Chapter 25 #2
Her soft hand covers mine and for a split second I want to flinch away from her. But instead, I flip my hand palm up and lace my fingers between hers. I never talk about my accident. And I sure as hell have never told anyone how much I hate myself.
I take a deep breath and let the words escape from purgatory.
“As far back as I can remember, adults called me a lady killer, told me I'd be a heartbreaker. I was full of myself before I knew any better. When girls started to notice me in middle school, I started spending more and more time on my hair and my clothes. I was tall and muscular for my age thanks to genetics.”
That earns me a huff of a laugh and a small eye roll from Isabelle.
“Girls seemed to fall at my feet, as arrogant as that sounds.”
“I mean, you are freakishly good looking, so it doesn’t surprise me that women were falling at your feet.
You literally had me tripping over my own feet that day in middle school and all I did was get a glance of you,” she says with a squeeze to our linked hands, and it comforts me more than I expect.
I’m ashamed of my sexual history and I don’t want to scare Isabelle off or disgust her.
My reputation as a player started young and followed me through college.
I'd fucked my way through Swiftwater not long after graduating from high school. Star football players didn’t have to try very hard in a small town, especially when you looked like I did.
“I didn’t go to college. I saw no need when I was just going into the family business.
All I ever wanted was to work the ranch with my dad.
Not even the prospect of playing college football could sway me.
Weekend trips to see friends at the nearest universities provided me with ample opportunities to get laid.
” Discomfort worms across my skin—it feels wrong talking to her about other women.
The warmth of her palm grounds me and I rub my thumb over the back of her hand to soothe my nerves. I take a deep breath in and out through my nose because the next part of my story is difficult to talk about.
“A group of us local guys, including my brothers, used to go dirt biking all around the mountains surrounding town. I knew those trails like the back of my hand. We were reckless, drinking on the hill, hauling ass down the trails, little to no protective gear and never a helmet. I’d taken a few spills over the years, had some road rash but never anything serious.
Just battle wounds to laugh about over beers. ”
She squeezes my hand encouraging me to continue.
“I was young and full of myself, and I thought I was invincible. The day of my accident was like any other day on the hill. We trekked to the top of the trail, downed some cold beer from someone’s daypack, and set off to race down the hill.
I was at the back of the pack—the group was spread out so far, we weren’t even within shouting distance.
It was a fluke accident. My front tire hit a tree root at just the wrong angle, and I went ass over handlebars. ”
Isabelle’s gasp matches the tightness I feel in my chest recalling the moment my life ended. My fingers ache from how hard she’s squeezing my hand.
“I don’t know how much of this you’re going to want to hear, sugar. It ain’t pretty,” I offer.
“I want to know everything you’re willing to share with me.”
Growing increasingly uncomfortable, I withdraw my hand from hers but give it a pat to say I’m not upset with her.
“My bike crashed down on my body and drove me into the rocky hillside. I was dragged several yards down the mountain by the momentum of the crash and the weight of the bike on top of me. I knew my right leg was broken, my right shoulder was dislocated, my clothes were torn to shreds, and all my exposed flesh was pulverized by rocks and forest debris. I was in excruciating pain, my cell phone was in my car, I couldn’t move, and I was drifting in and out of consciousness.
I was told in the hospital that I was stranded for almost two days. ”
I re-focus from the haze of my memory, to find tears tracking down Isabelle’s beautiful face. Pain lances through my chest seeing her cry for me. Has anyone other than my family ever cared enough about me to experience my pain second-hand?
“We never checked in on each other after a race, not even my brothers. Some of us would split off to hit another trail, get drunk at the bottom, or take off to get on with the day. James noticed that I wasn’t turning up for work, and the horses hadn’t been cared for.
So, the dirt bike crew went out looking for me.
Once they found me broken and unconscious, they guided the search and rescue team to my body and carted me down to the hospital.
Because of the pain medication and immediate surgery to my broken leg, I was unaware of the extent of my injuries for several more days. ”
The empathy pouring from Isabelle twists me up inside. She said she wanted to know everything. I guess if what I tell her next scares her off, at least I'll know.
“I vomited the first time I caught a glimpse of my reflection. My entire right side—face to chest—was sloughed off.”
She's listening intently but doesn’t look disgusted or like she’s going to bolt.
“The doctors had to do extensive debridement and remove a lot of damaged tissue.
The filth from the forest floor embedded in my skin caused severe infection further damaging my flesh.
The affected parts of my right side looked like something from a horror film.
I was lucky they caught the sepsis early on or I would've died.”
I anxiously rub my hands up and down my thighs, trapped in the memory. A soft pressure smooths up and down my back. Her gentle touch brings me immediate and immeasurable comfort.
“I should stop here. You’re not going to look at me the same if I tell you—” I choke out. I want her to respect me, and I don’t see how she could when she knows.
Isabelle turns towards me and grips me firmly by the thigh. “You're an incredible man, Reid Andersen. Nothing you can say is going to change my mind.”
Well, here goes nothing. “Eventually, several months after my accident, I mustered up enough courage to go out to The Flying Pig, hoping to pick up a girl. I hadn’t had sex since before my accident and I was desperate.
With the brim of my hat pulled down as low as possible to still be able to see, I approached a group of townies gathered around the dart boards.
“I saddled up to one girl in particular who'd always eagerly accepted my advances. With a hand on her lower back, I murmured one of my sure-fire pick-up lines into her ear. She caught sight of me and full-on-laughed in my face.
“Cackling like hyenas, the group of girls turned their backs on me and the guys who'd been watching the scene play out started throwing jibes and insults that all muddled together in the haze of my humiliation.
I couldn't get out of there fast enough.
I never tried to pick up any girl from town again.
“It’s taken years for me to build up a thick enough shield to venture into town for groceries or the occasional beer with friends.
If I’m not working, I hide away on the ranch.
The horses aren’t repulsed by my face, or my attitude.
Also, as you’ve noticed, and pointed out, I use my beard to cover the gaps caused by scar tissue.
I wear my hair shaggy and hide behind a hat to hide my face.
Collared shirts irritate the scars on my neck, so I wear loose fitting soft cotton T-shirts that don’t cling to the scarring on my shoulder and chest.”
Unbridled emotion fills her eyes—it hurts to look at her. But I’ve come this far, and if I don’t tell her everything, it’ll eat me alive.
“What about now? Like, if you wanted to meet someone…” she asks, and I know what she’s getting at.
“If I need to get laid, I head down to Denver to a club where it’s dark and crowded and find a willing body.
No one knows me there. I never let the girls kiss me or touch me.
We stumble off to find somewhere private.
The girls either can’t see my face or are too drunk to remember how ugly it is.
I get off and get the hell out of there, burning with shame, and furious with how pathetic I am. I haven’t done that in over two years.”
Shame licks at me like flames urging me to stop, but I need Isabelle to know the whole truth. I avert my eyes and study every scuff mark on my boots.
“It’s been almost eight years since I’ve been kissed—since I’ve had the soft touch of a woman above my belt.
The only person who I’ve allowed to touch my face, albeit reluctantly, is my mom.
The rejection I felt that night in the bar from the laughing townies burned me for a long time.
At first, I was so angry, blaming them for being shortsighted and cruel.
But as the months and years have worn on, I’ve re-played a lifetime of memories and cataloged countless instances of me being an arrogant, self-absorbed, shallow prick. ”
I can’t bear to look at her. I close my eyes and hang my head.
I’m flooded with memories of rejecting a girl because I didn’t consider her a “ten,” making judgmental comments about women’s bodies from across the bar with my buddies, expecting girls to put out just because of my reputation and good looks.
I'm repulsed by my past behavior and can barely stand myself.
I’ve hurt so many women with my actions, I can’t even count let alone remember their names to apologize. I don’t deserve to be loved by a good woman like Isabelle. I shouldn’t let her get close enough to me to try. It’s better for everyone that I keep to myself.
Without lifting my head, I clasp my hands together between my parted legs and squeeze so hard I might break my own bones.
“I’m not genuine, good, and kind like Sam was.
I’m not outgoing, gregarious, and adventurous anymore like James.
Only whispers of my old self remain. I earned my reputation through every choice I made, and every action I took, and the only person I can blame is myself.
” I’m not surprised no one wants me—they shouldn’t.
As the end of my story leaves my body, exposed in the open for Isabelle to judge, I feel free.
I also feel like I might puke, but holy shit it feels good to get that off my chest. I dare to look up at her.
She's buzzing with an emotion I can only describe as passion.
Passionate understanding. Passionate empathy.
Passionate rage on my behalf. She's vibrating with it. I can’t take my eyes off her.
The energy radiating from her is electric and I'm rooted to the spot, terrified of what'll happen next.
She offered bits of reassurance during my story, but how she feels now that she knows everything could go either way. Her hands clasp in and out of fists repeatedly and her leg bounces with nervous energy.
In a tone of complete disbelief, she says so quietly I almost can’t hear her, “You don’t get it do you? What I see when I look at you?” Her eyes are flooded with tears and her chest is heaving breaths.
Her lips crash against mine and her hands tangle into my hair. The kiss isn't tentative or gentle. It’s messy and raw and real. I can taste the salt of her tears as they slide down onto my desperate lips.
I wrap my hands around her back and pull her chest into mine. Our racing hearts pound against each other, rib cages fighting for space to pull in oxygen.
The kiss is perfect.
It’s everything I never knew I needed.
She pulls back just enough that our lips part. She leans her forehead against mine and our hot, panting breaths mix in the heady space between us.
“I see all of you Reid. And I'm still here. I see you. Don’t you get that?”
She pulls out of my arms and stands before me, searching for something in me I’m not sure she’ll find. She retreats to her bedroom for the night and softly closes her door.
I think back on my grandpa’s lucky spurs and the moment he saw my grandma cheering in the stands. He just knew.
And in this moment, I know I’ll do anything to deserve her.