Delicate Scars

Chapter One

"Any chance you can give your poor old dad a hand with these boxes?" He asks. There are already two in his arms. That leaves a total of three. One for kitchenware, one for my belongings, and one for my mother's.

"Sure," I say, ripping the earphones out of my ears and stuffing them into the front pocket of my jean shorts.

"Try to sound a little more enthusiastic, honey."

I bite back the words on the tip of my tongue. How could I sound enthusiastic when he's moved me hundreds of miles away from everything I've ever known and stripped my mother down to a box?

I plaster on a fake smile and grab two of the boxes. One labeled Scarlett and the other labeled Tate. I'm surprised he even labeled hers at all. As soon as I step foot through the door dust coats the inside of my throat, making my eyes water. It's a house with no life. How ironic. It came with old wood furniture but nothing else. The walls are bare. Nausea hits me without warning. I'm not sure whether it's from the overbearing scent of vanilla that someone has obviously sprayed in here- probably to hide the rotting- or the realization that this is where I live now.

My legs carry me up the stairs and into the room with the best view. If I'm going to be forced to stay out here, I should at least get the best room.

My dad already had my bed, drawers, and desk moved here earlier today. I drop the boxes on my desk and go straight to the window. What looks like ten years' worth of bird crap is splattered across the outside. I mentally add that to the list of things that bother me about this house, number one being the small front door. I'm not tall by any account but even I have to bend down to fit through it.

You can see the beach from here. The water is as clear as it was that one summer we went on a trip to Hawaii. I can still remember the feeling of the sand between my toes, the wind in my hair, and the two scoops of ice cream sliding down my new bathing suit. I cried for what felt like hours after that. My mother got me another three scoops of vanilla to make up for it.

"I was thinking we could get takeout for dinner," my dad shouts from downstairs. "Apparently there's a little Italian place not far from here that's supposed to be nice. I could get you those garlic dough balls you like."

"I'm not very hungry," I say.

"You have to eat, sweetie."

I used to like it when he called me pet names. Sweetie. Honey. Muffin. Anything sweet-related. He'd say a girl as sweet as me deserved an equally sweet name. My mother used to say he would have had honey put on my birth certificate if he could. Now, it just reminds me of everything that's changed. I'm not the same sweet girl I used to be.

"I will later." I rip the tape off my mother's box, "and stop calling me that, I'm not five anymore."

He doesn't respond. I'm glad. All I hear are his retreating footsteps across the floorboards. A slight pang of guilt strums in my chest. Was I too harsh? But it leaves as quick as it came. He's the reason I'm not in Phoenix right now, after all.

I tuck my hair behind my ears and put my earphones back in, thankful for the distraction of the lyrics. Considering my mother had a lot of random stuff she'd find at markets and thrift stores; her box is almost empty.

The perfume bottle that she bought twenty-odd years ago before I was born, is the first thing that I grab. It's one of those that you see in the old black and white movies. You know the ones with the bulb that you have to squeeze to get it to come out. There isn't even any perfume left in it. She just had it on her dresser for all those years because she said it made her look classy. A lump forms in my throat as I set it atop my desk.

There's a University of Phoenix pin she'd insist she had to keep even though she never wore it. She said it was sentimental, that she didn't have to wear it to love it just as much as the day she got it. Catherine, we all knew her as Cathy, bought it for her on their first day of college together. I find myself pinning it to my shirt. The lump in my throat grows.