Chapter 2 #3
“Not for me, you big oaf,” she says, laughing. “I can see every single one of your obnoxious abs.”
I look down and realize that my shirt is completely transparent. I can make out the ridges over my pec and the warped, discolored mess of my side. My face gets hot. “Be right back,” I murmur.
I spot the jacket slung over Hope’s stall door and head in that direction, plucking the wet shirt away from my skin and trying to shake off the self-consciousness gripping me.
“Fuck.” Get it together. You’re here. They’re scars. You don’t get to be angry at this body that survived. Be grateful. I go through the catalog of phrases. Things I have to say to myself enough times that I’ll believe them.
Pathetic, I also think. Pathetic that you’re still this wrecked. That you’re this insecure. Maybe the best of you was always skin deep.
“It was a beautiful ceremony.”
I’m yanked out of my funneling thoughts and turn my attention to Bea’s mom, Leslie.
She’s the same height and build as Bea, with the same complexion.
Suntanned skin with the same shade of auburn hair that Bea’s used to be, a bit lighter than what it is now.
And Leslie’s eyes are dark brown compared to Bea’s green-flecked gold.
“Mrs. Marshall, hi.” I grab at my jacket and fold it in my arms. “Yeah, turned out great, didn’t it? Even with the rain.”
“It was nice seeing you and Bea out there. Reminded me of when you took her to that dance in high school.” Her smile seems fragile.
I can feel my shirt settling and sticking to my wet skin again. “Uh, oh—yeah. It was a big group of us who went together.” I remember because Bea turned me down when I asked, then organized that group herself.
“I’m not sure why you ever stopped being friends,” Leslie prods.
Christ. And people say I’m direct. “Did we?” I ask. “Stop being friends? That’s news to me.”
She doesn’t relent. “I seem to remember you being a pretty tight threesome for a while there. And then it went back down to two.”
I shrug, not sure what to say. Dynamics change at that age, I guess.
“She could use a friend now,” Leslie adds. “Maybe you could spend some time with her again.”
“Mom,” says Bea, walking up from behind her. “Don’t.”
An awkward silence yawns between us, before it stretches, paces, and rubs at its neck, all while Bea and Leslie stare each other down. I look for a diversion.
“Did you need my jacket?” I ask Bea, dumbly jutting it out. “If not, I’ll spare everyone this”—I gesture to myself—“and cover up.” My face arranges into a practiced grin.
Leslie blinks over to me and coos. “Oh, you poor thing. But hey, at least you’re a man, right? Men are afforded their scars more than women. Just makes you more rugged.”
Bea goes ramrod straight before turning toward her mom on a menacingly slow swivel. “What an utterly stupid—fucking insane thing to say,” she seethes.
Leslie’s head whips back in her direction, mouth gaping, red splotches spreading across her cheeks. “What did you just say to me?” she asks, edged in warning.
I think I should cut in, but I’m afraid if I open my mouth an inappropriate, awed laugh might come out instead.
I know Leslie meant nothing by it. She was trying to be kind.
It was nothing I haven’t heard before, and I’ve never taken it personally.
But I’ve never been defended like that, either.
I don’t know that I’ve ever had someone feel defensive over me.
I watch Bea continue to stare down her mom, unflinchingly, and it’s obvious that this is about more than that comment to me, but I still feel a little out of breath.
“I said,” Bea starts, “what a stupid, careless, thoughtless thing to say. You think because he’s a man, that makes this any less traumatizing for him? His whole life was changed, Mother. Without his permission. He had something taken from him. It was unfair.” She hitches over the last word.
My pulse feels thick in my neck. There are some default replies that flit through my head.
The important stuff is still intact. It could have been worse.
But I don’t think I want to throw out some platitude in the face of that beautiful outrage.
Not when she’s had something taken from her, too.
She’s leaped to have my back, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to leave her hanging.
The standoff lasts another half minute before Leslie lets out a brittle sound. “I imagine you don’t need a ride home from me, since I’m so careless and thoughtless.”
“You’re right. I imagine I don’t,” clips Bea.
Leslie snorts and storms off, wobbling chin held high.
Bea’s bright gaze immediately finds mine, and I’m about to gather her into a hug and offer some comfort, but I’m stalled when she circles my wrist in a squeeze. “God, I’m so sorry,” she says. “Are you okay?”
“I—me? Ah, yeah. Yeah, I’m fine,” I stammer, eyes and ears heating. “Can I take you home?” I shake my head to clear it. “I mean, I haven’t had anything to drink in a few hours—can I give you a ride home?”
Bea’s smile is slow and soft. “Yeah.”