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Authors: Melanie Moreland

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BOOK: Beneath the Scars
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“I’m Megan. Megan Greene.”

Silence.

I searched my brain for something to say. “Looks like a storm’s coming in.”

“Observant.”

I frowned at him—definitely rude. His voice, however, despite its unwelcoming tone, was low and rich sounding, his subtle accent curling around the words when he spoke. I wanted to hear more than a few monosyllables from him, and to hear him say my name.

“Aren’t your feet cold,
Zachary
?”

He glanced down and shrugged, still facing the water, not even acknowledging the fact I knew his name. “Not really. I’m used to the cold.”

I decided to try a different subject—maybe one that would open him up a little. “I saw your work at the gallery in town; you’re very gifted.”

Again, he nodded.

“Your
Tempest
painting is”—I searched for the right word—“exceptional.”

“It’s not for sale.”

Disappointed at his words, I studied his partially hidden profile. Again his jaw was covered in stubble, and all I could really see was his nose and the downturned set of his full mouth. Some wayward hair sticking out from his beanie was blowing in the wind, its color not easy to make out. I was sure it was dark, but I couldn’t see enough to determine if I was correct. I wanted to step forward, force him to look at me, but there was something about his tense stance that screamed “back off.” He was obviously uncomfortable with me being this close, so I remained where I was, even though I felt some bizarre sort of need to get closer. I had to struggle not to move beside him, slip my hand into his, and offer him some sort of comfort, to loosen the tense set of those broad shoulders. I shook my head at the strange urge.

“Would you perhaps reconsider?”

“No. Jonathon already inquired on your behalf. I have it on loan to the gallery as a personal favor. It’s not for sale—at any price.”

I smiled, attempting to tease him. “Everything has its price, Zachary.”

I wasn’t prepared for the venom in his voice when he spoke.

“I’m fucking aware that’s the way most of the world works. I don’t conduct my life that way.”

Then he turned and walked away, his long strides eating up the distance, his unbuttoned coat billowing out behind him. He whistled for Elliott, who dropped the stick from his mouth and chased after his master.

Both Dixie and I stood staring at the retreating figures. Not once did Zachary pause or look back, while Elliott raced ahead of him. I waited until he had climbed the stairs and disappeared from sight, never taking my eyes off him.

I blinked and looked over the water.

Now I could say I had met my neighbor.

That went well.

The fresh air helped, but the ache lingered in the back of my head, making me feel sluggish. Dixie and I spent the rest of the afternoon quietly napping on the sofa, watching a movie, and in an effort to be somewhat productive, I made some banana bread—the only thing I could bake with any success. As it cooled on the counter, I looked out the window; the sun was beginning its slow descent for the night, breaking through the low hanging clouds. Crystalized colors reflected off the water, light dappling on the long swells. I walked onto the deck, breathing in the crisp air and letting the sounds drift over me. Movement caught my eye and I was surprised to see Zachary on top of the rock formation, a camera held to his face. One leg was bent behind him as he crouched, his upper body twisting and moving as he sought the perfect angle. His overcoat had been replaced with a long, gray hoodie and jeans hugged his stretched legs. I felt bad for upsetting him earlier and as the scent of fresh coffee hit me, I came up with an idea on how to apologize. Hurrying inside, I filled a small basket and with a deep breath for courage, walked toward the rocks.

I felt her before I saw her. There was a subtle shift to the air around me, a break in my concentration and I knew she was coming toward me. My instant reflex was to make sure my loose hood was up and I was angled away from her. The temptation to turn and walk away quickly was strong, but I stopped myself; I refused to run away again.

“Hello,” her gentle, quiet voice spoke. She was close—far too close for my liking and instinctively I shifted away, but nodded in silent greeting. Her next words surprised me.

“I’m sorry about earlier. I didn’t mean to insult you.”

I lowered the camera and glanced her way, my throat tightening. The sun was catching her hair, turning it into rich, rivers of color—the strange light surrounding us cast hundreds of highlights through her gorgeous tresses—more than I could possibly ever reproduce on canvas. My fingers itched to try, though. Her expression was sad—remorseful, and I felt ashamed of my harsh words earlier. I had been the rude one, not her.

But I didn’t want,
couldn’t
, encourage her. I shrugged and lifted the lens back up. “It’s fine.”

A small basket was pushed in front of me. “I, ah, brought you some coffee and banana bread. I made it myself.”

I looked down at the offering, a strange sensation welling up in my chest.

“I didn’t know how you took it, so I only added cream. I have some sugar packages,” she added. I could hear the hope in her voice. She wanted me to accept her peace offering.

“I like it black.”

“Oh.”

How she managed to saturate so much disappointment into one syllable, I had no idea. Or why the fact she was disappointed bothered me so much. I reached forward, pulling the basket closer and lifted out a piece of the banana bread. I felt her eyes on me the whole time as I bit and chewed the dense slice.

“It’s good,” I offered gruffly.

She picked up a piece and nibbled on it, not saying anything. I turned away and lifted the camera, capturing the breathtaking colors and shapes of the unusual, darker clouds as the dying sun spread its magic one last time for the day.

“Do you take a lot of pictures?”

“Some.”

“Do you also sell those?”

“No.”

She made a small frustrated sigh in the back of her throat. “Where’s Elliott?”

“In the house. I came alone so I could concentrate. I didn’t want the distraction.”

“Am I distracting you?”

“Yes.”

“I only wanted to come and say I was sorry.”

“You did that.”

“Is that a dismissal?”

I huffed out an impatient exhale of air. “I came out to capture the unique light. Not chat.”

“You prefer peace and quiet?”

My voice became sharp. “I like quiet—I have no idea what peace feels like.”

I started at the feeling of her small hand resting on my arm. The warmth of her tender touch was shocking; my entire body humming with electricity. “I understand.”

I stood up with a jerk, keeping my back to her. My heart raced at her close proximity and the strange need to feel more of her touches. “I doubt that very much.”

She stood, as well. “That’s rather presumptuous of you. You don’t know anything about me or my life.”

“And I don’t want to.”

She gasped. “My God, you’re rude. I was only—”

I cut her off. “I don’t care what you were trying to do. Leave me alone, Megan. I don’t need a friend or someone to sympathize with.” I pushed the basket with my foot. “I’m not looking for company or little baskets of treats. Just stay away from me.”

Only silence greeted me. I knew if I turned and dared to look at her, there would be tears in her dark eyes. Hurt would once again color her expression, but I needed her to stay away.

I lifted the camera back up, even though the light was fading, the colors lessening and losing their vibrancy. I felt her move away—her footsteps withdrawing. I turned and watched her, and unable to help myself, captured her retreating figure on film. Her head was bowed, shoulders hunched in sadness as she hurried from me. Even her hair, still gleaming in the dull light, fell flat over her shoulders, no longer lifting and moving in the breeze. The light of the sun wasn’t the only thing that faded in front of my eyes—I had crushed her brightness. I also effectively and completely convinced her of what I wanted: to be left alone.

She disappeared into her house, never once turning back.

My legs felt heavy as I made my way up the steps to my own house.

Alone had never felt as lonely as it did that very moment.

I tossed and turned all night after my run-in with Zachary. He made it very apparent he wanted nothing to do with me or my friendly gestures. His rejection caused an ache in my chest I couldn’t explain and everything in me told me his actions caused him the same pain. I didn’t believe him when he said he wanted to be alone—I was certain it was the only way he knew how to be.

By the afternoon, the pressure behind my eyes was almost unbearable. The gathering storm from yesterday still hung low and thick, moving in slow. The closer it came, the more my headache intensified. I had every symptom of a migraine: the tunnel vision, sensitivity to light, throbbing pain, and increasing nausea. The only thing I didn’t have: my medication. It had been a while since my last headache, so I hadn’t even thought to bring it. Some Tylenol in the bathroom cabinet was the best I could do. I knew I needed to lie down and rest, so I left the sliding door open for some fresh air, then curled up on the sofa. Dixie came up beside me, burrowing her little body next to mine. I closed my eyes, praying the storm would break soon and help ease my headache.

A noise woke me, and I sat up, blinking and disoriented. The drapery panel beside the sliding door was blowing, knocking into the wall. Outside, it was darker than before, early evening beginning to settle over the sky, but it seemed the storm was easing off. Although it appeared like we would still get rain, it would not be the huge storm that had been predicted. Grateful the pain in my head had abated somewhat, I stretched and got up from the sofa. Frowning, I realized the invisible screen had drawn in on itself, leaving the door wide open. As I reached to snap it back in place, I looked behind me. Dixie wasn’t on the sofa or the chair. I smiled, knowing she had probably gone to snuggle on the bed—she loved to burrow under blankets. Maybe the screen sliding open had startled her; I wasn’t sure how long it had been ajar. Walking into the bedroom, I was surprised not to see a little lump under the covers. I checked beneath the bed and in the closet, then tried looking in the other bedroom.

BOOK: Beneath the Scars
5.25Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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