Page 3 of Our Sadie

And there’s nothing any of us can do about it.

TWO: Panty-Melting Fantasy

SADIE: DECEMBER—PRESENT DAY

I raise the fingers on my left side to scratch at a place on my chin, but when the cinched-up claw of flesh that used to be my hand doesn’t respond like it should, I have to switch to my right. You’d think after living with these injuries for so long that I’d remember. Yet even now after years of physical and occupational therapy, sometimes, my body still believes I’m a lefty.

It’s a real pain in my ass.

Dragging my thick puffy down coat from the nearby closet, I open up the side-by-side double doors at the front of this chalet. The icy winter breeze that zips through my bad hand has me stuffing it into my pocket for protection.

Ever since waking up in the ICU, I’ve experienced a hell of lot more sensitivity to extreme temperatures, and despite the lack of sensation in the hand itself, I still shiver.

The three men standing grouped together outside on the circle drive are any normal young woman’s panty-melting fantasy. And while I might match the other criteria, I can’t claim to be normal. Not since my appearance now singles me out as anything but.

I regard the men as they disembark from the army-green Toyota Sequoia with knobby tires I bought. This part of the Northeast believes in practicality over flashiness, and I’m thankful for it. Wearing high-end styles and riding in limos are more prevalent at home in Boston.

But here, the terrain and common-sense values of the New Hampshirites dictate behavior far more than whatever new toy or outfit celebrities and socialites are indulging in.

Still, the Starlight Chalet, my family’s vacation home, is anything but uncomfortable. It might have a roughhewn cedar exterior—the reminiscent scent of it awakens my childhood memories as I inhale—but its expansive layout and plush furnishings still place its residents in the lap of luxury. My parents spared no expense.

Nerves shouldn’t be an issue since I selected each of these men, yet the butterflies attacking my stomach lining like miniature kamikazes must not have received the memo.

Or maybe they have.

Because I’ve met my chosen trio already, even went so far as to go on individual outings with each of them. Therefore, they’re aware of my burns. They’ve seen the patchwork of scars spreading over the left side of my face and neck. And they couldn’t have missed the drawn-up nature of my wrist and hand or the discolored flesh covering them.

But even if I should feel confident that they didn’t turn down this job because of how I look, I’m not.

Mainly because none of them have been exposed to the full extent of the damage. If I’m to get to know them and attempt to find at least one to conduct a romantic relationship with, they’ll have to accept my body as-is.

Yet my body as-is isn’t for the faint of heart.

It doesn’t help that these men are literal specimens who are at their physical peaks. Although this means they’re easy on the eyes, that only increases my anxiety and trepidation about going forward. In fact, I’m downright queasy over it.

Not that they’ll ever know.