Page 53 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

We say our goodbyes, and I pocket my phone, feeling scraped raw as if someone took sandpaper to emotions I prefer to keep buried. That hollow feeling is back, the one I can't quite name. Not quite loneliness, not quite regret, but somewhere in the territory between them.

I stuff my hands in my pockets and start the walk back to Londyn's place, hyper-aware of the stares my new hair is attracting. A guy with a skateboard gives me an appreciative nod. A woman with purple hair and a nose ring flashes me a smile of solidarity.

Great. I have new people now?

I guess I should—

My mind empties as I notice a man up ahead wearing a navy baseball cap. Sure, there are plenty of people in this city who wear those hats, but this is the same guy from the other night. I'm sure of it.

He's waiting for the bus and doesn't notice me. I pass behind his bench, trying to get a better look at his face. He ducks his head, obscuring my view. Then a taxi arrives and he climbs in. The taxipicked him up at the bus stop? A little strange but not a big cause for concern.

I sigh. The guy could simply live in the neighborhood. And wearing a baseball cap and crossing paths with strangers a few times isn't a crime. I've run into a few neighborhood locals more than once already.

I run a hand through my hair. Maybe this guy is a false alarm.

I continue on. As I turn a corner and approach Londyn's building, I wonder what she'll think of the hair. Will she laugh? Will the blue spikes be enough to stop her from seeing Alan Miller when she looks at me?

That's suddenly important in a way I hadn't anticipated; I want her to seeme. Not someone from her past, not a potential threat, not even just her security detail. I need her to see me for the man I am.

Chapter 17

LONDYN

I'M CURLED IN MY EMPTY bathtub, dry as bone, sobbing so hard my sides ache. The cold porcelain presses against my spine through my thin t-shirt, grounding me as wave after relentless wave of emotion hits.

Grief really has its own soundtrack: the ragged inhales, the hiccuping exhales, the low, guttural sounds that don't even sound human.

This bathroom has become my confessional booth. My private theater for one-woman shows about falling apart. The acoustics are terrible but the audience is forgiving.

God, I hate this weakness, this tendency to break from the slightest pressure. But my old therapist's voice echoes in myhead:"Never apologize for your tears, Londyn. They're not weakness. They're release."

Easy for her to say during that one particular session. She wasn't the one who'd been sobbing into her latte at Starbucks when just a man's cologne had triggered a flashback.

I've tried so hard to follow her advice over the years and let the tears come when they need to, but I do it privately. In bathrooms. In empty elevators. In bathtubs where the only witness is a rubber duck I bought as a joke and never had the heart to throw away.

Mr. Duck, who has a blue fedora, is staring at me now with his little beady eyes.Judgmental Quack.

I haven't needed to do this—this full-body, soul-emptying sobbing—in over a year. But lately, everything feels like it's blistering and peeling again, like a perpetual internal sunburn. My stalker (real or imagined), the disastrous date, the way I completely melted down on Sean…

God, Sean.

Fresh tears come up. The poor man was just doing his job. He was protecting me from Marcus and his octopus hands, and I treated him like he was The Director standing there, ready to hurt me all over again.

The humiliation burns hotter than the tears streaming down my face.

"You're fine," I tell myself between hiccups. "You apologized. He understands."

But does he? It didn't seem that way yesterday when he left. How could he possibly understand when I've only given him pieces of the truth? When I can't even look at his face without my brain playing its new favorite trick?

He's sensing everything anyway, especially that I'm a liar. But he's too sweet to say anything.

And tonight is our book club. How am I supposed to sit across from him and discuss science-y stuff when I can't even keep my mind from spiraling?

I should just tell him the truth, right? Get it over with.

I hug myself and claw at my shoulders like I can strip away all the pain. I wish this would end, this hijacking of my body, my mind, my sense of self. In my life Before, I was barely discovering who I was. Now, six years later, I'm barely starting over and have no damn idea what direction to go.

I want my life back. My body back. My sense of safety back.

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