“We probably shouldn’t tell Rory and Lucah,” I said as we strolled through the falling snow. The streets were relatively quiet, making the whole experience feel like it was just the two of us.
“About what?” he asked.
“About the walk. I’m not sure if it’s on the list of approved activities for you.”
He looked at me out of the corner of his eye. “They gave you a list of things I was allowed to do?”
I nodded, keeping my face totally serious. “Yes, they did.”
“And what was on the list?”
“Checkers. Chess. Reading the Bible. Scrimshaw. Poetry.”
He raised his eyebrows. It was hard to keep a straight face.
“Really? Scrimshaw? Now that’s a hobby I could definitely get into.”
“You don’t even know what scrimshaw is,” I said, poking him with my elbow.
“No, I have no idea.”
We kept walking, matching each other’s pace. The snow was melting in his hair, coating the strands with little bits of water that picked up the light.
“Can I ask you a question?” I said, looking ahead again. I didn’t want to stare too much at him. He scrambled my brain and killed my common sense.
“Sure,” he said.
“How did you get that scar on your face? I’ve never asked.” I’d wanted to ask so many times, but he’d always been so touchy about his past.
Ryder ran a finger down the cut on the side of his cheek. To be that long and deep, it had to have quite the story.
“It’s stupid. The reason I don’t tell anyone is because I’d rather have them think that I got it in a street fight or something. That’s much better for my cred than the real story.” He did have a point, but I didn’t care about his cred. I cared about who he really was.
“Okay, well, I won’t tell anyone so you can keep up your cred. But I want to know. I promise I won’t think it’s stupid.”
He thought about it for a second, fighting with himself.
“You are well aware I’ve done a lot of stupid things. A lot of beyond stupid things. It’s honestly a miracle I’ve survived this long. I seem to attract danger. Or maybe I seek it.”
“I think it’s a little bit of both,” I said, interrupting. “But continue.”
“When I was seventeen I got drunk and put my head through a window. There was this one shard of glass that got me. Most of the other scars on my face have faded, but that one’s here to stay.” He touched the scar again then put his hand back in his pocket.
“Why did you put your face through a window?” There were so many possible scenarios.
He looked up at the sky and his face got red.
“See? This is why I don’t like talking about this. I did it on a dare. A very drunk dare. I told you I was stupid.” Yeah, that was pretty stupid. Sure, we’d all done dumb things when we were young, but I couldn’t put that on my own list of moronic decisions.
“Ouch. It must have hurt.”
“It did. When I sobered up.” He grinned and we both started laughing.
“Can I ask you something?” he said after a few more steps.
“Fire away.”
“Why don’t you hate me?” Whoa. I wasn’t prepared for that. I thought he was going to ask something about my own mistakes. I had plenty and I was willing to talk about most of them, though some things I’d buried in the back of my mental closet, never to be seen or heard from again.