Chapter 6

Jory

“People have scars…”I hear the beginning of an episode of Grey’s Anatomy and grin. I’ve binged on this program ever since it came on, and still, hearing one of the characters say something like that touches me somewhere deep inside.

Because while everyone may have scars, some of us have more pronounced ones than others. Mine are not just physical, they’re emotional as well. I spent years in therapy coming to terms with the fact that Dorian’s actions were not my fault, and I was not responsible for the damages he wrought. Still, every once in a while, when I think about the classmates and teachers who lost their lives that night, a frisson of grief and guilt washes through me. What if he was showing signs of his plans and I missed them because I was so enthralled with the fact I had my first-ever boyfriend? Not only that, but I know that there are some in our small community who feel I should have known. How they can even think that is beyond my comprehension. I was only sixteen, I definitely didn’t get any vibe that the cute, built, somewhat quirky boy I was dating was a mass murderer, that’s for dang sure!

Today is one of those days, I guess. Sighing, I roll out of my bed and quickly make it so I can get on with what I have planned. Texting with Bryson last night means I need to call Desi so we can dissect the conversation. I know we might not be able to figure out any nuances since it is text, but Desi is a great sounding board and I need my girl. For obvious reasons, I haven’t dated much since that horrible night, and I’m worried I’m too awkward. I’m definitely guarded after my last experience dating. Desi will be able to ground me and keep me from spiraling out of control.

About everything. My scars. My inability to know what dating protocol is these days. The fact that my hair tends to frizz when the humidity is high. The freckles that dot my nose whenever I get too much sun. Yeah, I need my person today. I just hope she’s not busy.

* * *

“So, tell me again about this fireman?” Desi asks as she flips through a rack of shirts.

“Well, as I’ve already told you, he’s the one who pulled me out of the fire at the Homecoming Dance,” I reply while I search for a new pair of capris to go with the top I already have in my basket. “I always wondered who he was, but the whole surgeries plus healing aspect of things kind of pushed it to the back of my mind.”

“And you ran into him at the diner?” she probes.

I nod my head. “Yeah, when I went there to pick up our lunch.”

“Then you spent time texting last night and he’s asked you on a date,” she confirms.

“Affirmative, Sherlock,” I tease.

Sighing, she asks, “Now you want to make sure you aren’t ‘too awkward’ to date again?”

“Desi, it’s been a long time and you know this,” I state. “Since I did a shitty job that time, I’m a bit gun shy about putting myself out there again.”

“Dorian’s issues weren’t caused by you,” she reminds me, tossing two shirts in the basket. “You need to try those on too.”

Snorting, I query, “Are we buying me a whole new wardrobe?”

“Well, let’s see, I’m a firm believer that a woman needs a variety of choices when it comes to getting ready for a date. Not only that, but your wardrobe consists mainly of scrubs, yoga outfits, jeans, and t-shirts. You need to be dating for at least six months before you switch to those.”

I burst into laughter. She’s not wrong about my clothes, but really, what else should I have? I mean, I do have appropriate clothes for when we have to work a funeral or visitation. But outside of that, I wear comfortable clothes. They’re soft, don’t irritate my skin, and since fashion has never been a high priority for me, I seldom shop. In fact, most of my stuff is ordered online and shipped to me. I may or may not be a bit of a hermit since everything happened.

That’s something else Dorian stole from me. I was a bit shy, of course, since I was a freshman, but I was active in sports, and also involved in several clubs. After, during my healing, I had tutors until I eventually transitioned to online schooling. It was just too painful to see my classmates and know what some of them were probably thinking about me. Plus, I was extremely prone to infection during that first year after I got my skin grafts. It wasn’t ideal, but I was able to work at my own pace, and even took college classes, so by the time I graduated, I had my degree in funeral science.

Desi, however, is the master of the mall. She can sniff out a special and hone in on just the perfect outfit, whether it’s for herself or for me. If she and I wore the same size, she probably would’ve just gone into her closets, yes, plural, as in more than one, and come out with armloads of clothes for me. Thankfully, I’m a size bigger than she is, plus she’s four inches taller than me.

“What if he’s the kind of guy who doesn’t care about clothes?” I ask when I calm myself down.

She wiggles her eyebrows at me then says, “Oh, we haven’t even touched lingerie yet!”

Well, hell. Looks like it’s a good thing I wore my comfortable shoes because this day of shopping, Desi style, is far from over.

* * *

“There’s no way I’ll ever wear all of these,” I tell Desi as we take off the tags of my new clothes so I can wash them before I wear them.

“Yeah, you will,” she teases. “I foresee this thing with Bryson going well for you.”

“From your mouth to God’s ears,” I grumble. When she tosses a shirt at me that smacks me in the face I yell. “Hey, what the heck was that?”

“You need to be kinder to yourself, ma’am. Stop selling yourself short. You’re so freaking awesome that anyone would be lucky to have you as their girlfriend.”

I roll my eyes since she can’t see me, but don’t respond. I feel like she’s using the best friend code that clearly states a best friend is supposed to be your biggest cheerleader. “You act like this is a done deal. We haven’t even gone out once yet, Desi, so I think you’re being a bit… premature, don’t you?”

“Pfft. Whatever,” she retorts. “I think this is going to be good all the way around for several reasons. You want to hear them?” she questions, adding two more shirts to the bulging pile. At this rate, I’ll be washing clothes for the next two days, minimum.

“As if you didn’t plan to share,” I say while giggling.

“First and foremost, he knows what you went through, so he knows you probably have scars. If something like that bothered him, he wouldn’t have asked you out. That means he’s not shallow since if he was, again, he wouldn’t have asked you out. Next, you’re funny, you’re pretty, and he’d be nuts not to want to be with you.”

“You have to say that, you’re my best friend,” I tease. “It’s in the code.”

“Whatever. You’re just scared because your first boyfriend was a sociopath and he hid it so well, no one in town picked up on it. Not his parents, not his friends, not his teachers. Yet somehow, you seem to think you should have when in reality, y’all only went out one or twice a week. You spent most of your time on the phone, and of course, were together with group activities. Of course, he wasn’t going to show his crazy, Jory. Hell, even the most well-known serial killers are able to hide it for a little while, Jor.”

Since this is a familiar song of ours, I shrug. “I know, I know. And my therapists told me often enough as well. Maybe when I’m ninety years old, it’ll sink in, Des.”

“Well, get your shit together. You’ve got a hottie to hook and reel in.”

“Jeez, your analogies and metaphors are all over today. Is your blood sugar low or something?”

She starts snickering, then starts laughing so hard, she falls over on the bed, her hand slapping against my comforter while she tries to get herself under control. “You’re so funny, Jory. He’s gonna love you.”

* * *

Later that night, with the last of four loads finally put away, I flop onto my bed and groan. My feet and calves hurt from all the walking we did earlier while shopping, and my arms ache because of the countless baskets of clothes I washed. But, unless we get new customers in, I have a clean home, my laundry’s done, and I can dive into a new book or three if Bryson doesn’t reach out.