Scarred Beautiful (35 page)

Ryan. That’s the last thing I need right now. But then I feel the festering anger wrestling with the hurt inside my chest, overpowering it by a landslide. So, I text Ryan back.

Sure. I’ll meet you at 8 in the bar.

Fuck it. Matt is now just one more thing on my list of things to forget.

I’ve been driving around aimlessly for hours with no direction in sight and it feels oddly reminiscent of my life. I think back to this morning, the look on Fran’s face just before I walked out the door and I don’t even know who I was walking away from—her or myself.

I’m such an asshole. She’s been calling and texting me all day and I haven’t responded, not once, mostly because I don’t know what to say.

My mind is filled with images raining down on me like a thunderstorm, complete with lightning. Fran is that little spark of lightning. A bolt, a spontaneous flash that stormed into my life and shook me to the core…and now I’m drenched in her. That dimple on her right cheek when she smiles, that tiny crease in her forehead when she’s confused, the way the green in her eyes reminds me of a summer’s day, her curves that I can now map with my eyes closed.

But most of all, her spirit, filled with hope and beauty, and light.

My sunshine.

Even now my heart squeezes tight just thinking about her, needing to see her, touch her, taste her, breathe her in. Is that love? I’m embarrassed to say that I’m thirty-three years old and I don’t have a fucking answer. I’ve been with plenty of women, but no one has come close to what Fran makes me feel.

I turn a corner, find a Starbucks and an empty space. I jerk the car into park and reach in my pocket, pulling out the charm and gripping it tightly in my hand, hoping that if I squeeze hard enough, I can feel Mom. I really need her right now. And that’s when it occurs to me. I know what I have to do.

I’m standing on the doorstep of this familiar house, wondering if, no,
hoping
she’s home. I ring the doorbell while twirling my keys non-stop, unable to look away from the happy clown staring back at me. The one that makes me think of Fran and smile, my heart doing a steady gallop in my chest.

After a few minutes, I’ve given up on the fact that anyone is home and start walking to my car when the front door opens. Mrs. Brody wears her usual warm smile but she’s covered in dust from head to toe, a broom in her hand, a sheen of white powder stuck to her barley-colored hair.

“Hi, sweetie. I’m so glad I caught you before you took off. I was cleaning out the basement, as you can see from the lovely display of dust balls. I’d hug you, but well”—she waves her hand over her body in a sweeping motion—“wouldn’t want to get you all dusty. Come on in.”

She sets the broom down and brushes herself off on the mat in back of the door. “I’m so happy to see you, and two days in a row,” she says, a twinkle in her brown eyes. “I’ve got pie.”

“I don’t think pie’s gonna do it for me today, Ma,” I reply, and her lips pull down into a deep frown before she takes my hand and leads me into the kitchen.

“Sit,” she commands gently, pointing to a chair, and she opens the fridge and snags the pie. She slices me a piece and fills a glass with ice water before coming to sit back down. “Just in case.” She pats my hand and smiles. “So tell me what’s going on? Because if you’re not interested in my pie, that’s problematic.”

Once again, I dig into my pocket to retrieve the charm and place it on the table in front of her. “Remember when my mom gave me this?”

She picks it up and flips it with her fingers, admiring it. “Of course I do, honey.”

“Well….” I swallow and gather the courage to continue. “This morning I discovered that Fran has the same one.”

Her eyes widen, her forehead wrinkling in surprise. “What do you mean? The same one?”

“She has a necklace with half a heart on it. Apparently her mother gave it to her for her ninth birthday. I don’t know much about it because I left right after I saw it.”

She taps a finger against her mouth, her eyes sailing upward for a minute. “Hmph, well, that’s quite a coincidence, dare I say more than a coincidence.” She meets my gaze again. “But, what’s
really
bothering you?”

“I’m overwhelmed. I have…feelings for her and I can’t figure them out. She’s gonna go back to New York. Caleb thinks I’m in love with her-—”

“Are you?” she interrupts, her chair scraping against the floor as she pulls it closer to the table.

“I don’t know. I’ve never been in love before so I don’t know what it feels like. But…I’ve only known her for a week so that’s just not possible.”

“Who told you that?” She drags a book from across the table and pretends to randomly flip through the pages. “Is there some rule book somewhere that says that? No, there isn’t, because there are no rules when it comes to the heart, Matt. If there were, sweetie, no one would ever fall in love.”

“But,” I add, “how do I know what this feeling is if I’ve never felt it before?” As I hear myself say the words, I realize I sound like a teenage boy and not a grown man. Maybe I’m still that boy. The one who watched his mother slip away. Maybe I’m incapable of love. Maybe that part of me died when she did.

She leans in and rests her hand over mine, the warmth of it calming and I let out a deep sigh. “Sit in the quiet, sweetie, and listen to your heart. Just the simple fact that you can’t recognize it and you’ve never felt it before should be telling you that it’s something special.”

I lift up the fork and flick the piecrust around, picking at it. “I just can’t make sense out of any of this.”

“Love doesn’t make sense, Matt. It’s messy and crazy, lovely and wonderful, and sometimes, it’s maddening.” She winks and swipes some whipped cream from the pie. “There’s something else, though. Something you’re not telling me. What is it?”

And that’s why I love her. She knows me, just as if she’d given birth to me, and that simple fact brings an appreciative smile to my face, makes me feel loved.

I pick up the charm, running my finger over the smooth surface of the heart. “I’m scared. The people I’ve loved most in my life, I’ve lost. I’m afraid I’m going to lose her, too.”

“Oh honey.” She cups my face in her palms. “You have to allow yourself to
find
her first.”

The makeup I’m attempting to put on isn’t doing the trick. It’s not covering the dark circles under my eyes and it certainly isn’t doing what I need it to do the most—conceal my broken heart.

I do the best I can to make myself presentable. Luckily the bar is dark and Ryan probably won’t even notice, not that I care anyway. I’ve decided to fly back to New York tomorrow so I can forget LA and everyone associated with it.

My limbs feel lethargic, weighted down by fatigue and sadness as I walk out to the bedroom. I’m trying to stay angry so I can get through tonight, but it’s impossible. As it is, I have to resist the urge to crawl back into bed and disappear until tomorrow. But I won’t hide. I’m done hiding and I’m going to prove it tonight. I’m going to show Ryan the real Fran.

The black dress will work. It’s revealing where I need it to be, but not too revealing where I’ll look like I’m trying too hard. After sliding it on, I pile my hair up into a messy ponytail, leaving a couple of strands dangling around my face. I slip on my black Loubotins and take one last look at myself in the full-length mirror before I stagger to the elevators.

When the car doors open, I don’t even notice Peyton in the elevator. Somehow my brain is sending a message to my feet to walk but that’s just about all I can manage at this point.

“Hey, I was just coming to find you,” she says when I step inside, attempting to avoid her gaze and the impending questions I’m not in the mood to answer. “How come you didn’t go away today? Did Matt have to go in and work on that project again?”

“No,” I say, focusing on the wall, refusing to meet her eyes. “I saw him this morning but then he left and I haven’t heard from him since.”

“What happened?” she asks, moving closer to me and working hard to get my attention.

I look up finally, my tone void of any emotion. “I really don’t want to talk about it, Peyton.”

She backs off, surprisingly, and I must be dishing out some pretty strong vibes for her to do so. “So where are you going dressed like that?”

“I’m going down to the bar to meet Ryan,” I state flatly.

“Ryan?” She tilts her head to the side with a questioning look.

“Yes, remember the guy I introduced you to at that club we went to?” I say, brushing off an invisible piece of lint from my dress.

She casts me a disapproving look just as the doors to the elevator open but I walk out quickly, sensing her heavy footsteps behind me. Her hand reaches out to seize my wrist and I stop, breathing out a rush of air. “Don’t do something you’re going to regret, Fran.”

“The only thing I
regret
walked away from me this morning.”

“You don’t mean that,” she says, her eyes brimming with sympathy, her grip loosening on my wrist.

“Oh yes, I do, and now I’m going back to my old ways, because that’s what works for me.”

“Fran,” she scolds, like I’m about to dip my hand in the cookie jar again.

“It’s okay, Peyton. I’m tough and I’ll be okay.”

After all, what’s one more lie in a sea of painful truths?

I smooth my dress down and attempt a deep, calming breath before I enter the bar. Ryan is already there, sitting on a stool with his arm casually draped over the counter, a drink sloshing around in his hand, his other hand sifting through his dark brown hair. He’s still gorgeous but he does nothing for me, as much as I wish the opposite were true.

Once again, I almost have to laugh at the irony. When I first saw him on the plane, I would have fucked him senseless in that tiny stall they call a bathroom. But right here, right now, he’s the last person I want and this is the last place I want to be. As that final thought hits me and I realize this is a mistake, I pivot to leave, when I hear my name.

“Fran!”

My nerves are frayed at the edges, my eyes tired and unfocused, but I steel myself with another deep breath and make my way toward him. “Hey, Ryan.”