Page 62 of Ugly Beautiful Scars

Mike pulls out his phone and shows me pictures from the volunteer event. After talking about it for a bit, our conversation finally lulls. I mindlessly flip through the poetry book, eager to switch to a topic that's becoming my favorite.

"How long have you known Sean?"

Mike leans back, his broad shoulders making the metal folding chair look like doll furniture. "We served together for a bit. Reconnected here and there throughout the years."

"What was he like in the Marines?" The question feels invasive even as I ask it, but I'm so curious about the man I can't stop thinking about.

Mike smiles, a gentle curve that doesn't quite reach his eyes. They remain open and watchful, calculating my intentions. "Capable. Intensely focused. The guy you wanted beside youwhen things went to hell." He chuckles, shaking his head. "He's always had this uncanny ability to sense trouble before it happens. Some guys called him 'The Oracle' for a while, but he hated that and chewed them out one day. They stopped after that."

I smile, imagining a younger Sean getting annoyed at the nickname while secretly living up to it. "So if I call him that, will he bite my head off?"

"Probably."

We both laugh, then my mind drifts to our only book club meeting. He said therapy helped him process his experiences in the Marines, but I got the feeling there was something else bothering him. Maybe I'm prying too much, but the way his demeanor changed had worried me. I know what it's like to be carrying the weight of tragedy around and how heavy it becomes.

"What about after the Marines?" I ask.

Mike's expression shifts, subtle but noticeable. There's a slight narrowing of his eyes. He weighs his words carefully before speaking. "Sean's a private person. Doesn't like talking about himself." His fingers drum once against the table. "I don't know much. After the Marines, he worked on some high-profile security details. Then he had the same client for about eight years before you."

He doesn't elaborate, and I sense a boundary being drawn. This is all I'm getting.

Mike studies me with a scrutiny that's not his usual warmth. "So," he says, "how was book club?" The way he says it makes me feel like I'm about to get scolded.

"Oh, uh, fine." The word comes out a little high-pitched.

"Just fine?"

There's an undercurrent to his tone that makes the hair on the back of my neck rise. I look at him more carefully, noting how his posture has changed: shoulders squared, gaze more direct. In an instant, I understand. The cameras. I had hoped that, since Sean was in the apartment with me, Mike would be off chatting with his family.

Instead, he was watching us.

He saw how I looked at Sean. How I touched his arm. How the energy between us changed. Judging by his stern look now, he doesn't approve.

Is it really such a hard boundary? Sean's contract with me will end soon, so what does it matter if we flirt or take things to the next level?

Well, if Sean is even interested in that.

My face feels hot. What felt private was actually observed. And this man, with his fatherly energy and warmth, may have seen me grappling with feelings I barely understand myself.

"This place is still pretty empty," I say, glancing around desperately. We need a subject change.

Mike nods as my words fall flat. Then my eyes land on something hanging on the far wall: a watercolor painting. It's the only personal touch in this apartment.

I walk over, drawn by the stark imagery. There's a window painted on the canvas. Outside, colors swirl in an almost impressionistic landscape. Inside, shades of gray are dominant, casting the room in shadow and stillness.

"Sean brought that," Mike says, coming to stand beside me. "Picked it up at some art show."

My fingers hover near the canvas without touching. "It's beautiful," I whisper, recognizing the loneliness captured in each brushstroke. There's so much yearning. It resonates so deeply I feel exposed, like the painting has somehow revealed pieces of my soul I've kept hidden.

Sean chose this. Sean connected with this.

"Yeah," Mike agrees. "It is pretty good. Though a bit dark, don't you think?"

I don't say anything, but I disagree. It's simply life, which has darkness as much as it has light. The painting actually holds a lot of hope. The window could be closed. The sky could be cloudy and rainy. But no, the window is open and the world outside is bright and colorful. It's an invitation. Whatever darkness the viewer is experiencing doesn't have to last forever—there's a better world waiting just outside the window.

"I see hope," I finally tell Mike.

He gives me a long look, and I can feel him reassessing me, reframing whatever thoughts were forming in his mind. "You know," he begins, "Sean's been through a lot. More than he lets on."

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