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Harry never looked at me with pity because he didn’t know what the bushfire had done to my body. How would he look at me if he knew?
I choked back a sob, feeling foolish for parading around tonight looking the way I did.
The door swung open with Sam, mobile in hand. I straightened, swiping my eyes.
“Found you at last. Hot Doc is looking for you. And—hey, what’s wrong?”
I shook my head, grabbing a paper towel to blow my nose.
Sam’s hands flew to her hips, her brows pinched.
“Seriously, who do I need to bitch slap? Is Amanda going full Bridezilla?”
“It’s nothing.”
“Oh shit, you’ve seen it.” Sam’s face paled. “And you hate it.”
I ignored her, pacing back and forth. “Amanda’s friends from Sydney want to sleep with both of my brothers and have been sharing opinions about my scars and whether I should be with Harry, followed by some lady saying I was brave for wearing this dress, and I quote, ‘considering what happened to me’.”
“Fuckers. All of them,” Sam muttered. She bit her lip, looking down at her phone.
“Wait, seen what? What do you mean?”
Sam flicked the lock on the bathroom door. “I have to show you something right now.”
She handed over her phone, her hand shaking slightly.
My face stared back from her mobile’s screen.
“Holy fuck,” I muttered.
The photo was one Sam had taken during my boudoir shoot. But it was on the front page of our local paper, the headline screaming:
Racy Stacey! Local firefighter to star in sexy calendar. See page 10 to 11
My leg was propped up on the antique velvet chaise beside my racing helmet with ‘Firebird’ and ‘Turner’s Racing’ stickers. I’d worn my mid-calf Ariat boots, my firefighting helmet and a runner’s up sash from the Stanmore Agricultural Show’s Festival Queen pageant six years ago. The sash diagonally crossed my chest, covering one of my breasts. My other breast was hidden behind my arm as I held my firefighter’s jacket casually over my shoulder.
The rest of me? Buck naked.
My butt was just … there.
Sam had been very clever with angles. While it was clear I was completely nude, nothing X-rated was on display.
But you could see some of the scarring on my back. Most was hidden in shadow but enough was shown.
I was staring right down the lens of the camera, neither smiling or frowning, with what Sam called SBF: Smouldering Bitch Face.
My photo took up the front page, with one column of text beside it.
Holy hell.
I blinked rapidly, a jolt of terror tugging low in my gut at the idea of anyone seeing my disfigured skin.
Being naked in front of Sam hadn’t been as uncomfortable as I’d thought. Sure, having some wine had helped me relax but Sam had been my best friend since kindergarten. She’d stuck by me during the aftermath, even when I’d been consumed with despair, refusing to talk to anyone or do anything. Sam was one of the few people I trusted to help moisturise my scars to keep my skin from itching and tightening.
Her thoughtfulness showed in the photo.I am more than my injuries, I thought, noticing how Sam had captured in the background my pinboards with design ideas, the house plans for our homestead in a frame, and a photo of me and Dad the day I’d got my learner’s permit just before the fire. A swatch of fabric and a paintbrush were in my hand that resting on my thigh. This represented me as the emerging interior designer.
“Stace, you know I’d sent two photos to the firefighting calendar people. Well, they liked this one so much that before I knew it, they sent it to the local paper saying they were publishing it.”
