Page 48 of Scars of Anatomy

Red Light

I shift in the driver’s seat, trying my best to get comfortable, my ass numb and body stiff from the five-hour drive.

I blink a few times and reach for the coffee in the cup holder, gulping down the remaining cold contents.

Olivia offered to drive for a while, but I refused, letting her rest since we woke up at the crack of dawn to leave.

Glancing to my right, I catch a glimpse of her curled up adorably in the passenger seat, her long hair slicked back into a ponytail, revealing the side of her face that isn’t pressed to the window.

Her elbow is planted on the door, her fist under her chin as her dark lashes rest against her cheeks.

She tried her best to stay awake for my sake, but the blur of the scenery passing by won, lulling her to sleep.

We left her house early this morning, the day after Christmas, to head to Florida and get there just before noon, to enjoy as much sun as possible. We ended up taking her car because no way were we making the drive on my motorcycle, especially at this time of year.

Christmas just so happened to fall on the Wednesday right after finals, and I spent the holiday with her and her family instead of locked up in my dorm like previous years.

Just like Thanksgiving, spending the holiday with her family was amazing.

It was literally perfect, like something straight out of one of those cheesy family Christmas movies.

I glance down at the dash and notice the needle of the gas gauge flirting with the large E , telling me we need to stop for gas. And to stretch , I think as I shift in my seat for the umpteenth time, feeling a twinge of pain in my lower back.

I drive until I find a decent enough gas station, then pull in and fill the tank.

Locking the car doors with Olivia still asleep inside, I jog inside the small gas station to grab us some drinks and snacks, and on my way to the cash register I pass the cheap liquor section and grab a bottle of the nicest wine they have, which is less than ten dollars, if that says anything.

Thankfully, I don’t think Olivia drinks often, if ever, so hopefully she won’t notice the low-end bottle.

I just want to make tonight and this little vacation special.

Since last week, aka the best night of my life, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about Olivia and how perfect that night was.

But despite it being perfect, it was far from romantic.

I can’t help but think about how she deserves more, and I want to give her more.

The best. She deserves flowers, candles, wine, and a decently sized bed, and I’ll be damned if I don’t give her at least that much.

I want—need—to show her how much she means to me and how much that night meant to me too.

I’m determined to make our second time beyond perfect.

I walk up to the register and the man behind the counter looks zoned out, a far-off look in his eyes. He’s tall, rail thin, disheveled, and the scabs on his arms are a telltale sign that he’s a total drug addict.

I set my things down on the counter with a thud to grab his attention. His blank eyes slowly find mine and wordlessly, mechanically, he starts scanning my items.

“ID,” he asks after scanning the wine, and I’m honestly surprised he bothered to ask.

I grab my wallet from my back pocket and pull out my driver’s license, handing it over.

He glances at it, not even really looking.

Just before he goes to hand it back, something catches his eye and he snaps the little plastic card back a few inches in front of his face, examining it intently.

Something actually seems to start churning in his empty brain, making me uneasy.

“Any day, pal,” I snap, wondering why he’s staring at my ID like that.

He blinks and reluctantly hands me back my card. I slide it into my wallet and pull out my credit card, shoving it in the card reader before he can rattle off the total. As soon as the transaction is approved I gather up my things, not bothering to stay a second longer to ask this weirdo for a bag.

I jut my hip into the handrail of the door, pushing it open and getting the hell out of there, that guy giving me beyond creepy vibes. As quietly as I can, I open the back door of Olivia’s car and dump everything into the back seat before jumping back behind the wheel.

As soon as I turn the key and the engine rumbles to life I hear Olivia take in a deep breath through her nose, and look over to see her stir.

Tiredly, her eyes flutter open, and she sits up straight, getting her bearings.

Her eyes flicker over to me, and I can’t help but chuckle at how adorably sleepy she looks with the small red mark on her cheek from it being pressed against the window.

“What?” she asks through a yawn, stretching a bit, her stiff bones cracking.

“Nothing. You’re just really cute.”

She blushes slightly, rolling her eyes.

I grab her chin and pull her lips to mine, kissing her longingly. I only cut the kiss short because I still feel perturbed by the creepy gas station guy, needing to get as far away from here as possible.

“How much longer?” Olivia asks as soon as we pull onto the main road.

“We’re about thirty minutes out from the hotel,” I inform her, reaching over to grab her hand and bringing it to my lips.

“When we get there do you want to unpack and rest before grabbing some lunch? Then maybe we can head to the beach?” she asks, and I can hear the excitement in her voice. She’s been dying to go to the beach, talking about it nonstop for the last couple of days.

I can’t help but smile against the back of her hand. “Whatever you want.”

Her caramel-colored hair flies in the wind and the skirt of her navy dress whips against her thighs in the slight breeze, flaring out when she twirls around in a circle.

Pure happiness is written across her face as her bare feet pad around in the wet sand, the waves lapping at her feet whenever the tide rolls back in.

She looks so effortlessly beautiful, her head carelessly thrown back as a wide, blissful smile consumes her face.

The sun is setting around us, the blue sky streaked with various pinks and oranges. Behind her, the ocean and the sunset create the perfect backdrop. I don’t know if I’ll ever see or experience anything as beautiful in comparison again.

She straightens, smiling at me over her shoulder while holding out her hand, beckoning me closer. So much life lights up her eyes that looking into them I feel like I’ve hardly lived.

More than willing, I walk up behind her, wrapping my arms around her waist and resting my chin on her shoulder. I kiss the shell of her ear, and she leans back into my chest, a content sigh leaving her lips.

“Is it everything you dreamed it would be?” I tease, knowing how excited she had been.

“Definitely,” she says, a lazy smile gracing her lips.

I plant a series of kisses along her neck as she watches the ocean and the sky changing colors beyond it.

“Did you come to this beach often?” she asks, and I know she’s lightly probing me for answers about my childhood.

“Once or twice,” I admit vaguely, my lips still attached to her neck. “I rarely ever came to the beach.”

It’s true, I’ve only been to the beach a handful of times.

Most of those were when I was in high school, sneaking out to attend parties late at night that were typically busted by the cops.

None of my foster parents were fans of that.

But I imagine in Olivia’s head the experiences I’ve had here are filled with family fun and sunshine.

She hums in acknowledgment. “Maybe one day you could show me around all the places you used to go to. Your house, school, wherever,” she says, and I can hear the hesitancy and nervousness in her voice, knowing I won’t be too keen on the idea.

I sigh into her shoulder and gently spin her around to face me, brushing her hair out of her face.

“I wish I could, but I can’t even count the number of different houses and schools I was shipped off to when I was a kid.

I never stayed in one place for long, and all the houses I stayed in with my mother were either abandoned or shitty apartments owned by her lousy boyfriends.

I don’t want you to see that,” I admit shamefully.

I watch her eyes fill with sadness. She takes my face in her hands, standing on her tiptoes to place a tender, understanding kiss on my lips. “Okay,” she whispers, resting her cheek against my chest, her arms wound tightly around my waist.

I stroke her hair, resting my chin on top of her head. Heavy silence falls between us; the only sounds are the waves crashing on the shore.

“Do you want to see your grandmother at all?” she asks, breaking the silence.

I close my eyes, holding my breath. “Would you be mad if I didn’t want to see her?”

She hesitates for a moment. “No.” I can tell she’s lying, that me not wanting to see my grandmother is bothering her—which is bothering me because I don’t want to disappoint her.

“I just don’t want you to regret it one day when it’s too late,” she admits softly into my chest, and my arms instinctively tighten around her.

Oh my sweet girl.

Would I regret it one day? Probably not.

But then my mind oddly drifts off to ten years from now, when I have a house of my own and a family, a couple of kids running around.

Two little girls with big honey-colored eyes and caramel-colored hair swim into my vision, and my stomach tightens as I think of the day they ask about their grandmother, and possibly their great-grandmother, along with other aspects of my life.

While I may never allow them to meet their low-life grandmother, and I have no clue who their grandfather is, maybe I could at least give them a positive outlook about their great-grandmother.

I take a deep breath before exhaling slowly. “All right.”