Page 160 of Love Unwritten
“That was an exception.”
“Then make one again. For me.”
She shakes her head.
I slip my hand beneath her shaky chin and lift it. “One time. That’s all I’m asking.” When she doesn’t answer me, I follow up with a strained, “Please?”
She stares up at me with glassy eyes. “Why?”
“Because it’s the one and only time I ever want to hear you call yourself a broken masterpiece.”
I need to hear her sing the lyrics once so I can confirm whether she really believes them herself.
I grab her hand and lead her toward the sitting area, where she gets settled while I take the couch cushion beside her. She drops her pick twice before she takes a deep breath and rolls her shoulders back. “I haven’t sung it in a long time.”
“I don’t care.”
“But I’m out of practice—” Her darty gaze lands on everything but me, so I cradle her face between my hands and force her to look at me.
“I. Don’t. Care.” Reluctantly, I release her and sit back on the couch, silently willing myself to take a few deep breaths.
I have no idea how the song is supposed to sound, but I should’ve known the melody would be somber.
“One time,” she says after pausing her fingerpicking.
“That’s all I need.” I shut my eyes and concentrate.
Her singing starts out so soft, I can hardly hear her over the guitar, but slowly, her voice, raspy from unuse at first, grows stronger, along with her confidence. It’s a stark contrast to the words she sings about herself.
I listen to the way she views her body and the men who disappointed her by making her feel undesirable. I even pick up on the reference to the mirror fragment she has kept for over a decade because she can’t seem to let it go.
I hear every single word of every painful verse, memorizing the lyrics.
Her voice wavers a few times while singing, but I don’t open my eyes. If I do, then I’ll tell her to stop, and I can’t. No matter how much my heart hurts.
The pressure in my chest becomes unbearable, but thankfully, she plays the final chord, and blissful silence follows. When I open my eyes, I find hers screwed closed, her emotional pain etched into every fine line on her face.
I pluck the guitar from her shaky hands and put it on the coffee table before holding her face between my hands.
“I never want to hear you call yourself broken again.”
She tries to look away, but her face is caught between the palms of my hands. “You don’t understand.”
“I understand more than you could ever know.”
“Oh, because you have fifty plus scars all over your body?”
“I may not have ones you can see, but that doesn’t make them any less real.” I tap on my heart.
Whatever defiance she had dies, and she crumples in my arms. “I’m jealous that you can hide them while mine are always there. Every single day I see them, and I’m reminded of all the mistakes I’ve made. Of how weak I was and always will be.”
I want to shake some sense into her, but I kiss the top of her head instead. “You’re one of the strongest people I know.”
“You wouldn’t be saying that if you saw them. They’re…hideous.” Her voice breaks, along with whatever restraint I promised to have before I entered her bedroom.
Screw holding back.
“I want to see them.” My heart beats harder against my chest.