This is dangerous. Not the shower. Not the proximity. The way I'm starting to feel about her.
I strip off my shirt, and that's when I catch sight of myself in the mirror. The injuries from the beating are mostly healed now, the bruises faded, the swelling gone. But the old scars I try to avoid thinking about are stark against my skin in the lamplight.
The long knife wound across my ribs. The circular mark on my bicep. Another jagged scar on my shoulder I can't quite see the full extent of. And more, smaller ones, some barely visible, others pronounced.
A map of violence written on my body.
What must Isabella think when she sees these? Because she has seen them. I know she has. A few days ago, I was working on the fence in the afternoon heat and stripped off my shirt. When I turned around, she was watching from the kitchen window. Our eyes met for just a moment before she looked away.
She didn't bring it up. Didn't ask. But I saw the question in her eyes.
What kind of man has a scarred body like mine?
I should tell her. Warn her that whoever I am, whatever I was, it wasn't good. The evidence is carved into my skin.
But I don't. Because if I tell her, she'll ask me to leave. And I'm not ready for that. Not yet.
I turn on the shower and step under the spray, trying to wash away more than just the day's dirt. Trying to wash away the guilt of lying to her. The fear of what I'll remember when my memory returns. The growing certainty that when the truth comes out, it's going to destroy whatever fragile peace I've found here.
When I'm clean, I dry off and pull on the clothes I brought, another of her father's shirts and a pair of work pants that are becoming familiar. I look at myself in the mirror one more time.
Who the hell are you?
The question haunts me. Every day, I wait for something to click. For a memory to surface. But there's only fragments. Flashes of things I can't quite grasp. The taste of espresso. The feel of tools in my hands. A word in Neapolitan dialect that I didn't realize I knew until it slipped out yesterday.
And instincts. So many instincts that don't belong to a carpenter or a farmhand.
Like the way I automatically check exit routes in every room. The way my body tenses when I hear a car on the distant road. The way I assessed the kitchen knives the first time I saw them, noting which one would be best for fighting.
These aren't the thoughts of a good man.
I open the bathroom door and almost walk straight into Isabella.
She steps back quickly, and I see her eyes drop to my chest, to where the shirt hangs open because I haven't buttoned it yet, before she catches herself and looks away.
"Sorry," she says. "I was just. I brought you tea. I thought you might want some before you go back to the barn."
She's holding a cup, steam rising from it. The offer is so domestic, so normal.
"Thank you." I take the cup, careful not to touch her hands this time.
But she doesn't move away. Just stands there in the narrow hallway, close enough that I can see the pulse beating at her throat.
"Lupo," she says quietly. "Your scars."
I can’t look at her. "What about them?"
"Where did you get them?"
"I don't remember." It's the truth, even if it's not the whole truth. "I wish I could remember."
"But you know what they are. What they must mean. The things you went through to get them."
I look at her. This woman who's given me shelter and food and kindness when she had every reason not to. She deserves honesty, even if I don't have much to give.
"Yes," I admit. "I know what they mean. Or at least I suspect what they must mean."
"Tell me."
