April 12
Ryan
When she emerges from the bedroom the next morning, I'm wearing the mask again. I'm going to pretend like nothing happened last night and hope she doesn't mention it. We didn't talk about her nightmares. Maybe she won't mention what happened after mine.
The plan works at first. She doesn't say anything during breakfast. Afterward, she remains at the table with her Glock, but it doesn't sound like she's very focused on it. The sounds from the gun are slow and there are often long pauses between sounds. I'm not doing much better, still staring at the same page I opened to after finishing my bowl of cereal. Eventually, I hear the sound of the gun being placed on the table and her chair moving. I feel sweat prickle between my shoulder blades.
I continue to stare at the book even as I see her approach in my periphery.
"You don't have to keep wearing that," she says.
I don't move, don't look up, and pretend I've not heard her.
She sighs and sits next to my left on the couch, facing me. "Look, I understand if you still want to wear it. I'm just saying you don't have to anymore."
I continue the charade that I'm deaf.
"I've seen your face," she continues. "And it's really not that bad."
The rational parts of my brain realize that she meant the comment to be comforting, or encouraging. It falls on deaf ears, though. My face cost me my life, my family, and my fiancée. But worse than that, it's a very prominent reminder that I failed my friends. That I failed Jeremy. Her comment seems to marginalize the suffering I've been subjected to for the past five years.
It's really not that bad.
Anger rises in my chest. Last night when she saw my face, it was very dark in the cabin. I doubt she got a good glimpse of me. I glance up at her in spite of myself. My gaze catches on her large brown eyes. Her expression is soft, caring, and concerned. I can feel the fight in me abating. I quickly look away from her face to preserve it.
If I let her see me, will she react like Saph did? Will she see the face of a hero, like she claimed last night, or will she see the broken man who couldn't save anyone he cared about?
I bite down on the inside of my cheek as my temper begins to flare again. I don't want her or anyone to see my face. I don't even want to see my own face. But my anger tells me to tear the mask off and show her, scare her away, and regain the modicum of peace I'd found before she came here.
I settle for the middle ground. Grabbing the top of the ski mask, I slowly pull it off of my head. Since she's sitting on my left side, she won't be able to see my burns unless I turn toward her. Out of the corner of my eye, I see her look up from the book she started reading while I was stalling. I toss the mask across the room, where it bounces noiselessly off the wall and lands in a heap on the floor. I turn away from her and hear her shift as she returns to her book.
Now that I've jumped off the cliff, I find myself clinging the ledge. We sit there like that for several tense minutes. She doesn't look at me and I don't look at her. Somehow, this is worse. Apprehension builds inside me as I wait for the inevitable moment, still too afraid to bite the bullet and get it over with. Unable to stand the tension any longer, I slam the book closed and stare down at the couch cushion between us, gritting my teeth. If she looks up, she can see my full face now.
I try to block out the anxiety with anger. When I look up at her face, I fully expect to see horror. If I'm about to experience rejection at the hands of Ana, I'm going to do it head-on. I'm prepared for it this time.
I raise my glare to her face, but her expression is not what I was expecting. She's smiling at me. Not her big, full smile she flashes when she's especially pleased, but a small, close-lipped smile. It's not a sad smile and not a pity smile. Her smile is understated but genuine. Her eyes are full of compassion.
My determined glare relaxes into a slight frown. The smile fades from her face and her eyes slide from my good eye to the right side of my face. Her brows knit together in concern.
"Did it hurt very much?" she asks quietly.
I look away, unable to keep looking into her eyes. I don't say anything for a long moment, then: "After, yes."
"Does it still hurt?" she asks.
"Sometimes."
My short, clipped responses don't open the door for much conversation. After several seconds of silence, I begin to believe that she's given up asking questions about my injuries.
"And your arm and leg, too?"
So much for that hope.
In response, I pull back my right sleeve just enough to reveal a sliver of similar scarring between the cuff and the glove. I am surprised when her hand enters my field of view and my gaze flies to her face when her fingers alight on my wrist. She pulls her hand back quickly at my reaction. I seem to have unconsciously flinched at her touch.
"Are you sure it doesn't hurt?" she asks, looking concerned.
"The nerve endings are gone. There's nothing there to sense pain. Sometimes it feels tight, though, like the burns made my skin shrink."
Her brows lower and she studies my face again. Did I say too much? Was my description too graphic? I break eye contact again.
"Is there nothing that can be done for the scarring? You'd never look exactly as you once did, but-"
"No," I say, probably more sharply than I should. I can't stand another woman reminding me that I'm broken and telling me to get fixed. "The way it healed, it can't be done. Not with normal procedures. I didn't get proper medical attention until too late, and even when I did, there were too many wounded, not enough doctors, and not enough equipment. Surgeons offered trials and new, untested procedures, but I don't want to be someone's science experiment. I just want to be left alone."
"I understand," she says.
I doubt that.
"What about your leg?" she asks.
"It didn't burn as much, or at least not as badly. There was a lot of shrapnel removed from it and a lot that's still in there."
"They left shrapnel in your leg?" she asks, looking horrified.
"There wasn't enough time to remove it all. They got out the big pieces and the small ones they could find easily."
"But you limp."
"Not because of what's still in there. The big pieces damaged the muscles and tendons. Those didn't heal so well."
"Nothing to be done about that either?" she asks, but she sounds like she already knows the answers.
"I've had enough surgeries," I say.
"Yeah, I think you have," she says.
I glance up at her in surprise.
"You do?"
She looks at me quizzically.
"Yeah. I've only ever had wisdom teeth removed. I can't imagine how painful these kinds of surgeries would be. And experimental procedures?"
She makes a face.
"If you aren't in pain and don't need surgery for a medical reason," she shrugs. "I don't think it's worth it, then. Besides, it's your body. Your decision."
I continue to stare at her as the truth sinks in that Ana is the only woman in my life who isn't trying to force me into cosmetic surgery. She might just be the only person in the world who understands me, at least a little bit. My family intended to use my deformities as a public spectacle first, but they always intended to have me fixed, no matter the pain it caused me or the risk to my health. Saph refused to see me ever again unless I "did something about my freakshow face." I can't believe I ever thought she'd be satisfied with the idea of living a quiet life with me, staying out of the limelight, and maybe having a few kids. I can't believe I ever thought she truly loved me.
Instead, Ana is telling me that she supports my decision. And she isn't scared of me, horrified by my face, or unkind to me. Maybe, just maybe, bringing her here and letting her see my face wasn't a huge mistake after all.