Scarred Beautiful (11 page)

The valet pulls the car out and I look over my shoulder for Peyton, only to realize that she and Caleb are nowhere in sight. “Where are Peyton and Caleb?” I ask, heading in through the revolving door of the hotel.

“Caleb went to visit his dad and Peyton said something about heading to the bar for a quick drink. Do you want to join her?”

The only thing I feel like doing is crawling into bed. “No, thanks. I’m going back to my room. I’m super tired and we have to be up early tomorrow for the conference.”

“Okay,” Matt says, randomly kicking at the ground. “I’ll walk you.”

We’re quiet on the elevator ride up, my eyes practically drifting closed as I lean back against the wall. When I open them, Matt is staring at me, the corner of his mouth tipped up in a lazy smile.

“What?” I ask, reaching down and taking my sandals off, my feet feeling the effects of new shoes, the thought of a soak in the Jacuzzi tempting me.

“Nothing.”

“Yeah, right. Like I believe that.” I grin. “You look like you’re up to no good.”

The elevator dings and I walk out into the hallway, Matt following close behind. We stop just as we reach the door and I dig in my purse and pull out the keycard, hesitating for just a beat, knowing there’s something I want to say.

“So I just—” we both say at the same time.

“You first—” we say, again in unison.

Matt waves his hand as if rolling out the red carpet for me. “No you. Go ahead.” He rocks on his feet, his tousled beach hair strewn across his forehead.

For some reason I find myself unable to look in his eyes, so instead I focus on the wall behind him. “I had a really nice time today, thank you.”

“I’m glad. I did, too. This is the most fun I’ve had in a while so thanks for helping me remove the stick.”

A wide smile eases onto my face, the thought that I’ve helped him in some way causes me to feel lighter. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” I say brightly, and that simple flex of his dimple makes it impossible for me not to smile back.

“Yeah, it does,” he mumbles quietly, and starts off down the hall. “Goodnight, Fran.”

“Goodnight.”

He walks away, but jogs back just as I’m putting the keycard in the door. “Hey, I almost forgot.” He reaches into the pocket of his shorts and pulls out the silver and blue shell from the beach. “Here,” he offers, handing it to me, “I thought you might like to have this.” He shrugs. “You know, as a souvenir or whatever.”

My smile broadens and I close my fingers tightly over the shell before meeting his gaze. “Thank you.”

“Sure,” he replies, and takes off for the elevator.

I open the door to my room and start to walk through when I hear Matt’s voice.

“Hey, Fran,” he yells from the other end of the hallway, “I like seeing you smile.”

And then he disappears…leaving me doing just that.

I’m in my room for all of about two minutes when there’s a knock on the door. For a split second, I think it might be Matt, and I curse myself because a small part of me is hoping that it is.

“Fran, it’s me,” Peyton says from the other side of the door, “let me in.”

I open it and Peyton is standing there with a whimsical look on her face, her eyes sparkling and her cheeks flushed.

“Hey.”

“Geez, don’t look so excited to see me. Were you expecting someone else?” she teases, kicking off her heels and dropping down on the bed, getting a little too comfortable.

“No,” I reply quickly. “I was planning on going to bed.”

“Hmm…mmm…yeah, okay, whatever you say.” She lets out a contented sigh. “I think I’m in love,” she says dreamily, grabbing a pillow and putting it over her face.

I place the shell on the side table, jump on the bed, and promptly remove the pillow, forcing her to look at me. “What did you say?”

“Oh, relax,” she responds playfully, “I’m only kidding…well, half kidding.” Another sigh escapes from her chest. “Caleb is so wonderful.” She touches her fingers to her lips. “And those kisses”—her thumb rubs across her bottom lip—“to die for.” She turns on her side, leaning her head on her elbow and smacking her lips together. “That Matt is pretty dreamy, too…don’t you think?”

“Yeah, he’s okay, I guess.” I try to conceal a smile. “When he’s not being uptight.”

My cell phone vibrates and I hop off the bed to retrieve it from my purse. It’s a text, but I don’t recognize the number it’s coming from.

Just testing, is this you?

“Who’s it from?” Peyton asks, tossing a pillow behind her head.

“I don’t know. I don’t recognize the number. It must be a mistake.”

“Let me see it,” she says, and I throw the phone on the bed. She picks it up and studies the number before a knowing grin appears on her face. “Oh, it’s not a wrong number, sweetie.”

“You know who it is? Who is it, then?” I ask, my nose wrinkling, a tiny crease forming between my eyebrows.

“It’s Matt.”

“What are you talking about? It can’t be Matt. I didn’t give him my cell phone number.” My brain is moving much slower tonight and it takes me a second to process before I place my hands on my hips and glare at her.

“I did,” she says simply, seemingly pleased with herself. “You dozed off and while you were sleeping he asked if he could have it, so I gave it to him.”

“Well, why did you do that?” I ask, my voice cracking a bit while I bite the inside of my lip.

“Why not?”

“Gah,” I grumble, before trotting into the bathroom to groan one more time. Why is she giving Matt my cell phone number? We’re in the same hotel for heaven’s sake! I peek out of the bathroom and she’s typing something on my phone. “What are you doing now, troublemaker?”

“I’m telling him it’s your phone.”

“Gah!”

Her voice bubbles with laughter as she calls out, “Me thinks thou dost protest too much.”

I stick my tongue out at her before I close the door so I can pee and compose myself in private. I’m not really sure why I’m so upset.
Maybe because you like him,
says the little voice. “Oh, shut up!”

“Who are you talking to,” Peyton yells through the door, “your little
friend
?”

I flush the toilet and take extra time washing my hands while staring at my reflection. My skin is touched by the sun, the caramel highlights in my hair are shining, and my eyes are bright. Hmph. I look happy. Almost.

It’s quiet when I make my way back out to the bedroom but I catch the devious look still stuck to Peyton’s face.

“So did he text back?” I ask, fiddling with the hem of my skirt and secretly hoping the answer is yes.

“What do you care?” She smiles, lifting one of her shoulders in a shrug. “You don’t want him texting you anyway.”

I lob a pillow at her head and she nails me right back before I settle myself on the bed, leaning against the plush velvet headboard. “So what was up with that sex story, you being tied up? Quite the adventurous one in high school, weren’t you?”

“Hey! Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.” She grins while rolling a strand of hair around her finger. “What about you? What was up with sex in the haunted house? It’s dark and scary in there.”

“Exactly,” I respond, picking at my chipped fingernail polish, a reminder that I need to re-do my manicure first thing in the morning. “Do you want to know the real reason that Eddy and I were having sex in there?” I ask, my eyes focused on a speck of lint on the duvet.

She waggles her eyebrows and swivels her hips, a wicked smile on her face. “Because you were horny?”

I shake my head back and forth, continuing to look down, unable to face my reality. “Because it
was
dark in there, and that way he couldn’t see my scars and find me repulsive like all the other guys did.” I’m not sure what possesses me, but I lift up my tank revealing the scars covering my belly and Peyton’s hand flies to her mouth.

The playfulness of the moment before is gone, replaced by thick, polluted air, the grin on Peyton’s face disappearing completely. She scoots up the bed and sidles next to me, twisting our arms together, her head against mine. If anyone had told me a couple of months ago that Peyton and I would be bonding like this, I would’ve laughed in their face. But here we are.

“Oh honey,” she says, taking my hand, her voice full of empathy. “I don’t know what to say. There aren’t enough words to express how awful it makes me feel that you had to go through that…but…you’re a wonderful person…and those scars don’t matter. They don’t make you who you are….”

I could tell her story after story about how they’ve mattered. How men have walked out on me time and time again, mouths gaping open at the sight of my scars, words filled with lame excuses battering my ears. I’ve heard the choking swallows, had the lights turned off more times than I care to remember. But instead, I don’t respond. I don’t tell her how wrong she is, that the ugliness has not only stained my skin but seeped its way into my soul, defining me…every single day of my life.

I run a finger over the row of dress shirts hanging in the closet that are,
of course
, organized by color, and settle on a crisp, white one. Slacks are an easier decision. The only color I brought was black. I’m forgoing the fucking tie. I don’t like wearing them and I think I can actually get away with it here, not so much when I’m in the office, so I’m taking full advantage.

My obsession with having things in order started after Mom died. Her death seemed to affect me the most, well, aside from Dad. I’m not sure if it’s because I’m the oldest and had been with her the longest, but her passing left a huge gap in my life, especially given the fact that Dad checked out to a degree once it happened. I’ve tried to taper it, but if anything, it’s gotten worse. But shit, if it helps me cope, I suppose there are a lot worse things.

My mind drifts to Fran as I eye the cell phone sitting on the bedside table, recalling wanting to send her another text last night but deciding against it. I don’t really know what she would’ve thought, but I had a great time yesterday and just wanted to tell her again.

The picture of her when we returned to the hotel is cemented in my brain. Her cheeks, pink from the sun, bringing out the green in her eyes, her hair an array of tangles from the salty breeze, her skin tanned and beautiful. She does things to me and she’s messing with my head. I look down at my dick.
No, I wasn’t talking about you
. Although.…

I slip on my shoes, swipe my briefcase from the closet and my watch from the corner table. The clock reads 8:45 a.m. and I’m seriously late. Shit. The conference starts at nine and I was supposed to be down there to prepare a half hour ago.

In a mad dash out the door to catch the elevator, I check my briefcase to make sure I have all the necessary blueprints for my presentation. The car stops on the twenty-third floor and I’m willing it to hurry up. I’m typically very organized and have everything laid out and ready to go before I present, but something’s off…or someone’s throwing me off. Fuck.

The doors open and my smile widens. Fran steps onto the elevator and I suddenly can’t remember what the hell I was doing or what I was looking for in my portfolio.

“Morning,” I greet, checking out the black pencil skirt, black spiked heels, and white blouse she opted to wear today. Her hair is piled atop her head with a few strands dangling around her face. “You look…nice.”

“Thanks,” she replies, taking a moment to observe my clothing choice as well, and from the look on her face it seems she approves. “You do, too.”

For some reason, unbeknownst to me, she walks over to the other side of the elevator as if she wants to be as far away from me as possible. I showered this morning so I couldn’t possibly be offensive but I lift my arm anyway just to be sure.

We start moving again and I try to reel in my thoughts from Fran and focus on what I need to accomplish this morning, but it’s hard when I catch a whiff of something sweet in the air. It’s that jasmine scent again but this time it’s mixed with something, maybe vanilla, and it’s very distracting.

The elevator comes to a jolting stop and the floor shifts beneath us. I look over at Fran who drops her briefcase and covers her face with her hands that are now shaking.