The pressure in my chest tightens as I realize what he’s just done. He’s intentionally sat with the scarred side of his face toward me, his good side facing everyone else.

He trusts me.

The realization makes me ridiculously warm.

“What can I get you?” Kali asks. “Last time we drank together, it was sneaking citrus vodka out of your dad’s liquor cabinet.”

Paul laughs. “I’ve graduated. How about whisky and Coke?”

Kali plops the drink down in front of him before reluctantly moving back down the bar to attend to a gesturing patron.

Several people are still looking our way and whispering, but Paul seems determined to ignore them, and I follow suit.

“So my chili was that bad?” I ask, taking a sip of my wine.

He stabs at his ice with the stir stick. “I had some. It wasn’t awful.”

“It was amazing, and you know it. Take back what you said about me not being able to cook.”

The corner of his mouth turns up slightly. “I found a sandwich in the fridge. I’m guessing you made it for lunch and then took it away because I was hiding like a little bitch?”

I tap my nose. Bingo.

He smirks. “Well, I had a bite of the sandwich. Completely pedestrian.”

“It was turkey and cheddar on wheat. What the hell were you expecting for lunch, some sort of asiago soufflé and escarole salad?”

Paul snorts. “Your New York is showing.”

He has a point. I’ve long been part of the high-priced wine bar and frou-frou café set. Asiago soufflés used to be part of an average Wednesday. Even though I’ve been holed up here in Maine for all of a few weeks, those days feel like they were forever ago. It somehow feels exactly right to be perched on this worn leather stool at a wooden bar that looks older than I am, sitting next to a guy who’s one part beautiful mystery and one part unpredictable beast.

“You can relax,” I say quietly. “Everyone’s gone back to their business.”

“Only because they can’t see the scars from this angle. If they could, they’d be heading toward the door or puking up their onion rings.”

“I see them, and I’m not running toward the door.”

His eyes flick to mine then, and for a second there’s this moment between us.

Kali comes back and the moment’s gone. I don’t resent her. Not really. She represents a normal side of Paul that I haven’t been able to access—his pre-Afghanistan self. And her response to his new appearance couldn’t have been more perfect.

But that doesn’t mean I have to like the way he keeps laughing at every other thing she says, or the way they’re both dropping names of mutual friends I’ve never heard of. Five minutes ago I thought Kali was just about the cutest, nicest thing on the planet—definite Maine BFF material. Now I hate that she’s the cutest, nicest thing on the planet. I also hate the way Paul is smiling so easily around her. He never smiles like that around me.

Pull it together, Olivia. This is what I want for him. A normal social life. Human interaction. Cute girls who can see beyond his scars.

Annnnnnnd now Kali’s hand is on his arm. And he’s not removing it. Awesome. I take a huge sip of wine before leaning in and breaking up the sweet little tête-à-tête.

“Hey, Kali, ladies’ room?” I ask.

She shifts her friendly smile over to me and removes her hand from Paul’s arm—good girl—to point me in the right direction. “Follow the bar along this way, and then take a left. Ladies’ room is at the end of the hall on the right.”

Since the rest rooms are in the opposite direction of the front door, I pass a whole new set of tables and realize I may have been a little bit hasty in my assumption that I’d avoided the worst of people staring at the “new girl.” There’s a couple of middle-aged men in the corner who do that up-and-down leer and are either too crass or too inebriated to care how obvious they are. Whatever. We have those kinds of creeps in New York, too. I move on.

At the table next to them is a group of older women who also give me the once-over, but more with an envious oh-to-be-young-again expression. It’s pretty universal female language, and I give them a friendly smile.

The last table before the bathroom is the rowdiest. It’s a group of guys, close to my own age. They’re all wearing matching sweatshirts with their college name, although by the time I pass their table (to a few tacky whistles, I might add), I still haven’t figured out what the little logo on their sleeve is supposed to be. Crew, maybe? Alas, sports have never been my thing, and I don’t give it another thought.

The guys, however, aren’t as quick to forget me as I am to forget them. I barely make it back into the main room of the bar after going to pee before three of them have me cornered against the wall. Not in a threatening way, not really. They seem more drunk and stupid than menacing, but I’m so not in the mood.

I start to push through when a good-looking guy with an admittedly great—if sharkish—smile gently puts a hand on my arm. “Hey, can we buy you a drink?”

My eyes flick to the table, where there are several half-empty pitchers of beer. “No thanks.” I give him my best not-interested smile and start to walk away again, but he moves so he’s still in front of me. Still not threatening, but increasingly annoying.

I glance around as though surprised. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I somehow give off the vibe that I came back here to be harassed by a group of boys?” It’s a low blow, considering they’re probably about the same age as me, but I mean it to be insulting.