“No,” he grunts, still not looking at me. I lift my brows at the short reply.
“Sir—” I try again.
“I don’t have time to wait for him to cancel the order.”
I let out a sigh and nod to Jeremy. Grabbing a small notepad and pen from my purse, I turn back to the stranger.
“What’s your address so I can mail you a check?”
“No need,” he replies.
“Sir, I’d feel more comfortable paying you back. Please.”
I barely hold back my gasp when he drops a big bag of rice on the belt and turns toward me. The entire right side of his face is covered in scars. The beard hasn’t grown back properly because of the scarring on that side. It’s in patches, leaving some of the brutal-looking flesh visible. It starts from his neck and goes up his cheek and stops at his temple, missing his lips and eye. It looks like burn marks. Regardless of the scars, he’s very good-looking. I glance down and see he also has them on his right arm. I don’t know this man or what happened to him, but my heart hurts regardless.
“Not to mention the scars. You know he has to remember what happened every time he sees them.” The words of one of the old ladies come back to me.
Whatever happened was tragic.
His black eyes penetrate me as he scowls. I swallow nervously, not because of his physical features, but due to the agitated vibes coming from him. I get the sense that feeling is one he usually emits.
“They say it left him a bit… unhinged.”
I force my feet to stay in place and my eyes to focus on his and not the devastating scars marring his otherwise handsome face. His scowl deepens until the corners of his eyes crinkle. I decide to just give in. If he’s kind enough to offer, then I’ll accept. But the next time I see him, I’ll pay him back.
“Thank you.” I reach my hand out to him. “I’m Gwendolyn, but people call me Gwen.”
He doesn’t take it, just looks down at it for a second, then turns away and starts putting more items on the belt, dismissing me. When I look at Jeremy, he’s ringing up the stranger’s items. He looks at me for a moment and gives me a sad smile.
“Thank you, Jeremy,” I say, walking to my shopping cart. “Tell your mom I hope her hip gets better.”
“Will do, Gwen. Stay safe heading home.”
I smile, nod, and with one last look at the man, I turn and push my cart between the sliding doors to my SUV, feeling strangely odd after the encounter with the man with the scars. While it was very nice for him to pay for my purchases, even if it was because he was impatient to be done himself, it was still something you don’t see every day. Normal people would have huffed and puffed as the clerk canceled the order.
When he looked at me with his dark gaze, I not only saw irritation, but also a deep-seated agony. Something so stark, I swear I almost felt the pain from it.
I slip my gloves and hat on when a gust of icy wind blows. Flurries flutter back and forth, leaving a light dusting of white on vehicles. This is the second snowfall since we’ve been here. Although we’re used to the snow, I’ve heard that winters here in Colorado can be quite harsh. Much different than Indianapolis.
I come to a stop and lift the hatch on the back of my Range Rover. I’m putting in the last bag when something has me lifting my head and looking to the side. I watch as the scarred man walks his own cart over to an older model blue pickup truck. He stops, deposits the bags in the back, throws a tarp over them, then pushes the cart back to the front of the store. Although I know he has to feel my eyes on him, he doesn’t look my way. I’m stuck in place as he gets inside his truck, pulls out of the space, and takes off down the road.
It's none of my business, of course, but I can’t help the curiosity that plagues me as I watch him turn the corner out of sight.
What happened to him? Is what one of the old ladies said true? Is he unhinged? What memories were they talking about?
I wipe the thoughts away and climb inside my warm truck.
Stop it, Gwen, I scold myself. It’s not your business. You have your own life you have to worry about.
Starting my truck, I pull away from the market and head back to Mrs. Tanner’s house and my two kids.
“Hey, Mrs. Tanner,” I blurt when the older woman opens the door. “I’m so sorry I took so long. It took longer than I thought it would at the post office.”
She smiles and ushers me inside. “Bah! Don’t you worry, Gwen dear, you know it’s no problem.”
I follow as she walks toward the kitchen. Mrs. Tanner was the first person I met when we moved to town. She’s the secretary at the elementary school where I teach, and took an immediate liking to the kids.
“How were they?” I ask, slipping my keys into my pocket.