Page 56 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

I clear my throat. "So this book really connected with my fascination about trauma and how people recover from it. Thebook takes a scientific approach around the same idea. We're all just… filtering reality through our own personal detectors. Now, if I could figure out how those detectors are created and how to change them, that'd be awesome."

Sean just smiles, leaning closer like he's completely enraptured by my rambling. "What else?"

His full lips stretch over white teeth and my thoughts go a bit wild. What kind of kisser would he be? Gentle? Demanding? Would those plump lips feel as soft as they look pressed against mine?

"Any other thoughts?"

I blink rapidly at him, yanked from my inappropriate fantasy like someone's thrown cold water in my face. Heat crawls up my neck again. Can he 'see' the dirty visions in my head? Did my eyes give me away?

"Sorry, I…" My voice sounds strange, slightly breathless. It hasn't been like this in years. "Let me think." I flip through the pages, my cheeks unbearably hot. "Um, well, that's mostly it. The part about resonance stood out the most. There are things I don't resonate with anymore. And other parts of the world I'm painfully, constantly aware of. It's all I see sometimes."

Hypervigilance.I really hate it. Also, I'm not explaining the book correctly and probably just sound insane.

Sean's smile breaks into a grin and he nods with such genuine understanding it makes my chest ache. "That's what I got from it too. I think—" He cuts off suddenly and straightens, pulling away from me and leaning back on the couch. He runs his tongue over his top teeth like he's thinking about something.

"What?" I ask. His entire energy shifted and he's looking so serious now.

"Hah. Well, I don't want to get heavy when book club has just started."

"I picked a heavy book, so it makes sense."

He sighs but doesn't look upset, only amused by what he's about to tell me. Like he can't believe he's going to say it. "I… I get what you're saying about people coming out of the same experience with completely different viewpoints. Some of my buddies I served with in the Marines, same team, got out and went on to have good lives. A few went to college and got solid careers. Some got married and have kids by now. Good lives." He runs his tongue over his teeth again. "One of my buddies really struggled from what he saw and got addicted to alcohol. He married then divorced twice. He's still struggling with addiction and flashbacks, now some health problems. We experienced the same things together but all had different reactions."

"What about you?"

Any lightness in his expression fades and he's staring down, down into the floor like there's a dark world beyond. "You really wanna know that?"

"Of course. I mean, you have seen one of my freak outs. It's only fair we balance it out a little."

He's back to smirking and I'm glad. He has such a handsome smile.

Sean inhales deeply, like he'll need extra air to answer my question. "I didn't do so well right after I got out. Think I'm good at keeping things in because I didn't have anyone to talk to as a kid. After the Marines, I realized I needed someone to just listen, so I went to a therapist. He'd also been a soldier, then got his psychology degree, so he understood a lot without me having to explain. The smells, the sounds, that dread that never stops because you always have to be alert… he got it. He said I was dealing with PTSD and he helped me through that rough patch."

Sean's vulnerability creates a bridge between us. It's unexpected, fragile, but somehow sturdy enough to step onto.

"That sounds like it was a lot," I say, wanting to reach out and touch his shoulder. I hold myself back. "I'm glad you found someone who understood. Someone who could translate between the world you came from and the world you were trying to live in."

He nods, his eyes a little vacant. He said he keeps a lot in, so he's probably not used to sharing those things.

But he shared that with me?

My heart does another somersault. Then I pick at some fuzz on the couch, choosing my words with care. "I understand. Not the military part, obviously. But the… aftermath. The way traumatic experiences rewire your brain. How it changes what can… resonate with you, I guess. How are you doing now?"

"With the Marines stuff, better."

There's a subtext to his words: are there other things that aren't better? I decide not to get nosey and ask. If he wanted to share more, he would, but this might be all he can handle right now.

Idefinitelyunderstand that.

When he glances at me, I honestly can't tell what he might be thinking. What he shared was powerful and raw, but he looks a little neutral. He's good at keeping things in, like he said.

It feels like I should fill the silence, or maybe I'm feeling compelled to speak. Or I want him to feel comfortable. Or I'm orbiting too close to him now and need to fully connect. Either way, I say, "I like that you shared your past with me."

His expression doesn't change, but his eyes dance between mine again. "Why's that?"

"I like knowing more about you. And knowing that you understand PTSD. Clearly, it's controlling my life right now." Ishould shut my mouth and stop talking, but my chest is aching and longing for things I know I shouldn't want. So I don't shut up. Instead, I blurt out, "I've been lonely for a long time. Sitting here talking with you, having this little connection, makes me happy." I gesture at the security camera. "I'm happy knowing that you're there, keeping an eye on me."

To push thingswaytoo far, and without thinking, I touch his shoulder. It's a light brush of feverish fingers against solid muscle. His eyes drop to my hand and then flash wide in surprise. I jerk back, regretting how much I'm trying to close the gap between us.

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