Because of You

Coffee Standards

"Don't make this harder than it has to be," I told him. "It's a towel."

Bellamy's expression turned incredulous. "Me? I'm the one making this difficult?"

I didn't answer, and I didn't get out of the car. I waited.

He stared at me and I stared back determinedly. It was a war of will; who would break first. A minute passed.

Bellamy released a long, hapless sigh and opened his door.

I led the way to the front of the house and retrieved my keys, then gestured for him to go first.

Inside it was dark, and I flicked on the entry lights. The emptiness of the place seemed to house its own chill and I shivered.

Bellamy's eyes scanned the house, gaze going to the vaulted ceiling. He looked around as if expecting someone to emerge. "Where's your mom?"

I shrugged and motioned him to follow me up the stairs. "Work."

"What time is she off?"

"I don't know. Sometimes midnight. Sometimes the following day. It changes with her surgeries."

Bellamy didn't seem to have anything to say to that but I cast a look behind at him, in time to catch the frown on his face. He looked down and stopped. "We're tracking in mud."

I grimaced, but waved my hand. "Don't worry about it. I'll get it later. Bathroom's up here." I climbed the rest of the stairs and led him to it. I went to the closet and grabbed a pile of towels.

"I can take your shirt," I said in the bathroom, and at his look of surprise, my face instantly flushed. "To put in the dryer, I mean," I quickly amended, swallowing my embarrassment.

Bellamy shook his head, drops of water flying from his hair. He snatched one of the towels. "Bad time if your mom decided to show up," he said, as he went to pull off his shirt. He looked back at me. "Do you mind?"

I twisted away instinctively, and held out my hand behind me for the shirt, giving him privacy. The sodden cloth dropped into my hand and I left him in the bathroom to toss it in the machine.

Once finished with that, I hurried to my own room and peeled off my layer of clothes, replacing them with a warm cotton sweater. I left my wet jeans on and hurried back to the bathroom.

Bellamy was facing the mirror, masked by the towel he was using to dry his hair. He turned slightly until his back was to me, completely bare.

I stared, but not for the reason girls stared at boys.

I stared because no one could help but notice the carved portrait that was his back.

Decorated across his shoulder blades were ugly gashes. Thick, old welts rose over his skin in ribbons. There were other scars, too. Smaller. Rounder. But all were ghastly, forming an eclectic assortment of old wounds I couldn't fathom the cause of. Some resembled the imprint of a belt while others looked more like burns. Others like crescent moons, adorning his skin.

A quiet breath left me, like the sight had physically forced the air out of my chest.

But it was enough for Bellamy to hear.

He whirled to face me, the towel resting around his neck.

My lips were open, my mouth going dry for the second time today. No clear thought entered my mind. "What . . ." My voice snapped in half. "What's—?"

"It's nothing," Bellamy said. He dropped the bunched part of the towel so it fell more like a cape, covering the scars. He looked at the floor as if searching for his shirt, momentarily forgetting it was in the dryer.