Written in the Scars(3)

Gripping the chair, I forbid myself from blurting the millions of questions rustling around my mind. I won’t ask because I won’t give him the power by speaking first. It’s childish, I’m sure, but I don’t care. I have to survive however I can. Knowing I held tight to something makes me a little less powerless in the most defeating situation of my life.

The limp in his gait is now fainter than I remember, and I want to ask him how he’s feeling too. But I don’t because he hasn’t given a damn about how I’m feeling since he left.

My hands fold over my stomach, and I fight back the tears that wet the inside corners of my eyes. I won’t cry. Not here. Not in front of him, the man that looks like the person I fell so madly in love with. But that’s not him anymore. Hell, I’m not sure who I am these days. I just know that together we’re too different, too volatile to work.

Lindsay looks at me out of the corner of her eye, her lips pursing together in sympathy for the brokenness I feel. She knows. She’s the only person that knows the depths of my pain because she was there for it all, a front row seat to the misery.

I glance at Ty and he’s looking at me.

The sides of his lips begin to tilt upward, to flash me that cocky smile that made me fall for him in the first place. As my breath catches in my throat, his start of a smile catches on his face and he looks at Lindsay.

“I’ll head over there. If ya see him, tell him I’m lookin’ for him,” Ty says, a gruffness to his tone. He glances at me again. My optimism spirals entirely too high, waiting, hoping that he says something. Anything. Hi. Screw you. How are you? I’d take any of them. But I don’t get a single word and that slices me to my already bleeding core.

I don’t want to hurt. Not anymore.

He turns, jamming one hand in a pocket, and pulls the door open with the other and walks out of my life again as abruptly as he did the first time.

“Holy shit!” Becca exclaims, dropping her purse on the counter as the door swings shut. The keychain hanging off the side clatters against the top. I snap my head to her, my annoyance level brimming, and get a warning glance from Lindsay. “I changed my mind. If that man will be at the bonfire, count me in. Who was that?”

“Uh—” Lindsay starts, but I cut her off.

“That’s my husband,” I growl, sliding off the plastic chair and letting it twirl round and round as I barrel my way out the back door.





TY


The leaves managed to turn colors and dry up to nothing while I was gone. They blow in the breeze and rattle as they bounce down the path that leads to the detached barn on Jiggs’ property.

I wonder if Elin has brought out an old pair of jeans and sweatshirt and filled them with leaves. It’s one of her favorite things to do this time of year, and I get roped into it without fail. I’ve wondered about it a handful of times, but I haven’t driven past the house to see if the scarecrow is there. I’ve been in town long enough to see her car behind Blown and pull in.

That wasn’t the plan. Sure, seeing her was the ultimate objective, but I was going to sort it out once I got here. Talk to Jiggs. See where things stand. But I saw her car at Blown—the truck pulled in on its own.

The sound of Jiggs banging on metal rings down the path. I have half a notion to get back into my pick-up and leave. Even though he’s my best friend, he’s Elin’s twin brother, and their relationship is much more than your normal sibling banter. Their parents died in a boating accident six years ago, not long after our wedding, and that brought the two of them, although already close, even closer.

Seeing Jiggs should be interesting. We haven’t talked since I left town either. I’m a jackass for just dropping by, springing this on him, but he’s my best friend—the status of my marriage notwithstanding. At least, I hope so.

“What’s up?” Jiggs asks, bringing me out of my reverie as I approach the barn door. “It’s about time you show up. I need help getting this thing running.”

“You’re a shit mechanic.” Relief washes over me at his easy, nonviolent, greeting.

He nods and leans against the doorframe of the rusty truck, the paint peeling off the antiquated structure. “Truth. But that’s why we’re friends. You’re not.”

“Asshole,” I laugh, grasping his shoulder as I pass deeper into the barn.

“What made you decide to bless us with your presence?” The caution is there, the yellow flag warning me to proceed carefully. That he’s Elin’s brother before he’s my friend.

I knew coming back to town would mean answering for things. Looking into the eyes of the people I care about and seeing fury or annoyance . . . or a broken heart. Imagining how to handle the judgement was easier in the farmhouse, fifty miles away.

“You gonna answer me, Whitt?” His work gloves come off and go hurling across the barn. “I’m glad to see that ugly mug of yours, but you have some explaining to do.”

“I know.” Cringing and gathering whatever pride I can find lying around, I suck in a deep breath. “I’m sorry.”

“Not good enough.”

“What do you want to know?” I ask, unsure where to even start. Everything is so scrambled, I don’t know which way to go.

“Where the hell you been?”

“North of Terre Haute. Cecil Kruger’s farm. He was a friend of my dad’s back in the day.”