Jamie Myers
The drive back to Scar’s house was a long and silent one. He was asleep the entire time and I had spent the duration of the drive thinking about what I had just done. I had left my sister alone and scared with a very angry foster parent. I had considered taking her with me, but that would’ve only enraged Eugene even more. The consequence of returning home after we had both walked out on Eugene while he was giving one of his “I-am-your-father” speeches was borderline deadly, but the consequence of abandoning my sister could be salvaged. I would return home in the middle of the night, ask for forgiveness, and then we’d be okay. We’d always be okay.
I struggled, but somehow managed, to carry Scar’s limp body to the main entrance of his house. Mere seconds after ringing the doorbell, I was blessed with the presence of Scar’s little sister on the other side of the threshold instead of his mother. Her silver-colored eyes widened at the sight of her unconscious brother in my arms. “Whoa, what happened?”
“He got drunk,” I answered. “Please make sure he's okay.”
“Of course,” she said with a quick nod just as she propped open the door for me. “Can you carry him upstairs? I’m not really…”
“Yeah.” Admittedly, Scar was far more gifted in the muscle compartment and he was undoubtedly heavier than I was, thus carrying him up a flight of stairs was a complete struggle, but I pushed through because suddenly Scar’s well-being became of interest to me.
Amy trailed behind me as I neared the top of the stairs. I retraced my steps from my previous visit and turned down the narrow hallway so that I could enter the second door on the right, Scar’s bedroom.
“Um, just … put him on the bed, I guess.”
I did as I was told and gently laid him on his full-sized bed, being extra careful not to wake him, but Scar jolted awake with a start, breathing heavily and frantically searching around the room. He looked at Amy with his brows furrowed in confusion, and then his attention flicked to me. “What … what’s going … what…” He grabbed a handful of his short brown hair and blinked a few times. “Everything hurts.”
“Yeah, that’s because you’re drunk,” Amy muttered.
“I’m drunk?”
I glanced over my shoulder at Amy who was still stood in the doorway as though she was afraid to enter the room. “Do you mind if I…”
Amy lifted a delicate brow but scoffed once she realized the connotation behind my words. “Be my guest.” She didn’t waste any time in leaving the room, being sure to close the door behind her.
I must’ve stared at the closed door for an eternity before I mustered the strength to face Scar. His confusion seemed to fade away; instead, a severely uninterested countenance took its place. I reached out to begin to undo the buttons on his shirt, feeling slightly repulsed by the whole thing. He seemed to understand what I was trying to do, and thankfully, he didn’t protest. I had always wanted to see Scar Patterson naked, but this definitely wasn’t the way to do so.
Once I had rid him of his shirt and pants, leaving him in nothing but his boxers, I rubbed my hands on my thighs in hesitation. “Okay, well, I should probably leave.”
He blinked a few more times. “Why?”
“You need to get some sleep.”
He squeezed his eyes shut as though the light in the room had suddenly blinded him. In response, I rushed to dim the lights and quickly returned to my position at the edge of his bed. “You wanna sit,” he asked, although it sounded more like a demand.
So I sat.
He grabbed onto my hand and placed it in his lap. “So glad you’re here.”
“Really?” I couldn’t stop myself from asking. The Scar I met at the kissing booth at the beginning of the week would’ve never said this, let alone think it.
He didn’t answer my question; his intoxicated mind wouldn’t let him pay attention. “Why does Francesca hate me?” I opened my mouth to respond something snarky, but he continued with, “Why does Trey hate me?”
“I’m pretty sure they don’t hate you,” I said in an effort to console his broken heart, “They’re just more concerned with themselves than they are with you.”
“She used to be so sweet,” he spoke ever so softly. It wasn’t what he said that caught my attention but because he squeezed my hand when he said it.
So instead of properly responding, I sufficed for an, “Uh huh.”
Scar turned his head to look at me with the faintest of smiles playing at his lips. I stared back into his green eyes, refusing to let them have an effect on me, but I failed miserably. They were right when they said eyes were supposed to be the windows to the soul because here, now, Scar’s eyes were true. I had never seen anything that held so much purity and truth before I had seen his eyes, and that bareness made me uncomfortable.
“Why are you staring at me like that?” I had to ask to regain my composure.
“Like what?” He continued to gaze into my eyes despite my discomfort. The silence between us grew to unbearable levels, but Scar didn't seem to mind it; in fact, he kept staring at me like he was searching for the answer to a philosophical question.
“Scar, cut it out. You're really making me really−”
And then he kissed me.
It was beyond simple−just a simple peck on the lips that didn’t even last five seconds, so why did it make me feel like it was the end of the world? Like we were the last ones on earth on with no one to interfere? It was far different from our first kiss which was forced on my behalf and unwanted on his, but this … this was nice.
When Scar pulled away, he brought his brows together in a line. “Don't hate me.”
My eyes widened, suddenly taken back by the fact that he thought I could ever hate him. “I don’t. I’m just, uh, confused. Why’d you kiss me?"
He shrugged. “Dunno.”
“You know what,” I began to say, knowing that as much as I wanted this situation to be real, I had to remind myself that it wasn’t. “You’re drunk, Scar. You’re saying and, uh, doing things you don’t mean.”
Scar stared down at his hands, staying silent, but a laugh eventually surfaced from him. “But isn't this what you wanted all along?”
I blinked, not knowing how to respond to that. “No,” I decided to say, “of course that’s not what I want. You’re straight, Scar. As much as I love messing around with you and making you uncomfortable, I don’t ever want you to be someone that you’re not.”
“What if this isn’t who I am?” he asked.
“Huh?”
“This,” he reiterated as he gestured between us, “what if this isn’t what I want to be?”
I swallowed down the lump rising in my throat and shifted uncomfortably in my seat. “Okay, then what do you want to be?”
“I don’t know,” he said after a prolonged period of silence. I didn’t make any effort to respond, simply because I didn’t know how to and also because I was afraid of where this conversation might lead us if I dared to continue it.
As more silence washed over us, Scar grew tired. At one point, he even stretched his arms out and yawned like a little boy. Without realizing it, he fell into my lap and settled in for sleep. It was clear that I wouldn’t be going home tonight, so instead of fighting it, I embraced it.
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