately, if she notices, she doesn’t let on.
“I’m sorry I don’t have flowers or chocolates for you,” I growl. “But you kind of caught me off guard with your arrival. If I didn’t know better, I’d swear you fell straight from the sky or something…” I bite my tongue before calling her angel . Thank goodness for one last modicum of self-control.
Luna’s cheeks burn as she confesses, “I don’t have anything for you either because you didn’t even exist for me until an hour ago.”
I shrug, feeling the heat of her gaze on my face. It occurs to me that I’m not really hiding my bad side from her anymore. Yet, no worry lines streak her face. No disgust tightens the muscles of her visage.
Honestly, she acts like speaking to me and looking at my half-melted face is the most natural thing in the world. She acts like she sees me for who I am without judgment, and it’s dangerously addictive.
“If you’re okay with local brews and homemade pizza, we’ve got the makings of a decent Valentine’s Day. And we can stream movies, although by the looks of the weather, I may need to dust off the DVD player instead. But I’ve got enough old DVDs to get us by either way. You always have to be prepared for crazy weather up here. Maybe we can find something to watch that goes with the whole Valentine’s Day theme. That is unless I’m making you uncomfortable with the holiday talk?”
“Do I look uncomfortable?”
I stop kneading the dough, shifting my weight and staring at her long and hard. “Not one bit,” I whisper.
She doesn’t even flinch as she returns my gaze.
The air feels sucked out of the room, and I fight hard to play it cool. “I guess what I mean to say is if you’ve got a boyfriend or fiancé, I should stop while I’m ahead. You know?”
“I don’t have either,” she says matter-of-factly.
Thank God.
“And why not?” The question escapes my lips before I can stop myself. But I can’t help it. Luna not having a boyfriend is like the Earth having no gravitational pull.
She drops her head, her cheeks flushing. “Probably because most guys my age are pretty immature and unimpressive, especially compared to a guy like…” she stops abruptly, looking like the cat that swallowed the canary.
“Like?” I ask, wondering what she gets that I don’t. I feel like I’ve been left out of an inside joke or something.
“Like you.”
Is this woman trying to kill me? My heart performs a timpani solo that would make the Denver Symphony proud. I swallow hard, trying to give her a way out. “You’re a bad liar, Luna.”
“Liar?” Her voice cracks over the word, and I look up, shocked to see her face flushing. Maybe the misguided woman is sincere.
An acute ache pierces my chest, and deep discomfort grips me. “You need to get out more if you think I’m impressive,” I grumble with a frown.
She presses her lips firmly together, staring at me long and hard.“What’s there not to be impressed by? You’re a Marine and an ice climber. You live in a cozy cabin on a Colorado peak, working as an astronomer. You wear cowboy hats and boots. You drive a massive Jeep that can basically power through any blizzard. You make pizza from scratch, and you appreciate local brews. Those are all impressive things, Ledger.”
I shrug.
“You know, the ice climbing thing in particular is insane to me. I’m sure the fact I’m afraid of heights has something to do with it. But you guys are fearless. Since coming to Ouray, I’ve visited the park every chance I get, sitting there and watching you climbers ninja up the ice chutes like arctic monkeys.”
“Arctic monkeys…” Despite myself, I chuckle.
“How often do you visit the park? I wonder if I’ve seen you climb and didn’t even know it?”
Considering how frequently I go with or without Chuck this time of year, it’s a distinct possibility. Especially since I’ve packed in extra time there this week in anticipation of the storm. Before I think through my logic more carefully, however, I finally let self-pity get the better of me. “You and I both know you’d never forget seeing me at the ice park. I’m the only Freddy Krueger looking guy in the place.”
Luna’s eyes round, and her mouth drops open into a lovely little O shape that I’d give my grandfather’s cabin and all my worldly wealth to kiss. Her eyes narrow, and she turns her head to the side. “That doesn’t make any sense. Everyone has to wear helmets at the ice park. It’s a rule. Are you trying to test me or something?”
“No, just trying to get the elephant-in-the-room part of our meeting over with.”
“Alright then. If you’re ready, I’m ready.”
The silence is deafening, and I immediately rue opening this Pandora’s Box.
“What happened to your face?” she asks calmly, never taking her eyes off my forward gaze but cutting a careful balance between looking at me and observing my scars unflinchingly.
I give her the answer I give all individuals brave enough to ask, “I lost in a contest with a roadside bomb.”
“Where?”
“Afghanistan.”
“How long ago?”
“Five years. It ended my career, engagement, social life, and future as I’d always imagined it. Fun times.” Her expression remains unreadable despite my unsolicited confession. It’s the opposite of the pity I expected to flood her face.