Page 47 of The Scars I Bare
“Did he hit you?” I asked. I wasn’t sure why I’d jumped to that conclusion. Maybe it was the way she’d jumped away from my touch that night at the inn or the vacant, haunted expression in her eyes every time she spoke of the past, but the moment I asked, I already knew the answer.
She swallowed hard and turned away. “I called my parents and said Lizzie had come down with the flu. That was my first lie. After that, they just kept coming, like excuses for his poor behavior, until I couldn’t tell what was real and what wasn’t.”
“So, why don’t you tell them the truth now? Now that you’re free from him?”
Her eyes settled on Lizzie. We’d reached the entrance of the inn. She’d gathered up all her findings on the porch, and she was now inspecting them one by one. She looked up at us, giving a big smile and wave in our direction. We both did the same back.
“I don’t know,” Cora responded. “I’ve thought about it, but I don’t know how to tell them. And, honestly, isn’t it better this way? For everyone?”
“You mean, for you?”
Her face heated in anger. “So what? Not all of us can be brave and perfect like you, Dean.”
Her gaze settled on my arm. The one I held close to my chest in hopes that people wouldn’t notice it.
“Like me? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”
“I see the way people look at you around here. You’re a glorified hero. You can do no wrong. You’re Dean Sutherland, the survivor. You might as well get it tattooed on your forehead.”
My gaze dropped to the ground as a couple of choice curse words fell from my mouth. “Jesus Christ,” I said. “You want to know something about your glorified hero, Cora?”
Her eyes widened at my language. A Southern boy using the Lord’s name in vain was serious business.
“I haven’t worked a single damn day since I returned home. Not a fucking day,” I said, my voice lowering so that Lizzie couldn’t hear me. “I’ve been putzing around this island for nearly three years, feeling sorry for myself. My little brother does all the work, and I freeload. I like to call other people out on their baggage, including you, because I’m too scared to deal with my own. I wake up nearly every morning, reaching out for a part of my body that doesn’t exist anymore, only to relive that stupid fucking night all over again. People around here stare at me because they feel sorry for me. Sorry for the piece of shit I’ve become. So, how’s that for glorified hero?”
Silence settled between us as our eyes locked. She stared up at me as I stared down at her.
Finally, she took a deep breath, lifted her chin, and said, “Wow, you’re pretty messed up.”
A smirk tugged at the corner of my mouth. “Yeah, well, so are you I’ve gathered.”
She joined me in a laugh. “Want to come in for tea?”
“I thought you’d never ask.”
I must have smiled the whole way home. Like a fucking lunatic.
Good thing the streets were empty, and the sun had set; otherwise, the people of Ocracoke might have thought I’d finally gone crazy.
I knew they’d all been thinking it since the day I came home from rehab.
They saw me wandering around here, letting my little brother take on the burden of the family business while I did nothing all day, and they all thought it.
Dean Sutherland lost his damn mind out there on that ferry.
Well, if they saw me tonight, walking down the road, smiling and grinning to myself, as I thought back over the evening, it would be all over the island by morning.
I had the blanket of darkness to thank for my solitude now.
And I was thankful indeed.
Thankful for probably the first time in three years.
More times than I could count, people had told me that I should be thankful.
Thankful I was alive.
Thankful Jake had been there to rescue me.
