Beth Michele - Scarred Beautiful

Matt just managed to repair one of the tiny cracks in my heart without even realizing it.

Is she for real? First she tells me that she likes it when I laugh, well, not in those words, but it was pretty clear. Then she taunts me and I find myself coming back for more. What the hell? The fucked up part. I liked it. All of it. I like the way I feel around her, the adrenaline surge that kicks in, the way she challenges me, almost to the point of not caring what I think about her. That is so damn attractive and she has absolutely no idea.

I’ve always been the pragmatic one, ever since I can remember. I’m not sure if it’s from being the oldest of three children, or if it’s something that was ingrained in my personality since birth. But I do know this—it’s been nearly a day and all of my rational thought has gone right out the fucking window. Nothing makes sense when I’m around her and I find myself in a constant state of confusion. She throws me off my game and I can’t figure out if I like the feeling or not. Well, I think I do. It’s just that I’m used to being in control and having my shit together, yet one snarky comment from her and I’m sent into a tailspin.

I’ve always loved a good challenge. Ever since I was a kid, if you told me there was something I couldn’t do, I’d work three times as hard to prove that I could. When I was eleven and Mom told me that if I ate one more peanut butter and jelly sandwich, bringing my count to four, that I’d end up getting sick—I mentally talked myself out of throwing up the entire night. I even snuck a couple glasses of ginger ale when she wasn’t looking, just so I could show her she was wrong.

When we went out on my parents’ small boat on Greenwich Beach as kids to go water-skiing and my friends said anyone who didn’t do it was a scaredy-cat, I was terrified, but never let on that it scared me to death. Instead, I went ahead and did it so everyone could see how brave I was…and then I ended up breaking my leg. But hey, they couldn’t call me chickenshit.

So when Fran looks at me with those dazzling green eyes and dares me, she has absolutely no idea what she’s in for, because that’s the one word in my vocabulary that gets my juices flowing, and she’s about to discover just how much.

“You wouldn’t dare,” she says, mashing her lips together, forming an adorable smirk.

“Oh, I would dare, Fran. Ask Caleb. He’ll tell you how I respond to dares….”

When Caleb dared me to eat a worm in third grade—I ate two. When he dared me to see if I could get to second base with Nancy Trimbell—I got to third. When he dared me to moon a car full of girls on the highway for one minute—I kept my ass up there for five. So this, well, this is cake.

I catch Fran by surprise and hoist her in the air. She tries to fight me, kicking her legs and attempting to wiggle out of my grasp, but I just tighten my hold.

“Put me down,” she yells, half laughing and half screaming while attempting to call Peyton for backup, but she’s way too busy locking lips with Caleb to come to Fran’s rescue.

When her eyes come back up to meet mine, I can feel that energy pulsating between us. Although my attention flickers to her lips, a dark pink from the sun, the cool breeze has made her nipples taut against the thin fabric of her tank, and my breathing accelerates. It’s impossible not to appreciate every single detail about Fran; she’s unbelievably gorgeous.

My gaze is drawn back to her lips when her tongue darts out to moisten them, making me want to taste her, to kiss her, to go exploring. What the hell am I saying? I’ve known this girl for barely twenty-four hours and yet I feel like I’ve known her for years.

I finally lower her to the ground, because if I don’t, I’m not sure I’ll be able to control myself much longer. As if that isn’t bad enough, then the words start spilling out about my sister. I don’t know what possessed me to say them. I’m usually very tight-lipped about my mother and sister’s deaths, Brad and Caleb being the only ones to bear the brunt of my anger, my grief, and my absolute heartbreak over losing them. But for some reason, standing next to Fran, an ease washes over me and I let a little piece of myself go. And, fuck me, she grabs that piece of me by taking my hand. I exhale a breath I didn’t even realize I’d been holding, and by the time it leaves my mouth her hand is gone, and I want it back.

I vaguely remember now that Brad mentioned something about her boyfriend passing away, but hearing her tell me about it was devastating. I know all too well how it feels so I pull her into my arms, as much for myself as for her. I smooth her hair down and tell her it’s going to be okay, but sometimes that’s such a bunch of bullshit.

But I’m not bullshitting her though when I tell her she’s authentic and rare. What possessed me to say that? I have no freaking idea, but I do know I meant it with my whole heart. She’s the real deal. There’s nothing fake about Fran.

“I must look a bit like a raccoon now,” she says, changing the subject, as she wipes her face with the back of her hands, concentrating on the area underneath her eyes.

“A cute raccoon,” I jest. “Here, you missed some.” I swipe my thumb at the corner of her eye to remove the rest of the black from it. “There. All set. As good as new.”

She bends down and picks up a smooth rock, launching it into the ocean before plopping down on the sand in front of the water.

“Wow, that’s quite an arm. I’m impressed,” I say, joining her on the sand, the sun warming our backs.

A smile causes her lips to quirk up. “They used to call me the ‘golden arm of the Bronx,’” she tells me, holding her head up high with pride.

I turn my whole body to face her, making a pile of shells and rocks between us. “That’s quite a title. What’d you do to earn it?”

“Well, we didn’t have parks in the city, but my friends and I would play ball in the courtyard near our apartment and my ball always made it over the fence and into the street.” She covers her toes with sand, rendering them invisible.

“So did you ever play little league?” I ask, drizzling more sand on her feet.

“No. I never wanted to make it official. It was just fun playing around, you know? Less pressure. So…do you want to help me build a sandcastle or what? We’ve got the beginnings of a world class one right here.” She points to the mound of sand and our collection of shells.

“Sure, but we don’t have a bucket or a shovel.”

She rises to her knees and scoops sand into her hands. “Who needs those? It’s called improvising, you know, like what the cavemen did. Geez, you do need to get out more,” she says, smiling, and I chuckle before we get down to the serious work of digging a water hole for the foundation and pounding wet sand into odd shapes. We finish off with a surrounding wall to protect it.

“Where do you want to put the shells?” I ask, patting the sand down to create what looks like a road around it.

“Hmph. How about we put them on top? You know, instead of a flag. Ooooh!” she exclaims, eyeing a shell on the ground. “I love this one. It’s so pretty!” She examines it, holding it up to the sunlight. “It’s got silver and blue inside. Let’s use this one, too.”

“Okay, good thinking.” I choose a couple more shells and we both press them into the sand.

“There.”

We stand up and dust our hands off, admiring our work.

“For an architect, you certainly make crappy sandcastles,” she teases.

I cup my hands full of water, preparing to strike, and Fran retreats a few steps back.

“You wouldn’t d—” she starts to say, but then stops herself, already aware of the consequences.

“Ah, don’t say it, Fran. It won’t end well for you.” I grin, taunting her with the water as it seeps through my fingers.

She surrenders, holding her palms up and out in defeat. “All right, all right. Let’s go find the lovebirds. Knowing Peyton, I have a feeling they’re held up in a cave somewhere.” She laughs, and the sound carries in the air.

As we look for Peyton and Caleb further down the beach, we end up getting roped into a group volleyball game. We play for a while before we go in search of them again. I’ll admit I didn’t mind watching Fran jump up and down, and I noticed I wasn’t the only one.

“Wait, is that them?” I squint, trying to make out the couple I see a ways down the beach standing in front of the café. We start walking in that direction and I find myself wanting to reach for Fran’s hand but I hold back. She was just talking about losing the love of her life and I highly doubt she has any interest in me or my hand.

We meet up with Peyton and Caleb, and from the obvious swell of Peyton’s lips, he’s definitely been keeping her busy. I eye him suspiciously until I hear a grumble coming from Fran’s stomach. “Hungry there, little spark?” I grin and bump Fran’s shoulder playfully.

“Little spark? What’s that about?” Caleb asks, “Are you going to let us in on your private joke?”

“Nope,” I shoot back, and throw a wink in Fran’s direction.

Peyton leans over, whispering something in Fran’s ear and they both giggle, which leaves me wishing I knew what the hell they were saying.

We enter the café, a rustic interior that’s lined with wood tables, leather booths, and black and white framed photographs of the shore. I request a table outside overlooking the ocean and the hostess leads us to a terrace that’s lined with various exotic flowers in yellows, oranges, and golds. The tables are driftwood, bleached by the sun, each with a single yellow rose in the center.

I pull out Fran’s chair and she sits down, peering over her shoulder at me. “Such a gentleman,” she says, an edge of sarcasm to her sweetness.

Caleb directs his attention to Fran, raising both his brows. “Ha! Ask him how much of a gentleman he was with Hayley Williamson in eleventh grade.”

Peyton leans forward in her chair, her brown eyes aglow with curiosity. “That sounds interesting, do tell.”

I kick Caleb under the table and he groans, reaching under to rub his now throbbing knee.

Fran rests her chin in her palm as she waits for an explanation I’m not sure I want to give. “Well, we’re waiting. You’re not getting off that easy.”

“Oh trust me, he got off,” Caleb says laughing, and I’m two for two when I nail him in the shin. He scowls but doesn’t let my wrath deter him, continuing with the conversation. “The ladies are waiting.”

“How about you tell us, and then each one of us will also tell something about ourselves, to ease your pain,” Fran says, a mischievous smile floating across her lips.

I fold my arms across my chest, contemplating her proposition and interested in what story she might have to tell. “Okay, deal,” I concede, trying to figure out how to word what I’m about to say. “So…in a nutshell, Hayley’s mom caught her giving me head in their garage…in the front seat of her mom’s Mercedes…just as she was about to….” I hesitate and look to Caleb who isn’t any help at all. “Uh…swallow. Needless to say, her mom’s front seat needed a thorough cleaning.”

“Oh my God,” Peyton and Fran say at the same time, and their laughter ensues and it doesn’t stop. My ears heat and a streak of red slashes across my face.

I eye Caleb with a vengeful grin, anxious for him to take his turn so I can laugh my ass off, although he’s got a ton of stories and a lot more variety than I do.

“Caleb, you’re up dude,” I say, in hopes that he can take the focus off of me.

“Hmph,” he mutters, rubbing his chin thoughtfully. “There are so many good ones. It’s really hard to choose.” He glances over at Peyton and then back to me. “Okay, I’ve got one. This was when I was in high school. So my parents had gone away for the night and I invited my girlfriend Valerie over. My bed was way too small and she suggested my parents’ king-sized bed, which I thought was a bit weird, but decided to go with it. Anyway, she left me for a minute and came back with some whipped cream, and…some other stuff. We were getting busy with the whipped cream when my dad ran up the stairs because he’d forgotten something, and caught us stark naked with, uh, certain parts of Valerie covered in whipped cream.”

I shake my head and chuckle as I recall that night. Caleb called to tell me his dad went through the roof, not because he found them naked, simply because they was on his bed.

“Whipped cream, huh?” Peyton asks with an arch of her brow. “I didn’t know you were into that.” She moves closer to him, whispering something in his ear and once again, I feel like I’m in the dark.