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She squints in mock irritation—which is cute as hell, for the record.
I tug my shirt over my head like a good patient and grab the mirror to help guide her. She peels off the old bandage, and I hate the look on her face. She’s seen the damage multiple times now and it’s always the same. Guilt. Regret. All the things I never want her to feel when it comes to me. How can she still not get it after everything?
Her fingers brush over my skin, tracing the edges of the scabs.
“I’ll never get used to seeing this,” she says quietly. “Your whole back is marred because of us. Kim, me… Scars on top of scars.”
I follow the movement of her touch in the mirror. Red, angry puncture wounds interrupt the existing silver streaks from the burns, creating an ugly swath of damaged flesh. So much of my story is in those marks. All I’ve suffered. All I’ve lost and will never get back. But that’s not the whole story. It can’t be.
And then I see it.
Isabel frowns at my sudden smile when my gaze locks on the mirror.
“What’s so funny?” she asks.
“I don’t believe it,” I say quietly.
“Believe what?”
“Look at the marks. Don’t they look like letters?”
She squints and leans closer. “Maybe? I guess that one kind of looks like anI.”
“Yes. And next to it?” My grin widens at her surprised inhale.
“Oh my gosh.”
Emotion fills her eyes when she lifts them to me.
“It says Iz,” she whispers.
I turn to face her, and she gazes back with wide hazel eyes that remind me why we fight. Why we sacrifice everything for the things that matter, because it’s in those moments you forget the things you’re not and discover all the things youare.
Maybe I’m not a monument to pain like I thought.
Maybe my back proves I’m something else.
Just a few weeks ago I thought my life was over. Now, I know it’s just beginning.
“Those wounds were carved by hate,” I say, pulling her close. “But it’s love that left the scars.”
