Fall Back Skyward (Fall Back #1)(25)

I can’t get those white scars I spotted out of my head. She didn’t seem self-conscience about them until she saw me staring at her arms like a fool. The look she sent me froze me in place. It was fierce and challenging, especially the defiant lift of her chin. It has been a while since a girl got that reaction out of me.

I didn’t have anything to say, though. My brain had been trying to understand what I’d seen. I’ve never met anyone who harmed themselves. What would make her hurt herself?

Josh says something to Nor, wearing a stupid grin on his face. I want to grab it and rip it from his face. She smiles at him, that little dimple I noticed before on her right cheek making an appearance. She pushes the hair off her face and quickly slaps her skirt down when a stronger breeze blows it up.

Jesus. I’m jealous of my brother. Jealous of the breeze. I wish I was the wind so I can have the pleasure of touching her. Ripple gently on her skin.

Touch her? Where the hell did that come from? I have known her for all of three minutes and now I’m having all these thoughts about touching her invading my brain. I need to get a grip on whatever this is.

Shoving those thoughts away, I sigh and rub my forehead with my palm. I saw the fascinated look on her face when Josh turned to sign to me, but I couldn’t tell what she was thinking. I’m not about to assume she’s interested in me. I’ve been down that road before. Made fun of because of my ‘weird voice’—whatever that means—and gotten burned. It didn’t stop me from speaking, but I swore if I ever got involved with a girl, I’d make sure she accepted me with all my faults. I’m not about to get involved with this girl or any other girl for that matter.

Stepping away from the window, I walk over to my desk. On top of it sits my sketch book, trace paper, pens and pencils, and scales. The latter was a birthday gift from my parents when I turned seventeen last year.

I drag out the chair and sit down and flip through the pages of my sketchbook until I find my current project. I want to show it to my dad, but need to attempt a few final touches before it’s ready. I have been drawing for as long as I can remember. Two years ago, I took a five week drafting course during summer, which was being offered at Eastern Lake University to students who wanted to pursue a Bachelor in Architecture program.

My dad is my mentor. He has been working and encouraging me since he realized where my passion lies and that I had a talent for drawing when I was ten. And to motivate me, my father has been using my sketches—after making improvements on them—to send out proposals to real estate developers. This gave me more confidence and made me believe that my work wasn’t bad at all.

I blink at my current project—a four story town house—in front of me and blow air through my mouth. It has a long way to go before it’s done.

I close my eyes and all I can see are the green eyes and red hair of the new girl next door. Opening my eyes, I toss the pencil on the desk and yank the beanie from my head. I run my fingers through my hair, frustration knotting inside my chest like an angry beast.

Two hours ago, this girl didn’t exist in my life. Not even as a figment of my imagination.

Now, she’s this huge distraction to me. She’s larger than life, even though she’s hardly five feet tall.

She reminds me of a snowflake, but the look on her face when she caught me gawking at the scars on her arms and shoulders, told me she was nothing close to a snowflake. It was fierce, almost angry. Challenging. Immediately, Shakespeare’s quote comes to mind: And though she be but little, she is fierce.

I sensed right away that Nor has had more than her share of the kind of shit that life throws your way.

The scars prove that she overcame whatever challenges she went through.

I can’t stop thinking about her.

I don’t want to think about her.

I prefer my normal, but from the moment I caught her staring at me, I knew that normal would be a memory I’d remember fondly months from now.

This girl is trouble.

She is chaos.

She is perfect.





BY THE TIME I WAKE up the following day, my dad has already left for work. He was scheduled to start his new job today at the police station. As much as I would like to sleep in, I want to start ticking off the things on my to-do list, which include surveying the lawn to check on where I’d like to plant flowers, and unpacking the boxes in my room. I plan to visit my grandma because I haven’t seen her in ages. I promised her that I’d visit her when we got here. She’d promised me she would gift me a few lotus flowers as well as carnations and roses for my little gardening projects.

After taking a shower, I slip on a knee-length yellow halter dress. I glance at the mirror on the vanity in front of me, my gaze automatically moving to the white scars on my arms, shining like a beacon. I don’t feel the same twinge of guilt or embarrassment I felt a year ago. If there’s one thing the past year has taught me, it’s that my past, no matter how troubled or perfect it was, doesn’t define my future. It doesn’t define me.

I am who I am, and who I want to be. I am more than enough.

I’ve also learned that, even though my mind is in a better place right now, it doesn’t stop the craving for the immense rush I used to feel, having a sharp object pressed on my skin. I just have to fight hard and avoid possible triggers that would send me tumbling down the thousand steps I’ve ascended thus far. Taking a deep breath, I focus on the wall across from me, where a poster of a doodle I worked on a few months ago hangs. The words self love stare back at me, reminding me to love myself first, an inspiring quote my therapist in Ohio used to repeat over and over until those words imprinted themselves on my heart.