Beth Michele - Scarred Beautiful

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.

“Fran? Are you all right?” I ask, concern lacing my voice.

When she lifts her hands away, I notice the milky white color of her cheeks before she staggers backwards, bracing both arms flat against the wall. Her eyes are cloudy and unfocused, her breathing accelerated. I think she might be having a panic attack. Immediately, I push the emergency button on the wall to tell whoever is on the other end that the elevator is stuck and we need help right away. A man’s gravelly voice comes over the speaker.

“We’re aware of the issue and we’re working as fast as we can to get it moving again, and apologize for the inconvenience.”

I take a couple of steps to get to Fran. She still isn’t making eye contact, but rather staring right through me.

“Fran.” I take her face in my hands. “Fran, look at me.”

She turns her head and meets my eyes, looking dazed, beads of sweat breaking out across her forehead and neck. “We’re…going to…die…a-aren’t…we? The cable’s…gonna snap…I just… know it.”

“Fran,” I say again, holding her chin and forcing her to look at me. “We’re not gonna die. There’s a problem with the elevator and they’re fixing it right now. Come on, you need to sit.” I pull her down to the floor and sit cross-legged in front of her, taking both her hands in mine, noticing how clammy they feel.

The only response she’s giving me to let me know she hears me is the hard squeeze of my hands, her nails practically digging into the skin there. I’m trying to control the panic gaining momentum inside my chest. That won’t help Fran. I need to stay calm and figure out how to get her through this.

“Fran, I want you to take some deep breaths, okay? Come on, count backwards from ten…and breathe.”

She starts to inhale through her nose and exhale through her mouth slowly, and with each breath she takes, her fingers relax beneath mine.

“Better?” I ask her when she finally reaches one, and she nods her head in response. “So, I guess you have an issue with elevators, huh?” I joke, hoping to relieve her anxiety in some way.

She finally looks up at me, a scowl turning down those pretty lips of hers. “Are you… making fun of me?” she says, her voice choppy, still working hard to regain control of her breathing. Her eyes thin, making me realize I better do something to redeem myself pretty quickly.

“No, of course not. I just didn’t realize you had an issue with elevators.”

She tips her head back against the wall, the curve of her throat staring me in the face, taunting me. “Well, I honestly…thought that I’d gotten over it. I did have anxiety about them when I was younger, but had worked through it.” She lets out a wry laugh. “I guess not,” she says, her tone lighter, and with that her breathing evens out a bit and a feeling of relief washes over me.

“So…I’ve got a phobia too.” I pause, hoping this might make her feel better. “But I don’t know if I can share it with you.”

She leans her head forward, surprise making its way to her eyes. “You can’t share it with me? I practically just fainted in front of you. So spill it, Dixon.”

I like that she used my last name. That was kind of hot.

I exhale a breath, biting the inside of my cheek. “Okay, I’ll tell you but you have to promise not to laugh.”

“Promise.” She makes an X across her chest and I steel myself for her response.

“I have coulrophobia,” I say, knowing full well she probably has no idea what it is.

She cocks her head to the side, her nose wrinkling in confusion. “What’s that?”

I fill my cheeks with air and blow out with a popping sound. “Okay, so this is the part where you promised not to laugh, remember?”

“Yes.”

The words spill from my mouth as quickly as possible, anxious to be rid of them. “It’s a fear of clowns, not restricted to evil ones, either.”

She barks out a laugh, pressing her lips together to stifle it, but failing miserably. “Clowns, really?”

“You said you wouldn’t laugh.” I grimace, but her laughter is contagious so I start laughing, too.

She tries once again to compose herself, but it’s pointless. “Clowns? How did that come about? Did you have a circus experience gone wrong?”

I chuckle, knowing full well I never went to the circus because of the clowns. “When I was growing up my sister Clara had this stuffed clown with bright red, crazy hair and a striped suit. It wasn’t a happy looking clown. Anyway, she knew I didn’t like it and every night before I went to sleep, she put it under my bed so only the head was sticking out, and it scared the shit out of me. It reminded me of that scary clown scene in the movie Poltergeist, and that was enough to ward me off from clowns forever. Without even realizing it, her little prank ultimately scarred me for life.”

I expect her to laugh, but instead she winces and something flashes in her eyes. Whatever it was fades into the distance when she looks down, making me realize that I’m strumming my thumb back and forth across her palm, her skin warm under my touch, and she’s letting me. “You must miss her a lot,” she says in a hushed voice.

“Yeah, I do. We were really close. We’d talk on the phone every other day and try to see each other at least four times a year. She’d always make fun of me when she came out to visit, too, because all of my food was alphabetized in the cabinets. She told me I was neurotic but I preferred to title it ‘supreme organization.’ So, what about you? Any identifiable neuroses you care to share?”

Her eyes drift upward in thought, while her finger raps against her cheek. “Hmph. Well, let’s see. You already know about the elevator thing. I do have this fear of planes, too.”

“What happened to cause that?” I ask, and she finally removes her hand from underneath mine, clasping her fingers in front of her, and I already miss her touch.

“Nothing. I’m aware it’s completely irrational. I just don’t like being that far away from the ground. There’s too much of a chance to drop out of the sky, fall to the concrete, into the ocean. You name it, I’ve got a scenario worked out.”

“But you made it to California. So you overcame,” I say with a smile, contemplating whether she would push me away if I grabbed her hand again.

“Yeah, I guess you could say that, I…I flew once before, too,” she replies, and it looks like she wants to add something but changes her mind. Her eyes make their way around the elevator then come back to land on mine. “Hmph. So what shall we do now?” she asks, making my lips curve into a wicked grin.

“I don’t know. Let’s see. Umm, we’re alone in an elevator with nothing but time on our hands and you smell really fucking good.”

She edges forward, close enough that I can see the dots of gold in her eyes before she whispers seductively, “You think so?” Then she giggles and knocks me on the shoulder so I fall flat on my back—not a bad position to be in if she’d just acquiesce. “Unfortunately for you, the ambience in here doesn’t work for me.”

I’m sure I could change her mind.

Fran’s cell phone buzzes and she scrambles to find it in her purse at the same time mine beeps indicating a text message. I sit back up and grab my phone, seeing it’s a message from Caleb.

Where the fuck are you? You’re late.

I type out a quick reply.

Stuck on an elevator…with Fran.

He responds immediately.

Okay, I’m not worried then. Enjoy, which in turn makes me smile.

Fran finishes typing out a note on her phone.

“Who is it?”

“It’s Peyton,” she says, as she continues her reply, “she’s reminding me that the conference started today.” She laughs and sticks her phone back in her purse. “I told her I remembered, but I’m a bit indisposed.”

* * *

Fran and I spend the next hour or so discussing everything from what constitutes good design and how I ended up in architecture, to various other aspects of my life. It suddenly dawns on me that we’ve spent a good portion of that time talking about me.