Beneath the Scars (42 page)

She drew in on herself, taking a step back as her eyes widened. “You love me…
why
, Zachary? Why exactly do you love me?”

Watching her reaction to me was torture. The need to draw her close clawed at me and I pushed my hands into my pockets to stop myself from touching her. My entire world was hanging by a thread in front of me, and I knew it could snap at any second. She could turn and walk away—out of my life for good.

My fingers closed around the journal in the bottom of my pocket, nervously clutching the smooth leather, remembering her words of love. I needed to make her feel them again. “Why? Because of how I felt when I was with you. How you made me feel about the world around me. That maybe, it wasn’t such a terrible place. That perhaps I had a place in it, as long as you were beside me.”

“You were so quick to throw it away.”

“I know. I was scared and caught off guard when my past hit me in the face. I reacted and I hurt you. I’ll never forgive myself for that.”

“Why did you come back? You came back before you knew the truth. You said yourself you don’t give second chances—ever.”

My brow furrowed. “You aren’t the one who needs the second chance. I am, Megan. I need
you
to give
me
a second chance. I’ve fought against it for months. I kept telling myself the only thing I felt for you was contempt, but I was lying to myself. I missed you so fucking much, I ached with it.” My hands clenched at my side, desperate to reach out,
needing
to touch her. “You want to know why I came back? Because somewhere, some part of me knew I had to try and find you. There was a small voice telling me it was real. You did love me and I’d fucked up the one good thing I ever found in my life.”

I paced up and down the sand, needing to move as the tension grew inside me. “I told myself I was coming back here to clear out the house and sell it, move on and forget this place and that you ever existed.” A humorless laugh escaped my lips as I stopped pacing and stood in front of her. “As if I could ever forget you—or get over you. The day I walked back into the house you were there—you were fucking everywhere. All I could see, all I could feel, were all the good things about you, about us. All I could think of was you. Your voice, your scent, the way you looked at me and cared for me. All I could feel in that house was your love.

“Then Karen came to see me. She gave me all the articles about that fucking bastard and what he’d done. It was then I realized how deeply I’d wronged you. Wronged us.”

“You believed him so easily. You walked away without even questioning it.”

“I did. It proved I was right all along. I wasn’t worthy of being loved. Only used.”

“I didn’t use you.”

“I know.
Fuck,
I know that now. I knew it months ago, but I was too afraid to admit it. Too afraid I had been wrong.” My fingers dug into the skin at the back of my neck. “Karen gave me your journals to read and I saw how you’d written our story.” I stepped forward, my voice wavering. “I read your words—I read your love for me, Megan. I saw your tears on those pages. I saw the truth. I knew how wrong I’d been, how much damage I’d done, and I knew I was probably too late.”

“Is that why you’re here now, Zachary? Because of the story, because of what you found out at the end?”

Found at the end?

I frowned at her. “I haven’t finished reading the last book yet, Megan.”

“I don’t believe you.”

“I haven’t. I was too…afraid to read it.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t want to know you didn’t love me anymore. I didn’t want to read your goodbye.” I pulled the book out of my pocket, offering it to her. “I wanted to see if I could beg you to rewrite the end. If you thought you could forgive me, and let me try and show you how much I still love you.”

She looked between the book and my face. Up and down her gaze moved. “You need to read it the way it is right now.”

My arm dropped, the book now weighing too much to hold it. “Is there no chance?”

Megan moved closer. Close enough, I could see the gold in her eyes; smell the gentle floral scent of her hair. “You want to know if I can forgive you.”

I wanted to yank her into my arms and feel her warmth. I wanted to bury my face into her hair and breathe her in, but I couldn’t—not without her permission. Like I was in a trance, I lifted my hand and tucked one long strand of hair behind her ear. “Yes.”

“I forgave you the day you left me. You’d only known love for a few weeks, Zachary. You weren’t even sure of everything you were feeling yet. What you knew best was being hurt.” I froze as she rose up, the soft brush of her lips on my cheek surprising. “But you have to read the rest of our story, then decide if you want to move forward. We have so much to recover from, and it won’t be easy or happen overnight.” She stepped back, the glimmer of tears in her eyes. “I started again without you, and I’ll keep going because I have to. If you read that book and decide you have to leave, just do it. Don’t come see me. Don’t give me hope again. I’ll pack my things, go back to Boston, and carry on where I have some support. ” A tear rolled down her cheek. “I can’t take it and I won’t let you hurt us again. I won’t recover from that.”

Then she turned and walked away.

The journal mocked me from the table where it had been sitting since I walked in the house. I had stood and watched Megan move across the beach, away from me. Her figure grew smaller as the distance between us lengthened. I watched her until she disappeared, struggling not to run after her and beg her to tell me what was in the book. That it didn’t matter, because I loved her. I wanted her to let me hold her until I felt the horrible pain ease away, and I was strong enough to be what she needed. I would prove to her I wasn’t ever going to leave her again.

I didn’t want to hurt her anymore.

I pulled the book closer, almost with fear. I opened the cover; flipping to the page where the satin red ribbon marked the spot I stopped. That last, awful day when I allowed my insecurities to blind me to the truth—truth I was too weak to believe. Megan’s unique, almost old-fashioned script filled the pages. I flipped to the last page, noticing, for the first time, the book was only about two-thirds full.

I sat on the sofa closer to the fire, an unusual chill running through my body. The contents of this journal were going to change my life, of that I had no doubt.

I looked out the window, watching the waves as they surged and ebbed. I felt my tension easing as I matched my breathing to the long swells.

Finally, I lowered my gaze to the book, wondering if I was strong enough to read it and accept what it said.

Two hours later, the book fell from my hands as hot tears poured down my face, her words swirling around in my head. So many emotions flooded my heart. Her raw pain at my leaving and how she struggled tore at my soul. I left her alone at a time I should’ve been beside her; giving her what she offered me so freely: unconditional love and support. I had failed her in so many ways, yet her words brought with them the flash of another emotion: hope. Hope for the future, hope for us. With that hope, came joy for the news our story contained.

Bending down, I picked up the book. She hadn’t finished our story. The pages were still blank as if she was waiting, unsure how to finish.

I had to get to her. Plead with her to allow me to be part of those blank pages.

To allow us to finish the story together.

I shivered under the blanket at the cold that seemed to be a permanent resident inside my body. I thought I was prepared to see Zachary. When Karen told me he was back and what she had done, I was shocked—and furious. Her decision, she told me, was based on the fact he seemed as lost and struggling as I appeared to still be, even though I tried hard to cover that fact. When she told me he was waiting for me, I almost didn’t believe it.

Seeing him this morning, it took all I had not to throw myself into his arms. The way he looked at me almost broke my resolve. His insistence he hadn’t read the last journal to the end, that he was still in love with me, made it all that much harder to believe he was even standing in front of me. He didn’t give second chances. He told me that multiple times—why would he change his mind for me?

The sudden fury I’d felt when he was standing in front of me was shocking. The anger I denied, the names I refused to allow anyone to call him, fell from my lips…and he took it. He took it all and let me rage until the moment passed, his gaze never wavering. He stood tall and firm, admitting it was his own doubts that he listened to, his own fears he allowed Jared’s words to penetrate. He apologized continually, asking for only one thing.

For me to give
him
a second chance. To believe in him and us enough to allow him back in my life. My aching heart and weary soul wanted to give him what he desired. I still loved him, but it was no longer only about me. He had to know the whole story. One of the hardest things I ever did was to turn from him and walk away. The next step was his and his alone to make.

I burrowed deeper, once again feeling exhausted. It hit me at the oddest times and nothing could stop my eyes from closing. My body demanded rest, and with a sigh, I gave in.

Sun streamed in the window, warming my face as I slowly woke up. When my eyes opened, they found Zachary, sitting, a silent sentinel, watching over me. In his hand was the last journal. His face was inscrutable, but his posture was rigid, his fingers clenching the journal so tight his knuckles were white. I shook my head, clearing my throat. “I guess I forgot to lock the sliding door.”

I sat up, swinging my legs off the sofa. When he spoke, his voice was surprisingly tender. “Do you need anything?”

I blinked, my brow furrowed in confusion. “I’m sorry, what?”

“A drink, something to eat. Can I do anything for you?”

“No.”

He laid the book down between us on the small coffee table. “Your work is brilliant. Honest to a fault.”

“It’s
our
story. It deserved honesty.”

“Why, Megan? Why did you write it?”

I cleared my throat. “I thought if I wrote it out, the pain would lessen. Maybe if I got it out of my head, I wouldn’t ache so much.”

“Did it work?”

“No.”

He nodded in silent understanding. “I thought if I ran away and didn’t see you, I could hate you the way I wanted. I thought I could stop the rage I felt.”