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“Do you know why I picked it?” she asks as we enter the sandy beach and walk toward the water. Waves roll in and a boat skates across the water.
“Because it’s beautiful?”
“Because it wasn’t.”
I stop walking, and my brows furrow in confusion. “You don’t think it’s beautiful?”
She stops too, gazing out at the sea. “It was surrounded by beautiful. The entire case was filled with shining, shimmering clear diamonds. Even if they were fake diamonds, they still sparkled in the light. This”—she looks down at her right ring finger—“is just a brown stone. And even being one of the ugliest colors in the world, it still tries to sparkle.” As if to prove her point, she wiggles her fingers in the sunshine. Sure enough, the ring on her finger reflects the light. “I rescued it from being overshadowed so it could be beautiful on its own.”
For someone with no memory, her words strike something inside me. For someone who doesn’t remember being taught kindness and love and selflessness, she exudes it every chance she gets.
My words get stuck in my throat. “That’s… very meaningful. I’m glad you have it.”
She starts walking again and socks me with her painful truth. “I feel like that sometimes. Plain. Ugly. Like this brown ring. Now every time I look at it, it gives me hope. That someday I might be free from the ugliness.”
“Doe.” I stop her again. “Are you trying to tell me something? Are you trying to say you remember?”
She shakes her head forcefully. “No. No, I don’t remember anything. It’s just… a feeling.”
I study her face but come up empty. She either still doesn’t remember, or she’s a damn good liar. My gut says it’s the former.
To move us from the heavy, I peel off my socks and shoes. “Take your shoes off. I want you to feel the sand.”
She wrinkles her nose adorably. “Really?” she says and watches me stuff my socks into my shoes.
“This way we can walk along the beach where the waves are and not get our shoes wet.”
“Okay.” She shrugs and copies my actions. I take her shoes from her, holding both pairs in my left hand as we make our way down to the water. The first few steps she takes are painfully slow, and I can’t tell if the unfamiliar sensation is a good one or a bad one. After a few feet, she picks up the pace and practically skips to the water with me chasing her heels.
“This feels… strange. Squishy and rough at the same time. I don’t think I’ve ever felt anything like it.”
Every few feet, a wave rolls into the shore, soaking us to our ankles. The bottom of Doe’s skirt becomes damp, but she doesn’t seem to mind. She seems to be in an oblivious bliss filled with wet sand and fresh ocean air.
Shocking the shit out of me, she detours from my side and takes a few more steps into the waves. I can’t remember a time when she’s willingly left my side, especially in public. Back at home, she’s been known to go next door where she sleeps, and she stays home while I work, but out in the open, she likes to stick close.
I can’t help being drawn to her—standing on the shoreline, feet in the water, waves lapping against her ankles. She looks so carefree and childlike in the waves. I stare at the tendrils of hair licking her cheeks. Cheeks marred by the scars of her past still flush with a rosiness that exudes life. Scars might mark up her skin, but that’s all they are. Scars. Testaments to a history of heinous abuse. Those marks are nothing more than history on her skin much like words on a page. They don’t define who she is now, and they sure as fuck shouldn’t stop her from living.
She radiates beauty—not only physical but mental and emotional beauty—and it’s there despite the marks on her skin. Her heart is pure. She helps without prompting and without obligation. She helps because she feels compelled to.
Reaching into my back pocket, I pull out my phone and snap a quick picture. Her back is to me, but her face is in profile as she lifts her chin and smiles. It’s the first time since I met her that she’s looked at peace. I want to capture it for eternity.
“Why are you standing back there?” she calls to me, breaking me from my thoughts. I smile and jog over.
“You looked like you were enjoying a moment alone.”
“I don’t like to be alone. I like spending time with you.”
Instead of fighting it, I give in to what I feel and admit, “I like spending time with you, too.”
A sudden desperation takes over; one I haven’t felt before. I want to touch her. To feel the warmth of her skin. To feel the weight of her in my arms. It’s fucking wrong of me, and I know it, but fighting it feels like trying to breathe underwater. So I don’t fight it. I give in. For one fucking second, I give in and satisfy a need I haven’t allowed myself to feel.
“I want to try something,” I murmur, stepping closer to her and brushing her hand with mine. She doesn’t flinch.
“Sure, what is it?”
“Close your eyes.”
“What?” Her body stiffens. The movement isn’t highly noticeable, but I’ve spent enough time with her to identify when she’s uncomfortable.
