Let It Be

Chapter 35

The end of April brought the end of the volleyball season, and a traditional team beach party and sleep over to celebrate. The beach trip also included our guests of choice, mostly our significant others, so I got to bring Sam along. 

Part of the fun was riding a bus for two hours until we got to the lake. It was rowdy and fun, and an extra two hours that I got to sit snuggled up to Sam. Once we got there, we started up races in the sand and a big barbecue, and Sam and I sat on a towel, watching all the excited commotion as we ate lunch.

"Come swim," Sam said, pulling my hands to help me up.

"Um, hold on," I said, sliding my hands back from his.

"What?"

"I need to go change."

Sam looked confused, then fingered the strap of my bathing suit peeking out of my shirt. "But you are wearing your suit."

"I know... but I need to go change my shirt."

"Why?"

"It's white. It'll be see-through when wet."

"Again, you are wearing your bathing suit under it." When I looked anxiously over at the bathrooms, he caught my glance. "Abigail, what is wrong?"

"I don't want people to see."

"See what?"

"You know."

"Scars," he realized.

"Yes."

"Show me."

I quickly took a protective step back, my hands out in front of me. "No."

"Please, Abigail."

"No, Sam—"

His voice became soft. "Abigail, please."

I shook my head. "Not now, Sam. Please, not now. I'll show you sometime, but not now."

He let it go, but was sweet and gentle with me the rest of the day, wanting to protect me from my past, wanting me to feel safe. Wanting me to know that he loved me and would always protect me.

I definitely appreciated it. I felt warm with him being so kind. He was always kind, but I knew what he was doing, and I knew he was doing it unconsciously.

So when there was a moment for us to escape the party unnoticed, I took it.

I led Sam around to the back of the changing rooms where we could be in private, then I took my rash guard off, then slowly my board shorts until I was standing in nothing but my borrowed bikini. Sam observed my skin.

He took it all in, all the marks, burns, tears, scars. "My knee, too," I whispered. "He pushed me down some stairs."

Gently, with sad eyes, Sam put his fingers to the angry scars on my thighs, made from fingers clawing at me. I trembled at his touch, my breathing heavy with fright and anxiety. I didn't show anyone my scars. But Sam wanted to see.

That didn't mean I was overjoyed to show him.

I was putting everything on the line. He knew the basics of what had happened to me, but now he saw how disfigured I really was. It could have been worse, but it was nowhere near perfect. What if he found me disgusting? What if he no longer desired to have a physical relationship with me?