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But Ash hasn’t seen it yet.
“I have a new scar,” I say. We always compare scars. “It’s on my elbow.”
“I don’t believe you.” Ash grins at me, his short dark hair sticking up. He’s passed his wet hand through it, right before he splashed me. “I’ve seen your elbows. There’s nothing.”
“It’s new.”
“Yeah, sure.”
“And it’s big,” I say.
“I’ve got bigger ones.”
“You say that all the time, but I haven’t seen your scars.” I rub the scar on my elbow through the cloth. “I bet my scars are bigger and uglier than yours.”
Ash frowns, then his expression clears. “You’re worried about that?”
I bite my lip.
“If I show you mine, will you show me yours?” Ash says, and I smile, because he always makes me feel better.
Chapter Seven
Audrey
It’s been a week since the attack on campus. I stretch out on my beige sofa, propping my foot up. The swelling in my ankle has finally gone down and walking doesn’t hurt so much anymore.
“That looks much better.” My friend from English class, Dakota, is stretched out next to me, the pink streaks in her short dark hair glowing neon.
Every time I look at my foot, I remember Ash and how he took care of me. How he carried me.
I never thought I’d like that. After all, I’ve always thought of myself as an independent, strong woman, capable of taking care of myself. But the memory fills me with warmth. I’d felt protected. Cared for. He’d held me as if he was afraid for me.
My heart pounds at the thought.
“So what are you doing for Christmas?” Dakota asks.
My cheeks heat. “I’m staying here.”
“Your mom coming over?”
“Nah. No time.” I try to hide the disappointment in my voice. I was hoping my mom would come. I miss her.
But when she called me last night, she said she’s taken on a new project with homeless youth and she’ll be working through the whole holiday season. I respect my mom’s desire to help others. So I squash the sting in my chest and smile.
“My mom and I cook together for Christmas,” Dakota says. “It’s tradition. I’m driving over to my folks tomorrow. Big family gathering. My grandma will be there.”
It’s hard to imagine her being so domestic and cozy—cooking in a big kitchen, cousins and nephews running about.
Then again, maybe her family is just like her. Maybe her grandma has pink streaks in her hair, too.
“What are you smirking about?” She throws a cushion at me, grinning.
I catch the cushion. “Nothing.”
“Yeah, nothing. You thought of something dirty, you little minx.”
“Nothing like that. Must be nice to have a big family.”
