An apology.
For just… wanting to know more.
“You’re fine,” I said as I went back to eating.
I heard her head snap toward me. “What?”
I peeked at her, trying not to make a big deal of things. “You’re fine. What’s the issue?”
She balked. “You—you’re not mad?”
I shrugged. “Why would I be mad?”
Her eyes widened. “Because I went through your stuff!”
Now, I’d never been a smart man. Knowledge was never my thing. I struggled through school, barely made ends meet with my grades, and somehow managed to get out of high school. The military or some dead-end jobs were pretty much my only options growing up. But I knew enough to know that when women snooped like that, it was because they wanted to know things about someone they couldn’t get to talk.
I didn’t like that.
That she felt she had to snoop just to know about me.
“Well, I’m not mad,” I said as I pointed to the scar cutting through my upper lip. “Wanna know how I got this one?”
She nodded quickly and cocked her body a bit to face me. “Yes, please.”
Please.
She said fucking please.
Just because I talked with her.
I made a mental note to engage her in conversation more.
Clearly, words were her currency.
“It was one of the many missions I flew with the Air Force,” I said as my hand fell away from my face. “Got clipped by a missile and my head slammed into the cockpit controls, and a piece chipped off and sliced my lip open.”
“Jesus,” she said breathlessly as she took another bite of her food, her eyes on me.
I kicked my boot up onto the edge of her bed and rolled up my pants leg. “See this scar?”
Her mouth gaped open. “The fuck!? It cuts all the way down your calf!”
“That was from horsin’ around during training,” I said with a chuckle as I rolled my pants leg down and moved my foot off her bed. “Some dumbass trainee wasn’t watching what he was doing, and I had to dodge him in order to not get swiped by a knife he was practicing with.”
“A knife? You guys wield those in the Air Force?”
I shrugged. “Everyone has their preferred weapons they train with, even in the Air Force. His particular fascination with close quarters combat made him want to seek out training with knives. But unfortunately for him, sweaty hands and knives don’t go hand in hand.”
She grimaced. “Oh God.”
“Yep,” I said with a nod. “Slipped right out of his hand, stabbed its way into my calf since I wore shorts that day, androde the ride down until it clinked on the ground. Took damn near forty stitches to close me up.”
She whistled lowly. “That’s a fucking gash if I’ve ever heard of one.”
I thumbed over my shoulder. “Got a gnarly scar on my back as well. Another mission I ran with the Air Force. Things went off without a hitch until I got back to our encampment. And before I knew it, I tripped and stumbled, falling right back onto the embers of a fire that was put out.”
She gaped at me and clapped her hand over her mouth. “How bad is the burn scar?”
