Her eyes flicker back and forth between mine. “I don’t know,” she whispers.
I wonder if I’m the only one who has ever touched her scars before. I’ve had accidents in the past where I’ve burned myself attempting to cook, so I know what it feels like when a burn heals. But her scars are a lot more prominent than a superficial burn. Her skin feels a lot softer to the touch than normal skin. More fragile. There’s something about the way it feels beneath my fingertips that makes me want to keep touching her.
She allows it. For several quiet minutes, neither one of us speaks as I continue running my fingers over her arm and neck. Her eyes moisten, as if she’s on the verge of tears. It makes me wonder if she doesn’t like it. I can understand why this might make her uncomfortable, but for some twisted reason, I feel more comfortable with her right now than I have all day.
“I should hate this for you,” I whisper, trailing my fingers over the scars on her forearm. “I should be angry for you, because going through this must have been excruciatingly painful. But for whatever reason, when I touch you . . . I like the way your skin feels.”
I’m not sure how she’ll take the words that just came out of my mouth. But it’s true. I suddenly feel grateful for her scars . . . because they’re a reminder of how it could have been much worse. She could have died in that fire, and she wouldn’t be next to me right now.
I run my hand down her shoulder, down the length of her arm, and back up again. When my eyes meet hers, there’s evidence of a tear that just trailed down her cheek.
“One of the things I always try to remind myself is that everyone has scars,” she says. “A lot of them even worse than mine. The only difference is that mine are visible and most people’s aren’t.”
I don’t tell her she’s right. I don’t tell her that as beautiful as she looks on the outside, I only wish I could look like that on the inside.
Fallon
“Shit. Fallon! Shit, shit, shit, dammit, shit, shit.”
I hear Ben cursing like a sailor, but I don’t understand why. I feel his hands meet my shoulders. “Fallon the Transient, wake the hell up!”
I open my eyes and he’s sitting up on the bed, running one hand through his hair. He looks pissed.
I sit up on the bed and rub the sleep out of my eyes.
The sleep.
We fell asleep?
I look over at my alarm clock and it reads 8:15. I reach over and pick it up to bring it closer to my face. That can’t be right.
But it is. It’s 8:15.
“Shit,” I say.
“We missed dinner,” Ben says.
“I know.”
“We slept for two hours.”
“Yeah. I know.”
“We wasted two fucking hours, Fallon.”
He looks genuinely distraught. Cute, but distraught.
“I’m sorry.”
He shoots me a look of confusion. “What? No. Don’t say that. It’s not your fault.”
“I only slept three hours last night,” I say to him. “I’ve been really tired all day.”
“Yeah,” he says with a frustrated sigh. “I didn’t sleep much last night, either.” He pushes himself off the bed. “What time is your flight?”
“Eleven-thirty.”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.”
“Like as in three hours from now?”
I nod.
He groans and rubs his hands down his face. “Shit,” he says again. “That means you need to leave.” His hands drop to his hips and he looks down at the floor. “That means I should leave.”
I don’t want him to leave.
But I need him to. I don’t like this panicked feeling that’s building in my chest. I don’t like the words I want to say to him. I want to tell him I changed my mind, that he can have my phone number. But if I give him my phone number, I’ll talk to him. All the time. And I’ll be sidetracked by him and every little text he sends, and every phone call, and then we’ll Skype all the time and before I know it I won’t be Fallon the Transient anymore. I’ll be Fallon the Girlfriend.
The thought of that should fill me with a lot more distaste than it does.
“I should go,” he says. “You probably have a lot to do in the next few minutes so you can get to the airport.”
I don’t really. I’m already packed, but I don’t say anything.
“Do you want me to leave?” I can tell he’s hoping I say no, but there’s so much of me that needs him to go before I use him as an excuse not to move to New York.