Page 47 of Ablaze

Going back to the clothes argument with Warren–not that it’s a heated argument or anything, but it has definitely come up a few times during our time together–it’s not that I don’t own other types of clothes. I do. I just don’t wear them unless it’s a special occasion. And since I haven’t explained the real reason behind why I wear what I wear to him fully–because when my body is covered from head to toe, I can still feel the laps of flames around me–I can’t fault him for thinking I’m a little . . . eccentric.

There’s only one person I’ve divulged that to, and he’s currently still missing from my birthday party.

Even when it’s just me and Warren alone at home, for whatever reason, I still don’t feel completely comfortable discarding my sweatshirt in front of him. I’m probably just in my own head about it, but ever since the first time I showed him my scar, I haven’t felt comfortable being fully unclothed in front of him.

It’s not that he said anything to make me feel that way, but sometimes an expression is worth more than a thousand words.

A look of shock, swirled with repulsion and pity, marred his expression in that moment. A moment he tried to cover up by blanking out his face immediately after, but I caught it, nonetheless. Like he couldn’t unsee what he’d seen. Like he wanted to run and wash his brain with bleach to rid himself of the image. It’s something I’ve never been able to get out of my head, regardless of the times he’s told me he loves my body.

And I suppose I have to believe he does. No matter when he sees me, no matter where we are, he’ll shower me with compliments. From the way he dotes over my curves to the way he kisses me, I know he’s attracted to me.

Still . . .

I can’t help but notice the way he avoids taking off my sleep shirt when he’s hovering over me in bed. I can’t help but notice the way he reaches under my shirt to play with my unblemished breast, while leaving the other one completely neglected. I can’t help but notice the way he kisses my neck, never going below the point where my mangled skin might be exposed.

But I also forget how ugly my scar really is. How jarring.

It not only mars my skin in a way that it looks like there’s a reverse trench cascading down to the bottom of my left breast, but the skin around it looks like it’s been irreversibly ripped apart and meshed back together in a wrinkled, horrific mess.

It’s for that same reason that I keep it hidden. Because no one wants to see a bloody battleground once the battle has been fought.

And while Warren knows how I got my scars, he’s never really wanted me to delve into my feelings about them. In fact, the one time he saw me running my fingers over it in front of the mirror in his bathroom, he brought over my sweatshirt, silently urging me to cover it. “Some memories aren’t worth revisiting, Mala. Leaving them covered is the only way to let yourself heal.”

I’d put on the sweatshirt that day, recalling how different his words were to those of Dean’s when he saw my scar. “What looks disfigured to you is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. You’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.”

Where Warren urged me to heal without looking back–by keeping that box closed–Dean implored me to obliterate the box entirely by freeing its contents for the world to see.

And as if the thought alone brings me back to the present, I smile up at Warren. “I’m wearing jeans today, aren’t I? Baby steps.”

He pulls me closer, his hands gripping my waist a little tighter than I’d like. “Yes, but I thought that laying out a dress on our bed for you was a subtle hint of what I would have liked to see you in.”

I feign a giggle. “Well, I suppose it helps that I’m the birthday girl, then. I get to decide what I wear for my birthday.” I try to wiggle out of his grasp, only for him to tighten his hold on me more. “Warren, I need to check on the other guests. And . . . you’re hurting me.”

We’d invited a few of my friends from the fire station, including my brother, Samantha, and my new baby nephew, Sage, over to Warren’s house–our house–for my birthday today. And while everyone generally knows one another, it doesn’t look right for both Warren and me to be back here in the kitchen for this long.

“You mean, you need to go call Dean for the tenth time to find out why he’s still not here?”

I pull his arms off me, finally getting out of his hold. “I’ve called him once–”

Warren quirks a brow. “So you weren’t just checking for his message on your phone before I distracted you?”

I level him with a look. I get it. He’s always felt like the outsider in my relationship with Dean, but it hasn’t been easy for Dean, either. It hasn’t been easy for any of us. “I’m not going to lie to you. Yes, I was checking to see if he’d messaged me back–”

“Shocker.” Warren chuckles sarcastically.

“But only because he’s over an hour late. He’s never missed my birthday.”

Warren’s arms raise and drop to his sides. “Mala, when are you going to realize that things changed the moment you got into a serious relationship? When are you going to realize that whether you’re best friends with him or not, neither one of you can be each other’s priority anymore? He’s back with Jessie, and you’re with me. Why does it matter that he’s an hour late? If he wanted to be here, he would have been. The only person who should be your priority is the man standing in front of you right now. The man who gave you that fucking two-thousand-dollar bracelet on your wrist. The man who challenges you to be a better version of yourself. The only man who pushes you to level up. Not a man who eats fucking dog treats like a pea-brained man-child and watches trash TV with you.”

A better version of myself?

My mouth opens in response, but nothing comes out. Honestly, I can’t even make heads or tails of where all this is coming from. Sure, it’s not a complete surprise that Warren has always felt insecure because of Dean, but to actually insult him? To imply that I need to level up? This is a first. And to throw the gift he forced on my wrist back in my face?

Where the hell is all this coming from?

Warren runs a frustrated hand through his hair. “Wake up, babe! He’s not coming, and even if he does, I guarantee it won’t be with a gift half as nice as the one I got you. You know why? Because he doesn’t know you like I do. He can’t take care of you like I can.”

“I didn’t ask for a gift from you, Warren, and I wouldn’t expect one from Dean, either.”

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