Page 3 of Ugly Truths (The Veiled Truths Trilogy #2)

It took a few days for me to be conscious enough for Lauren to show me the seared strands, melted and jagged. We watched enough videos to correct it with a pair of kitchen scissors. All things considered, it’s a nice shoulder-length cut now, though I do miss the length.

The burns took time, however. Some healed completely, the skin smoothing over. Others haven’t, pale and puckered, though I still see improvements with the ointments and lotions Lauren suggested I use.

I can’t look at them. Every line and mark reminds me of the pain and my failure. Nights spent shivering in the throes of a fever, Lauren or Jeff petting my hair while I cried, both for how I felt inside and out.

Peter got away, and worse than that, I left behind two people who now think I’m dead, a liar, or both.

Blinking, I shake my head. Thinking about what I left behind won’t change anything. It never does. As hard as it is, I try to focus on what came after.

While I was healing, Luis orchestrated a network of friends to transport me by car across multiple states when I was well enough to travel.

Each ride brought me closer to Colorado, the handoffs strategically conducted in secluded areas in the darkness of night.

When I finally arrived three hours outside of Alma, Luis was waiting for me.

I’ll never forget the relief in his eyes when he saw me get out of that final car. I was barely out of the backseat, half delirious from the nap I’d been in the middle of, when he wrapped me in his arms, trying his best to avoid the injuries I’d told him about countless times on the phone.

Our reunion was cut short as he ushered me into his car.

Luis was the only one who knew his home’s exact location and was extra cautious in the final stretch, taking routes that doubled back and looped to ensure we weren’t followed.

Even then, I don’t think I breathed fully for those first few nights in the guest room.

I have so much to be thankful for. People like Jeff, who didn’t even argue when I told him I couldn’t tell him where I was going or give him a way to contact me. People like Luis, who gave me a place to get back on my feet. But gratitude doesn’t stop those other voices in my head .

They still scream.

I release a shaky breath and strip off the last of my clothes.

The bathroom fills with steam. I don’t bother testing the water with my hand before stepping in.

It scalds away the grime from my shift and the weight of my thoughts.

The sting is welcome against my scars. Even if it’s only for a few minutes, it seems to drown out almost everything besides the ache in my chest I didn’t think was possible to still feel so deeply.

I probably stay in the shower too long, selfishly wasting Luis’s hot water. By the time I’ve gotten dressed, deposited my dirty clothes in the hamper, and brushed out my hair, my stomach is growling loud enough to echo in the quiet bedroom.

I head back into the hallway and descend the stairs, counting each step out of habit. Fourteen to the bottom.

Getting used to Luis’s home has been an adjustment, to say the least. It wasn’t until I started working and contributing to groceries that I began to feel more settled.

At first, he vehemently refused my money, but I wore him down quickly by hiding cash under his leftovers, tucking it beneath his car keys, or slipping it into his wallet when he wasn’t looking.

Eventually, he realized that the faster he gave in, the smoother things would go between us. We’ve found a routine now, even though we’re on almost opposite schedules most of the time.

The cabin has all the charm you’d expect without being overly kitschy or drowning in wood paneling.

The walls are a mix of warm, neutral tones and subtle stonework, and the living area has high ceilings with large windows that flood the space with natural light.

Luis has kept the decor simple–just a comfortable couch, a couple of well-worn armchairs, some bookshelves, and a coffee table that looks like it's seen more than its fair share of late-night drinks. It’s not fancy by any means, but it’s comfortable. Normal.

Before I even reach the kitchen, the rich, warm smell of coffee drifts toward me. I smile.

Luis has come out of his cave.

Rounding the corner, I find him with his back turned, pouring coffee into a ceramic mug. The sight is still a little surreal to me. Though we met in person on a contract, most of our friendship has been him on the other end of a phone call or text thread.

Luis is a couple of inches taller, with the kind of face that immediately puts people at ease.

Handsome, sure, but not intimidating. His hair is shorter now than it was a few years ago, but the wild curls are starting to push through again with a few streaks of gray at his temples.

His tan skin is a shade of warm brown that reminds me of Arizona summers.

“You’re alive,” I tease, heading straight for the refrigerator.

Luis glances over his shoulder at me, the corners of his brown eyes crinkling. His smile is his best feature: big, warm, and entirely genuine.

“Barely,” he replies, voice thick from hours of silence.

As I poke through the fridge, he reaches around me for the half-gallon of milk, his bicep brushing against my shoulder as he pulls it out. I grab the container of pasta salad I made earlier in the week and close the door with my hip.

“How was your shift?”

I shrug, fishing a fork from the drying rack. “Fine.”

Luis turns, cradling his mug in both hands. I can feel his eyes on me as I stab a bite of pasta. Finally, I look up, leaning against the counter with the Tupperware balanced in one hand and the fork in the other.

“Do you like it there?” he asks, tilting his head slightly.

“It’s good.”

The truth is, the work is tolerable. Long hours and customer service aren’t exactly my calling, but it’s better than what I used to do. It's safe, and that isn’t something I’ve felt when it comes to work in a long time.

Luis studies my face; he does this often, trying to read me like a book I didn’t agree to open.

It’s only when his eyes land on the side of my neck, where the edge of a burn scar creeps out from under my shirt, that I realize where he's trying to direct this conversation, as he has several times in the past few weeks.

“Don’t,” I say almost too fast .

Luis exhales, his shoulders sagging. “I know I’ve said this before,” he begins carefully, “but Colorado’s a popular place for veterans to settle down after they leave the military. There are therapists here who specialize in PTSD. It might be time to start thinking about talking to someone.”

The words land like a detonating bomb, and all I can think to do is turn around to set the pasta down on the counter, creating space between us as I struggle to keep the panic from spilling over into anger.

“I’m not ready,” I snap, gripping the edge of the stone counter.

The silence that follows is suffocating, but what else is there for him to say? He doesn’t understand this, not that I’ve been able to find the words to explain it to him.

Luis’s voice is gentle when he speaks again. “It’s never going to feel like the right time,” he pauses, “I know it’s hard. Scary. But it’s the path forward.”

He’s right, of course, but just because it’s true doesn’t make it easy to do.

There is a decade's worth of unforgivable actions I’ve taken and selfish choices I’ve made.

Nightmares that I’ve been pushing down into that well inside of me that once felt infinite but now threatens to spill over at any slight movement.

Confronting it will only make it overflow and drown me.

“Maybe one day,” I concede, the lie coming easily, “but not now.”

There’s another long pause while I stare at the countertop.

“Okay.”

His quiet acceptance feels both a relief and a disappointment. I’ve spent so long fighting against people who pushed me—Peter, Silas, even myself—that I don’t know what to do with someone who lets me set the pace.

There's a sudden pressure on the edges of my shoulders before his arms wrap around the top of mine from behind.

Luis rests his chin lightly on my shoulder. His warmth is comforting, and for a moment, I let myself lean back into it, closing my eyes and exhaling shakily .

“I just want you to feel better,” he murmurs.

“I know,” I whisper, reaching up to awkwardly pat his forearm. “I appreciate it. When I’m ready, I’ll tell you. I promise.”

He holds me for another long moment before stepping back, hands lingering briefly on my shoulders before dropping away. “I know.”

Ceramic slides against granite as Luis picks up his coffee mug and heads back to his office, giving me the space I didn’t ask for, but he knows I need.

And for a while, I stand there, staring at my uneaten food, wondering if there will be a day when I feel like I can face all of the damage I’ve done.