Page 154 of Summer Love

Jace’s hands fly down—not to his groin, to his thigh. He presses both palms over it, fingers spread.

“Don’t look at me,” he breathes.

He bends to grab the towel and knots it around his waist in one quick motion. He keeps his eyes down.

Jace is naked, but it isn’t his nakedness he’s trying to hide. Any other time, I’d have smiled.

I stand and step toward him. The trailer’s so small that two steps are enough. Jace backs up, but the counter’s right behind him and he has nowhere to go.

I take the edge of the towel and pull gently. He doesn’t resist. The towel slides down his hip and falls again.

I crouch, and my fingers settle at the top of the scar, where the skin is smoothest—white, taut, a little cold. Jace stiffens.

“Does it hurt?”

“Not there. I don’t feel anything.”

I move down a little. The texture changes—thicker, uneven, ridges and hollows. Jace doesn’t move. His chest barely rises.

“And here?”

“Not there either.”

I move my fingers toward the inside of his thigh, where the furrows run deeper. Jace closes his eyes. His jaw tightens.

“There, yeah.”

My hand slides a little lower.

“And here?”

“That’s good.”

My fingers go back to exploring. I trace the border between the skin that’s whole and the skin that’s been rebuilt. The difference in temperature is sharp—the scar is colder, the rest of his thigh warm, tanned, alive.

Jace still won’t look at me.

“It doesn’t disgust you?”

His voice is barely audible. I think about the girl who saw and left.

“Look at me, Jace.”

He doesn’t.

I straighten and put my hand on his cheek. His skin is warm, still damp from the shower. He resists for a second, then gives in and finally looks at me.

“Of course it doesn’t disgust me,” I say.

He swallows.

“The shark could have torn your leg off, Jace.”

I shiver. The video comes back to me—the screaming, the blood, the board floating…

“It could have killed you. So your scar is nothing.”

He exhales; his shoulders loosen. His eyes shine.