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Connie let the water run down on her from the shower head after she'd finished. The hot water felt wonderful after such a long day. She turned off the water, wrapped her hair in one towel and grabbed another for her body. While she'd been in there, she'd gone back over what Emily had said. Her sister was right. She needed to tell him, and tell him now. She tucked in the corner of the towel and stepped into the hallway, then tiptoed down the hall to her room.
Connie clapped a hand over her mouth to stifle a yell when she found Simon in the room. She hadn’t thrown on a robe because she assumed he'd still be downstairs, listening for the shower and then giving her time to dry and dress. For a moment, she couldn’t say anything. She watched him watching her, then saw his eyes move downward. Suddenly she was mortified; although the towel covered her, her scar was visible.
Simon studied the scar. It wasn’t so bad, he thought. It ran from just above her ankle all the way up her leg, the top part on her thigh hidden under her towel. It reminded him slightly of a rope, but otherwise it just looked like a thick line. It had faded some, he figured, because it was almost a shiny pink as opposed to a red or dark pink. He remembered getting his appendix out and the way the scar had first looked. Years later, it was smaller and had turned to the same light shade as hers.
Connie made a strangled sound in her throat and Simon yanked his eyes back up to her face. He felt terrible when he saw her blush with embarrassment. There was no reason for it.
"Connie." He took a step towards her. She shook her head and tried to press herself into the wall.
"Please," she said, her voice tight. "I need . . . I need to get dressed."
"Connie, you—we—can't keep running away like this. We have to talk." He kept his voice even and comforting as he stood before her.
"What's to talk about?" Her shoulders slumped. Now that he'd seen it, he'd never be interested in her again, she was sure. It's good we're only pretending, she thought. If it had been for real and he told me he didn't want me, I don't know if I could take it.
"What happened last Friday, for one thing," he said.
"That was . . . an accident." She couldn’t meet his eyes. "A nice accident, but we both know it didn’t mean anything . . . more than that. You were trying to comfort me, and I appreciated it. I still do."
Simon was silent, watching her. She didn't really think that, he was sure. She was . . . well, he didn't know what she was doing. Staving off embarrassment? Letting him down easy? Avoiding her feelings?
"How do we know that?" He took another step closer. "You haven't asked me. I haven't asked you. So how do we know?"
Connie had no idea what to say. She was battling two competing impulses. One urged her to be honest with Simon, the other called for more caution. But was there anything left to be cautious about? Was there any going back to their former friendship after what had happened? She realized that Simon had not agreed with her "accident" statement; instead, he'd questioned it. The glimmer of hope she'd had in the shower resurfaced.
"What happened in the kitchen?" he asked. "What did your mom say?"
"Oh." Connie was startled at the change in subject. "Mom, um . . . ." She took a deep breath and gave him a shaky smile. "She pointed out some of my flaws, and I think was trying to prepare me for the idea that I'm not good enough for you." She tried to joke, but her smile was gone when she finished speaking.
"What?!" Simon gripped her shoulders.
"She invited Ben here because she thought since I had my scar and he'd lost his arm, we'd have something in common." Connie couldn't keep the anger out of her voice entirely. "Imperfect people, perfect for each other, I guess."
Simon let her go and paced the room. Connie clutched at her towel but didn't move. When he stopped and faced her again, she was struck by the intensity in his eyes.
"Connie, I don’t want to pretend any more. It's not working."
Connie nodded. Of course. Emily had been wrong. "All right," she said, surprised she could speak. "I'll just throw some clothes on and go downstairs. I can sleep on the couch and get up before Mom does. She'll never know."
"Why would you do that?" Simon asked, nonplussed.
"It's easier." She glanced at him but looked away. "But, um, I think maybe we should keep things up for the next couple of days, at least during the day, okay? I just couldn't take explaining things."
"No, Connie." He placed his hands on her shoulders. "You misunderstood."
"You said you didn’t want to keep pretending," she said, puzzled. His hands felt warm and a little rough on her bare shoulders. She tried to focus on the words instead.
"That's right." He smiled. "I want to do this for real, Connie. I want to be your boyfriend for real."
"You do?"
He nodded. "I should have said it a long, long time ago. I especially should have said something after last weekend. I was afraid you would think I was only saying it out of obligation, so I held off. I'm sorry." He raised his hand to her face, and stroked her cheek with his thumb. "I love you, Connie. Very much."
"I love you, too," she said. "I wanted to say it, but I was afraid of messing up what we had."
"I had the same feeling," Simon said with a laugh. "God, we're a couple of idiots, aren't we?"
Connie nodded. "I guess so." Then she got nervous again. "You're not . . . bothered?" She gestured at her leg. "By this?"
"God, no." He leaned in and kissed her. He meant it to be gentle and reassuring, but then he was holding her tightly, kissing her deeply. When they broke apart, he rested his forehead on hers. "I was so scared that night. I thought you would die. I had nightmares about it for years. The only thing that says to me is that you're alive and I should never take you for granted."
Connie was silent as she stood with her arms around him. She was trembling with relief and happiness.
"I think we should finish what we started, don't you?" Simon asked. His eyes were nearly black with desire, and Connie loved it.
"I'll lock the door and get the light."
Simon heard the click of the lock, and watched her turn out the overhead light. One small reading lamp on a nightstand provided soft lighting.
"Come here," Simon said before she could turn that one off. She did, and he could tell she was nervous. He took her hands and turned her so that she faced him with her back against the wall. "I love you, Connie," he said, and found her lips with his.
Connie melted into his arms. She was exhausted and more than content to let him hold her up.