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"Are you close with her?" I don't know if he's doing this on purpose, but he's striking exactly where it hurts, and I'm trying not to let it show.
"Not at all." I clear my throat, glancing around the restaurant so Raphael won't notice I'm getting emotional. "Since this happened..." I point to my scarred cheek. "I haven't been interesting to her."
His brows knit together in worry. "What do you mean?"
"I was like her before the... accident. A socialite."
"How old were you when the accident happened?"
"Nineteen," I mutter. I don't tell anyone what happened when Parker Miller scarred me. That's my own shame, my own fault, and I have to bear the consequences of my actions. The only people that know are Parker, his brother Kade and his wife June, and Robin. And I've sworn them all to secrecy – except for Parker. Parker's dead.
I feel a shiver go down my spine.
Isn't he?
"So, your mother judged you for having the scar?" Raphael goes on.
"She said I'd never amount to anything with it," I admit. "No man would look at me, and my career as a socialite was pretty much over."
"So you moved out here?"
I nod. "A few years later, for my twenty-first birthday. I bought a house with the money Dad left me. I have enough to cover me for the rest of my life."
"But what about having a life? A career? Don't you have dreams of your own?"
I shrug again. "It's not like it's an option for me. The scar makes people judge me. Makes them afraid of me. Not a lot of people would risk hiring somebody like me."
"I think you're being too negative."
"Am I?" I smile, but there's a hint of sadness lingering on my face.
"Definitely." He grins. He is ridiculously handsome. Distractingly so. "What do you spend your days doing?"
"I volunteer a lot." I toy with the napkin in my lap. "I work at a soup kitchen downtown. I volunteer at an animal shelter. And I sometimes work at a plant nursery downtown too. They give me a symbolic payment. But it's fun. I don't have to interact with people a lot."
"You strike me as a very selfless person."
"I wasn't always. But this..." I point to the scar again. "This changed everything for me."
"I can imagine. You're living a very different life than you were in New York, aren't you?"
"Definitely."
"Do you miss it sometimes?"
I take a moment to think about his question. "I miss my best friend, June."
"You aren't in touch anymore?"
I shake my head. "It was... too painful. Difficult. She's married now, has kids. I'm happy for her. But I don't think there's room in her life for someone like me."
It's Raphael's turn to nod now, and just then, the waiter arrives with our appetizers. Raphael digs in with gusto while I pick at my food. He doesn't mention it, and it's a relief. Guys always wonder if I'm on some crazy diet that makes me unable to eat. But not him. He glances at me every so often, but he doesn't mention the fact that I've dissected the meal before him.
The waiter raises his brows at me when he picks up our plates. I'm not fooling him. Then again, this is LA. A lot of people pick at their food. He takes our plates away.
"What about you?" I finally ask Raphael. "I've been going on for ages. Why don't you tell me about yourself? How did you become a photographer?"
"My father was one," he explains. "I inherited all his equipment and started early. I always loved taking photos. I got the opportunity to work with the New York City Ballet for years. That got my work noticed. Then I started doing private exhibitions, getting hired to shoot for fashion magazines. I got to work with a lot of famous people. Word spread. Et voilà."
"That's the Cliff Notes version?" I grin at him.
"Pretty much." He smiles back.
"What about your family? Are you an only child?"
"Most likely not." He sighs. "My father was somewhat of a womanizer. He never married my mother, but I think he loved her, in his own way. They were happy together until he died, though my mother knew she wasn't his only one. We never knew about the others. Not the women, not the children I'm sure he had all over the globe."
"Was he a fashion photographer too?"
Raphael shakes his head. "He was... a different breed of creative. He worked for National Geographic for a number of years. His series on war crimes won several awards."
"That must've been difficult."
He smiles, but it's tinged with another emotion, a sadder one. "You wear your scar on your cheek, Dove Canterbury, but a lot of people wear theirs on their hearts."
His words strike me as true, and I take my time to ponder them while our mains arrive.
