“That could be kind of freaky,” he teases of the headless shapes. He steps closer to one covered with a dark plum-colored gown. What does he think of my creation?
“It’s cut in a way it would cover the marks along my neck and chest, but I’m thinking of reversing the pattern, to expose the skin instead, almost highlight what happened.”
I swallow hard, preparing to admit more and hoping he doesn’t think it sounds stupid.
“A photographer friend wants to take pictures of me.” His neck cranes, so he peers at me over his shoulder. I don’t look anywhere but at the dress. “She wants me to tell my story and promises to make it visually beautiful.”
“Fabulously flawed,” he mutters, reminding me of the clothing name he suggested earlier. A thought comes to mind, but he asks me a question. “Will you do it?”
“I’m undecided.”
Greta Shaw is a big name in the fashion business, and she knew what she was doing when she took photographs. The idea for the shoot actually came from a mutual friend, a model named Isolde Ireland. She wants to show the reality of women after childbirth or accidents or incidents. Her vision is to highlight that true beauty is not our skin, but what we wear on that skin. The scars. The marks. The story of our lives.
Ethan nods, accepting my answer, and spins toward the mural. I vigorously chew at my bottom lip. Hundreds of images cover the wall in a pattern that forms a giant picture. An array of colorful eyes. A rainbow of lips. A collection of throats. All of them beautiful and flawless—the way I’ll never look again—but I’m hoping Ethan sees what I see. Every one of these pictures holds an imperfection. No face is perfect even without scars. Every face is unique in and of itself. I can see all this in those photographs before me but still can’t accept it in myself.
Ethan steps closer to the wall, observing as much as he can. It’s a lot to take in.
“They’re all beautiful,” he says, his voice low.
“They’re all flawed,” I state.
“That’s what makes them beautiful.”
My eyes fill with traitorous liquid, and I blink back the tears. I’m tired of crying.
He steps even closer to the mural. There are a few of myself in the collage. I wasn’t flawless before things happened to me, but I was a lot less flawed.
Ethan points at an image. “Who are you looking at here?”
It’s a muted color image, almost black and white, but with a hint to the brightness of my hair. I’m looking over one shoulder. My mouth agape. My eyes focused outside the image.
“No one,” I say, remembering the shoot.
Look as if you are longing for your true love, darlin’. As if seeing him for the first time and knowing it’s him without really knowing him yet. That’s it, darlin’. It’s him. It’s finally him. The one who will love everything about you.
Greta Shaw is a master at visual technique.
“I think you should do the photo shoot and recreate this pose,” Ethan states, tracing a finger over the image. Actually, his finger shakes and hovers above the photograph as if he’s afraid to touch it. “Whatever you were thinking to produce this look, you need to do it again, just as you are now.”
Can I recreate that feeling, that sense of seeing my love for the first time?
Suddenly, I can’t take my eyes off Ethan. His broad shoulders. His wavy hair. His thick finger moving as if he wishes to touch that face, the smooth, silky, unscarred one. I stare at him as if I’m seeing him for the first time, and I wonder things I shouldn’t wonder.
“I want someone to look at me like that.” His quiet voice quivers. The words shake and rattle me to my core. He can’t take his eyes off the photo, and I realize it’s me he sees. Not a beautiful model from years ago, but the woman inside that image—a woman longing.
I look at you like that. I don’t have the strength to tell him the truth, but I’m spurred on in another manner.
“Ethan.” His name clogs my throat. He turns to face me, and then he stills. I’m not certain he’s breathing as I’ve opened my robe, placed my hands on my hips to hold back the material, and turned my right cheek to him. I’m wearing nothing more than this robe and skimpy panties. I force my eyes to remain open and allow his inspection. The remainder of my scars are fully on display for his viewing. The length extends down my chest. The fading marks droop at my breast. I’ve been assessed by many in the past. Men who wanted to sleep with me. Boys who did. Designers who wanted my body to show off their clothing. However, knowing Ethan is looking at me, really taking me in, and inspecting my physique makes my heart race. I almost close the robe and tell him that’s enough—calling my own bluff—but I realize I’m not as frightened to share my body with him as I am to open my heart.
Ethan steps toward me and stops.
He holds up a palm, just out of reach of my skin. His hand continues to tremble.
“Do you have any idea how much I want to touch you? How much I want to prove to you, you are beautiful. I don’t give a fuck how this happened or the reasons behind it. I care about the woman beneath that skin. Do you understand me?”
I shake my head. I don’t. I don’t know why he’d want me.
“If I touch you right now, I wouldn’t be able to stop.” He slowly exhales, lowering his hand and curling his fingers into a fist at his side. The rejection is coming. “I’d want to keep touching you, and you…you don’t want that yet. You aren’t ready for the intensity of my touch.”
The light switch of anger should flare. I should tell him not to tell me what I’m ready for. I want to tell him he’s wrong. I need him. I need his touch—his intensity as he calls it. I need to feel him inside me and prove to myself I can have someone intimately touch me. But before me stands a man on the edge, a man who wants something deeper from me, and I don’t know what that is. And I have nothing to offer him. Selfishly, I can only take.
“I’m going downstairs to whack off as I do every night knowing you’re up here. I’m going to fuck my fist to the sight of you like this.” His clenched fingers lift for his mouth, the edge rubbing against his lower lip. “Because if I touch you, I won’t stop, Ella.”
Hunger suddenly fills his eyes. Desire and something more. He yearns for me, and it’s a feeling I’ve never witnessed before. Then he closes the distance between us. He kisses me once again on my scarred cheek, and I stiffen.
“And that’s how I know you aren’t ready,” he says before he leaves me feeling more exposed than I’ve ever been.
Card 17: Game Day Snacks
Chili is comfort food
[Ethan]
“Are you kidding me?” I holler as I hold the knife, prepared to chop but not moving. My eyes focus on the screen for a second, and then I almost can’t look.
“Catch the damn ball,” I yell, slamming the butt of the knife on the cutting board.
“What the hell is going on down here?” Ella asks, and I spin, holding the knife before me.
“Jesus, you scared the fuck out of me.” Even though I know Ella lives in the house, I haven’t seen her over the past twenty-four-plus hours. She’s remained in her room after I walked away the other night.