Scars Like Ours | Red View Romance #2

🐈 Thirty Nine

He woke up alone again, stirred by the aroma of coffee. Sunlight streamed in from behind the pale curtain over Annie's bedroom window, and thanks to the colorful swaths of fabric separating it from the living room, the room seemed aglow with color and life, much like how he felt inside.

He could hear the quiet sounds of dishes in the kitchen, as though she was being careful not to wake him. What time was it? He turned to the little antique clock on her bedside table and saw that it was almost ten--they'd slept for a long time. It was no mystery as to what had tired them out.

He sat up, letting the sheet fall around his waist. The scars that littered his body made him pause, and he ran his hand over the rugged skin. Annie didn't mind them. She'd traced them, kissed them, hadn't recoiled or hesitated when she'd learned they were there.

Would they bother her more if she knew the truth behind them? The real story of the accident? The questions were running through his mind before he could stop them, as desperately as he wanted to. All at once the weight he'd managed to lift from his chest came crashing back down, smothering him with guilt.

He was a fraud. A fraud who'd taken Annie to bed under false pretenses. He wouldn't be in her sheets, waking up in her apartment if she knew the truth. It would be a miracle if she'd have even wanted him as a friend.

He rose from bed and dressed, all the pleasure and glow from the previous night gone and replaced by the dreadful knowledge that he was about to ruin the best thing in his life.

He had to tell her. He couldn't pretend this time.

When his shirt was mostly buttoned, he headed out into the living room. Annie's head perked up from where she stood in the kitchen at the stove, and she turned to face him with a wide smile.

"Morning," she said. Clearly she'd been up much longer than he had: her hair was damp, pulled back in a braid, and she was dressed in loose jeans and a navy sweater, her feet bare.

He wanted to marry her. The realization hit him like a truck, even though he was sure he'd known it for a while. In that moment it became clear, tangible. He wanted to marry her, wake up to her every day, lay with her every night.

"Morning," he managed, though his tongue felt like lead. He had to tell her, he had to tell her. He kept repeating it to himself as if it might make it easier. But looking at her made it a hell of a lot harder to face.

"I'm making oatmeal," she said, stirring the long spoon that was sticking out of the pot in front of her. "And I have some fruit in the fridge to cut up. You can take a shower, if you'd like. I think I have an extra toothbrush in the drawer under the sink."

He walked over and leaned against the end of the counter, watching her stir, letting himself memorize how relaxed she looked. It might be the last time she ever looked like this around him, so content and at ease.

"There's coffee, too," she continued, adjusting the temperature of the burner, "but I only have hazelnut creamer. Kenzie likes it, but Layla and Gabby think it's disgusting." When he still stayed silent she looked over, happy expression falling into concern. Her voice was weak when she asked, "Is something wrong?"

"I, um..." God, he'd hate himself if he told her, and hate himself if he didn't. "I have to talk to you."

"Oh." The color and light drained from her face. She reached over and turned off the burner before turning, stepping closer to him, arms wrapped around herself. "Okay."

"There's..." His heart was in his stomach. "You know when I came over the other day? There was... something else I needed to tell you. Something more than the... than what happened to me because of the accident."