Read Online WORTHY, Part 1 by Lexie Ray - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Lexie Ray
Tags: Romance, Literature & Fiction, Contemporary, Sagas, Short Stories, Contemporary Fiction, Contemporary Women, Women's Fiction, New Adult & College
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crossed the centerline and hit our car head on. They told me that my parents had died instantly, that our car had caught fire in seconds, that if a cop pulled to the side of the road to bust speeding motorists hadn’t been there to pull me through the shattered back window, I would’ve burned alive, the flames licking more than just the side of my face.
Sometimes, I wish I had burned. All of me. It was too hard, much too hard to just keep going, knowing my parents had died while I still lived.
I buried my face in my hands, shuddering on the log in the middle of the woods. The memories were still too fresh, even five years after the fact. They were too terrifying to examine. Too horrifying to share with anyone.
A strong arm around my shoulder made me gasp, but it was insistent on drawing me against Jonathan’s chest. He hugged me, wincing a little at his ribs, but persisting.
“Your parents died in a car crash,” he said, resting his chin on top of my head. Somehow, in this position, I felt safer. The terrible memories were still there—the screech, the screams, the thud, the smell, the heat—but it was as if he were somehow holding them at bay. His arms were protecting me from something inside of my head, and I marveled at the strangeness of it. I’d become so used to protecting myself all these years that it was a relief to have someone else take a crack at it.
“Yes,” I murmured. “My parents died in a car crash.” It felt better to say it like that, to leave the terribly vivid experience out of it. It was as simple as a sentence: My parents died in a car crash. No matter what else might lie behind those words, that was the truth.
“And that’s how you got your scar, too,” Jonathan said, readjusting his hug to bring his fingers close to my face. That was too much. Too much, too soon. I couldn’t handle him touching my scar. I could hardly touch it myself.
I scooted away from him, out of his embrace, and felt immediately bereft. His muscular arms around me felt really, really good—like nothing bad could happen to me. A girl could get used to being in a pair of arms like that.
“I wish I had something to tell you,” he said. “I wish I had an anecdote to tell you that everything would get better, but I can’t remember if I know anyone who died in wrecks. I’m basically a blank slate, Michelle, for better or for worse. My first memory is waking up on your couch, and before that is nothing.”
I hesitated for a moment before I took his hand, squeezing it.
“We’ll get this all figured out somehow,” I said. “Don’t worry.”
“I don’t want to be a burden,” he said. “I want to help around the cottage, in your garden, with the chickens. If I’m going to be a part of your life, to stay with you to try to figure this out, I want it to be an equal partnership.”
I smiled wanly, worn out from my memories. “I’d like that,” I said. I really would. His simple hug had helped me escape the memories that were dragging me down. As long as he didn’t look at my face, didn’t touch it, everything would be just fine.
Chapter Six
Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. Jonathan got stronger, his bruising faded, and the gash on his hairline mended into a thin white scar.
“I think it gives me a mysterious look, don’t you?” he asked, feeling his scar with his fingers.
“Everything about you is a mystery,” I laughed. “You have an overabundance of mystery.”
Work seemed to agree with him, too. He’d been idle too long, I figured, and it had soured his spirit. When he had a list of tasks in front of him, he seemed to be happy. He liked having a goal to achieve and reveled in completing one after the other.
He was learning the ins and outs of the kitchen with my guidance, so that was one good thing. Jonathan enjoyed the same things that I enjoyed—following a recipe but finding ways to put a unique stamp on the end product.
We made bread—which
Sometimes, I wish I had burned. All of me. It was too hard, much too hard to just keep going, knowing my parents had died while I still lived.
I buried my face in my hands, shuddering on the log in the middle of the woods. The memories were still too fresh, even five years after the fact. They were too terrifying to examine. Too horrifying to share with anyone.
A strong arm around my shoulder made me gasp, but it was insistent on drawing me against Jonathan’s chest. He hugged me, wincing a little at his ribs, but persisting.
“Your parents died in a car crash,” he said, resting his chin on top of my head. Somehow, in this position, I felt safer. The terrible memories were still there—the screech, the screams, the thud, the smell, the heat—but it was as if he were somehow holding them at bay. His arms were protecting me from something inside of my head, and I marveled at the strangeness of it. I’d become so used to protecting myself all these years that it was a relief to have someone else take a crack at it.
“Yes,” I murmured. “My parents died in a car crash.” It felt better to say it like that, to leave the terribly vivid experience out of it. It was as simple as a sentence: My parents died in a car crash. No matter what else might lie behind those words, that was the truth.
“And that’s how you got your scar, too,” Jonathan said, readjusting his hug to bring his fingers close to my face. That was too much. Too much, too soon. I couldn’t handle him touching my scar. I could hardly touch it myself.
I scooted away from him, out of his embrace, and felt immediately bereft. His muscular arms around me felt really, really good—like nothing bad could happen to me. A girl could get used to being in a pair of arms like that.
“I wish I had something to tell you,” he said. “I wish I had an anecdote to tell you that everything would get better, but I can’t remember if I know anyone who died in wrecks. I’m basically a blank slate, Michelle, for better or for worse. My first memory is waking up on your couch, and before that is nothing.”
I hesitated for a moment before I took his hand, squeezing it.
“We’ll get this all figured out somehow,” I said. “Don’t worry.”
“I don’t want to be a burden,” he said. “I want to help around the cottage, in your garden, with the chickens. If I’m going to be a part of your life, to stay with you to try to figure this out, I want it to be an equal partnership.”
I smiled wanly, worn out from my memories. “I’d like that,” I said. I really would. His simple hug had helped me escape the memories that were dragging me down. As long as he didn’t look at my face, didn’t touch it, everything would be just fine.
Chapter Six
Days turned into weeks and weeks turned into months. Jonathan got stronger, his bruising faded, and the gash on his hairline mended into a thin white scar.
“I think it gives me a mysterious look, don’t you?” he asked, feeling his scar with his fingers.
“Everything about you is a mystery,” I laughed. “You have an overabundance of mystery.”
Work seemed to agree with him, too. He’d been idle too long, I figured, and it had soured his spirit. When he had a list of tasks in front of him, he seemed to be happy. He liked having a goal to achieve and reveled in completing one after the other.
He was learning the ins and outs of the kitchen with my guidance, so that was one good thing. Jonathan enjoyed the same things that I enjoyed—following a recipe but finding ways to put a unique stamp on the end product.
We made bread—which
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