My Starry Valentine

Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

LUNA

“ W e need a change of subject. Tell me about your day, Luna. I want to know everything. Well, at least everything you feel like telling me.”

“You know the basic gist of what happened. It was just a lot. Seeing Naomi in pain. Seeing how bad her injuries were. Waiting for the search and rescue guys to get there. Feeling so helpless…”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows and nods. “There’s nothing worse than seeing someone you care about injured and hurting.” His voice sounds raw, haunted by the statement. I know from my grandfather’s experiences what bothers him the most about his time in Vietnam are the injured comrades he couldn’t help or save.

“Did you see that often?” I ask quietly.

He nods, taking a deep breath. “Once is more than enough. But in Afghanistan, there were a few incidents that come back to me in vivid flashbacks. You should know that I’ve still got pretty bad PTSD. It can wake me up at night screaming. I hope that won’t happen with you here, but just in case you hear anything weird, don’t worry about it.” Despite the even tone of his voice, I notice a slight tremor in his hand as he runs it through his hair again. My eyes tick towards his ruffled waves, and he sighs, resigned. “You can smooth it out if it bothers you. Looking at this pizza, it’s pretty obvious you like things a certain way.”

“Thank you.” I lean up towards him, caressing the hair along the back of his head down to his shoulders, our faces coming the closest they’ve been since the car ride. “You know, I don’t mean to be rude, but you could really use a haircut.” My fingers linger in his wild mane, assessing his unkempt locks. I hold my breath, marveling at the fact that despite my scrutiny, he doesn’t pull away this time. I imagine this is what it must feel like to pet a wild lion.

“Oh, yeah? A haircut? And let me guess. You’re the hairdresser for the job?” He arches his eyebrow, his baby blues searing into me.

“I’m really good.”

“I don’t know,” he says morosely, hanging his head, even though my fingers still linger at the back of his muscular neck.

Clearing my throat, I add, “I wasn’t going to tell you this because it doesn’t really matter. But maybe, under the circumstances, it will help. I sometimes volunteer with the VFW to provide free haircuts to wounded warriors. So, nothing about you or your scars will surprise me.”

His face tightens, and silence fills the room for a long stretch, punctuated solely by the violent sounds of the blizzard outside. “I couldn’t let you do that. I mean, you’re my guest.”

“No offense. But do you have many hairdressers lining up to tame your tresses?”

“Tame my tresses?” He chuckles, his voice softening. “Has anybody ever told you that you have a way with words?”

I stare up to the right in thought. “I’m a hairdresser by weekday and a wildlife watercolorist by weekend. So, no.”

“Well, let me be the first…along with pointing out you’re pretty much as geeky as me.”

“Maybe more so. Which qualifies me to point out that…” My fingertips run back and forth through his silky, mahogany locks for emphasis. “Even geeks need haircuts.”

“You have a point,” he says quietly, turning his beautiful eyes towards me. “I was just hoping to spare you this,” he says, motioning towards his left side. “Not drastically alter the way you feel about me. Not that I know how you feel about me, but you get what I mean…”

My right hand comes up to the hair veiling his left side. “May I?” I ask.

His jaw hardens so that I can hear the teeth grinding in his mouth. To my surprise, however, he nods.

Tentatively, I sweep the hair back from his face, staring long and hard at his wounded side. The skin is angry and red, pulled oddly in places and thick and puckered in others. While his nose and lips remain almost untouched, he’s missing his left ear save for a small mound of flesh, and his beard ends, except for patchy spots, where the scar tissue begins. The scars run in angry ridges and lumps down his neck, disappearing into his black T-shirt.

“The bathroom’s down the hallway if you think you’re going to be sick,” he says in a caustic voice. His eyes flicker towards the tears running down my cheeks. “No, Luna,” he scolds quietly. “Please don’t cry because of me.”

“I can’t help it,” I say, biting my lip and fighting hard not to sob.

“It’s that bad, huh?”

Sighing, I explain, “Every single one of these marks, these scars bear witness to the pain and violence you endured and overcame. It’s hard for me to look at only because it’s hard to think about what you went through. But it doesn’t change the way I feel about you, and it doesn’t make me see you any differently. If anything, it cements my conclusion that you’re the most impressive man I’ve ever met.”

His eyes narrow. “Now, I know you’re lying.”

My right hand hovers over his hurt cheek, and I register the ambivalence in his eyes for a split-second before he pulls away. “I better check on the pizza. The last thing we want is it burned to a crisp.” He adds darkly, “No pun intended.” I assume it’s a reference to his face.

Ledger searches for the oven mitts before opening the door, releasing a flash of hot air. He pulls the perfectly browned pie out of the oven, setting it on the part of the kitchen counter already lined with a couple of folded towels.

Testily, he barks, “Believe me, I’ve heard every line in the book when it comes to my face, and why I need to count my blessings. Or see the glass as half full instead of half empty. I don’t need a pep talk from a total stranger about why everything’s okay. Because if everything were okay, you wouldn’t weep when you looked at me.” His baby blues glare at me for a long, tense moment before he goes back to bustling around the kitchen, putting the second pizza in the oven.

Growing up with my grandpa makes me realize I can do nothing to help this man in his current mood. Instead, I open pantry doors, searching until I find plates. Next, I rifle through drawers until Ledger asks grumpily, “What are you looking for?”

“Your pizza cutter thingie,” I say, motioning with my hand.

“Third drawer to the left with the spatulas and wooden spoons.”

“Thank you,” I reply, working hard to keep my voice calm and unaffected by the exchange moments earlier. Despite my grandpa’s make-do personality, living with him was no picnic. His mood could fluctuate wildly between depression, self-pity, and anger. I learned young not to take it personally…or put up with it when he went overboard. I’m ready to draw the same line with Ledger.

We eat our pizzas in silence at the small dining table in the kitchen, sipping beers and listening to the howling of the snowstorm. The air feels thick, the night interminable. The tension in the room merely confirms what I should have figured out hours ago. That the real wounds motivating Ledger to hide from the world have nothing to do with his scars and everything to do with an ugly internal struggle I most likely will never understand…or have any say in.

But as we continue to eat in silence, his glances soften, and the corners of his mouth turn up as though he’s offering an olive branch. I can’t help but return the smile, unable to hold a grudge against the handsome, grumpy Marine.

“ Moonstruck? ” Ledger’s voice slices through my thoughts. He waggles his eyebrow at me, elaborating, “I have it on DVD. Are you a fan of Cher and early Nick Cage?”

“It’s one of my all-time favorites,” I confess, wiping my mouth with my napkin and allowing my shoulders to relax slightly.

“I don’t know about you, but I won’t be able to fall asleep anytime soon. Even though I spent the day ice climbing. So, yeah, we might as well be sleepless together…which reminds me, I also have Sleepless in Seattle . Do you have a preference?”

I sigh with relief, ready to put the earlier drama behind us and banish the loneliness and unease I feel in this cabin. “Let’s watch both.”

“Deal,” he replies, nodding resolutely. The expression on his face lets me know he’s trying, and despite the earlier weirdness, my heart melts at the effort.

“I would have never taken you for a romance movie kind of guy, Ledger,” I observe, cocking my head to the side and making no secret of staring at his face, both the good and the bad side. He must be getting more accustomed to this because he doesn’t flip his hair or turn his head.

Ledger stands up, grabs his plate, and rounds the table to take mine. “I may not be into all that lovey-dovey stuff in real life. But even a guy like me has a heart.”

None of this is news to me. Well, perhaps the part about not being into “lovey-dovey” stuff, but that’s also the bit I imagine he’s lying about. Especially to himself.

I help the Marine put pizzas away, clean the kitchen, and load dishes. After the place looks spotless and the dishwasher swirls and swishes, Ledger heads to the fridge for another beer. “Can I get you another one, Snoopy?”

“Snoopy?” I ask, raising a quizzical eyebrow.

“Yeah, ‘cause you like snooping around my kitchen and life.”

I chuckle, feeling my cheeks flush. “Sure. I’ll take another of the Pale Ales. And I’m going to choose to see your nickname as a compliment, cowboy.”

He flips the switch in the kitchen and turns off all the lights except a night light, which is plugged into the outlet over the stove. It casts a warm glow on the rustic tiles lining the backsplash.

Pointing towards them, I ask, “Where are those tiles from? They look Moroccan or something.”

“They’re from Greece. See what I mean by snoopy? You’re curious about everything. I can’t think of a name that suits you better.”

“Does that make you Woodstock, then?”

He frowns. “I talk about as much as Woodstock most of the time.”

“He was a grumpy little bird, as I recall. I can see the resemblance.”

“Yeah, but I’m already starboy, ice-climber, cowboy, probably mountain man. Definitely cowboy-mountain-man, if a nickname can even be that long. I think nicknames should have a three-option limit, four max. Don’t you?”

“What’s the fun in that?”

He shoots me a frown.

I raise my palms, chuckling. “But it’s your house, so it’s your rules. Isn’t that how it goes?”

“It is. Come on, Snoop. Let’s go binge-watch romance movies so your Valentine’s Day isn’t a total bust. Do you need to call Naomi again? Or check my satellite phone for texts?”

“Oh, yes. Thank you.”

After grabbing the phone, he helps me into my jacket, escorting me out into the darkness and whipping wind in search of a signal. Fortunately, his texts load right away, including one telling me Naomi’s heading into surgery tomorrow at six in the morning. It says she or her parents will text afterward with an update.

Back inside, he helps me out of my jacket, asking, “What’s the word?”

“She’s going into surgery first thing in the morning.” I look down at my hands, guilt transforming my stomach into a heavy pit. “I still can’t believe this happened, and I feel like it’s my fault. Naomi wanted to stay in town today to go shopping. But I was the one who insisted on getting in some skiing before the weather changed.”

“Everyone in Ouray had the same idea today, Luna. You can’t blame yourself for it… Hey, you prayed with her over the phone earlier. Would doing that now make you feel a little better?” His eyes narrow, his face bashful.

I swallow loudly. “Absolutely. Thank you for suggesting it, Ledger.”

He shrugs. “Don’t get me wrong. I’m no believer or anything, but my best friend, Chuck, is into that stuff. And you seem to be, too, from the half of your earlier conversation that I couldn’t avoid overhearing.”

I know he heard it, yet I still tease, “You listened in on my conversation?”

His face tenses shyly, and he pauses before explaining, “No offense, Snoop, but you’ve got cell yell like none other. I think my neighbor, Mrs. Campbell, heard you, and she’s, like, five miles that way.” He points toward the front door.

Before I can retort properly, he steps forward, towering above me. Grabbing my hands in his, he bows his head toward mine, the motions awkward but not unpracticed. He waits patiently as I find fitting words, painfully aware to the point of distraction of the electricity zinging back and forth between our fingers and palms. By the end, goosebumps trail my hands and forearms, and I shiver with want. Does he feel it, too? His face looks stony, but after I release his hands, he reflexively fists and stretches them, making the corners of my mouth turn up.

I follow him into the living room, cuddling up on the sofa facing his flatscreen. I admire his muscular back and shoulders as he kneels before the hearth, stirring the fire and throwing a couple more logs on. Once the blaze roars, he flips through a cabinet filled with DVD jewel cases, making hollow, clicking sounds until he produces Moonstruck .

As Dean Martin’s deep voice croons That’s Amore , Ledger disappears down the hallway, returning with a couple of fake fur blankets lined in forest green satin. He throws one unceremoniously in my direction before taking a seat as far from me as possible on the opposite end of the couch.

I feel rejected and swallow hard, trying not to care. But then I notice his heated stare in my direction, and he says softly, “This goes without saying, but Happy Valentine’s Day, Snoopy.”