They’d stare, trying to figure out why my right jaw looked slightly different than my left jaw. They’d try to hide that they were looking, but they’d keep glancing at my left cheek, guessing about what could’ve left such a deep notch just below my cheekbone. Then they would wonder if the deafness in my right ear had anything to do with what was going on with my face.

No one had to ask those questions, but I knew that was what they were thinking.

“He’s a really great guy,” Avery continued, squeezing my arm gently. “He’s super nice and very cute. I’ve told you how cute he is, right?”

Ducking my chin, I smiled—smiled as best as I could, which always looked fake or like I was smirking. I couldn’t get the corner of the left side of my mouth to work right. “Yes, you’ve mentioned that a few times.” I sighed as I forced my hands off the steering wheel. “I’m sorry. I’m ready.”

Avery stepped back as I hit the button, closing the window. Turning my car off, I grabbed my burnt-orange purse off the seat. I had a thing for purses. Truly the one thing I splurged on, and I could throw down some ridiculous money on a purse. As in, that autumn-themed Coach purse was by far not the most expensive one I’d bought.

I stepped out into the cool, late September evening air, wishing I’d worn something heavier than the thin black turtleneck, but the light sweater looked good with the black, knee-high boots, and I was actually trying tonight. You know, putting effort into how I looked, which meant I would hopefully put effort into this date.

“You need to stop apologizing.” Avery looped her arm through my left one. “Trust me. Take it from someone who used to be a habitual apologizer of the secular order. You don’t need to apologize when you haven’t done anything wrong.”

I lifted my brows. I knew Avery had a pretty messed-up past. For the longest time, I’d had no idea what had happened to her, but about five years ago, she’d confided in me. Hearing what she had gone through, even though it was vastly different than what had happened to me, had helped. Especially seeing her moved on from such a traumatic event, happy and healthy, and in love.

Avery was the proof that scars, whether physical or emotional, could be not just a representation of survival but also a story of hope.

“Yeah, but you guys have been waiting for me,” I said, reaching around my neck and gathering up the long strands of hair. I brought them around my left shoulder, so the thick curtain of hair fell forward. “I’m almost twenty-seven years old. You shouldn’t have to come get me out of my car.”