“I think I will.” I hugged the book tightly to my chest, and said, "I'm gonna make us dinner tonight.”
After I'd scared him with a clap of my hands and replaced his small furry body with some veggies, that for some reason, he was absolutely terrified of, Bushy Tail had left his tabletop perch.
He was currently cuddled up on the footstool, matching the pink tweed couch. A spot he'd claimed as forever his.
I leaned over the stove, over the pastel-colored cookware pots. The heat of the food simmering caressed my face, bringing both disquiet and peace at the same time.
Taking a spoon to my nose, I inhaled, and a smile burst through me. I felt my mother's presence. I could see my dad's approving smile in my mind's eye.
A shadow moved along the splashback, covering mine and growing bigger as Woodrow approached.
He stood close to me, but he didn't touch me. “It smells good.”
It really did. I was proud of myself and proud of this memory for surviving in my turbulent mind. I’d forgotten so many beautiful experiences when so many bad ones started happening.
“What is it?” He asked, staring into the pot where dozens of ingredients were swimming in harmony.
“It's called Ajiaco. And it's a stew. Don’t worry, I won't make crunchy veggies.”
I favored them, but I knew he'd struggle with swallowing them.
“It smells really good.”
“Are you actually gonna eat any of it?”
I side glanced at him, staring through my hair. He had barely eaten since finding me. Stopping seconds after eating, feeling full from the smallest mouthfuls. Even thebreakfast smoothies he humored me with these past few days were discarded after a single sip. He claimed they tasted funny. But he never wanted anything else.
I knew it was hard for him. Hard to watch those around him enjoy heavier meals.
“What do you mean?” he quizzed, tucking my hair behind my ear, so he could get a better look at my face.
I rushed to pull it forward, but he stopped me, his hand guiding me back to the food.
I hated that I needed to hide in my own home.
Home, it was weird to think that.
But nothing was weirder than feeling uncomfortable in your own skin.
Woody had ruined my appearance, nothing could change that. Hell forced me to acknowledge that by shaving off my fringe. . . luckily, it still wasn't impossible to hide, and I'd done that every day since, by pulling my hair forward.
The rental car's side mirror had told me sweet lies, promising I looked better by pulling my hair forward than I would with it brushed back.
Woodrow would never agree. His fingers weaved through my hair. He pulled my daisy clip out gently and opened it with his mouth before sliding it into a new position in my hair, holding much more of it from my face than before.
“You're too pretty to hide.”
I wanted to laugh but the chuckle turned sour in my mouth, and instead, came out as a sob.
“Don't cry.” Woodrow's hands moved around me, fingers splaying on my waist and settling there.
I shuddered, my breathing fast and unsure. My hand reached for his, holding his fingers flat to my stomach, while still deciding if I should pull them away.
“I'll forever be sorry that my hands hurt you in a way you can't heal from.”
His breath tickled my scars, and I found myself leaning in against him until his face brushed mine. I panicked, waiting for the meancomments men always gave me, and I was about to retract when his grip on me tightened.
“Scars change nothing.You're mine.You'll always be beautiful to me.”
