Page 90 of Painted Scars
• The sex? Twenty chili spice major pro. Let the record reflect I almost saw God.
Cons:
• No face, name, minimal history. He doesn’t trust me with the full picture.
• Keeps his cards too close. True intentions or feelings unknown.
That’s it. I hate that the cons—all whopping two of them—feel bigger than they are. They open old wounds. Remind me how promises turn into exits. How needing someone led to me being left behind.
But Grumpy Daddy didn’t leave. He stayed through the panic, the fight, the worst of me. Now my heart’s caught between hope and self-protection.
Harper breaks through my confusion and taps scissors on the box I’ve taped and labeled. “You’ve put four stickers on that box already.”
“Have I?” I check, and she’s right. “Damn. I’ll have to reprint these.”
Harper smirks. “Grumpy Dick must really like you to do this for you.”
I’m trying not to think about him when he confuses me. “Please. Book merchandise is not a long-term commitment. He just wants to bend me over a glittery book display and call it justice.”
Harper cocks her head. “I thought this was about banging your stalker, not falling for him, cupcake.”
Classic Harper, cutting to the bone with a single swipe and reducing my swirling cocktail of lust, doubt, and longing into a shot glass labeled horny.
Celine sings in the background.The Power of Love. Hell, I'm really living the lyrics at the moment. Frightened to love but summoning the courage to fall. That’s what love does, doesn’t it? Sneaks up on you and hits you in the dark. The truth is, I don’t just want blindfolded nights and hot sex. I want to know if the masked man will stay. I’m starting to feel things that I can no longer bury. And I don’t want to, if he won’t let me past the final wall.
Fuck. This shouldn’t be my theme song. I should blastThink Twiceand slam the emotional brakes before I get hurt. I sink against the mountain of boxes, staring at the ceiling like it holds all the answers to the relationship.
“I didn’t mean to,” I reply to my housemate. “It just… happened. Between the stalking, rescues, meals, the cute little ornaments, my nickname, him giving me elements of control and holding me like I’m worth holding on to… my heart didn’t get the memo about casual.”
My eyes land on the rainbow pumpkin Grumpy Daddy sculpted for me in glass, which he calls my Cinderella carriage. The irony of it stings when he calls me out for dressing up in camouflage when he won’t take off his mask.
Harper snorts and licks at her lip ring. “Watch out, cupcake. That’s how you end up writing his name in glitter on your high school binder.”
“Too late,” I mutter. “It’s decorating my chest now, and I can’t peel it off without bleeding.”
Harper abandons the sharp blades and falls beside me. “You’re scared he’s going to vanish with your heart like that last dick. The cop. What’s his name? August fucking Kelly.”
Twenty-eight months on and she still has a blade with his name on it.
The name knocks the wind out of me, and I’m stunned, unable to breathe. I scrubbed him from my phone, our household, and my vocabulary. I told myself I was fine, that I didn’t need the closure or explanation for him leaving. That I didn’t needhim. But I cried. Hard. Ugly. In the dark, with Josh curled at my feet. With Celine Dion crooning about love moving mountains.
Old wounds tear open, and I’m not sure I’ll live through Grumpy Daddy saying goodbye.
The CD rolls into a duet,Tell Him,and Streisand and Dion tag-team slamming my heart.
Charlie gets up and tiptoes through the train wreck to sit cross-legged with me. Here comes the heart-to-heart portion of the girl talk, a velvet glove across my cheek compared with the brick Harper takes to my face.
“She’s right,” she adds gently, holding my hand. “It’s okay to be nervous and wonder where your relationship is going when it’s not… conventional.”
I never wanted conventional. Obsession, devotion, and danger call to me when I feel broken and unsafe.
“It’s okay to be scared,” she says. “You’ve been through hell and letting someone in who wears armor that thick feels like freefalling.”
My throat burns. “Freefalling with no parachute.”
She nods, giving me a slight squeeze. “Has your guy let you splat?”
“No,” I answer, barely a whisper.
