Has to Be Love Read Free

What it means. How we’d even pay for it if I did decide to go. Well … when I decide to go. Or maybe they won’t have room for me in a year, and that decision won’t need to be made.
    There’s a beat of silence where Dad stares at me because he’s way, way too good at reading me.
    â€œWhat’s on your mind?” he asks.
    I widen my eyes and give him a smile as I stir the sauce. “Dinner.”
    Dad shakes his head and watches me for a moment longer. “How are you feeling about going to Seattle?” he asks.
    â€œGood.” I shrug like it’s just another trip, but I’ve been thinking about it at least as much as Columbia. The trip to Seattle is going to change my life. That’s when the plastic surgeon will work on my scars. Then the world will open up.
    â€œWe could put it off just a little longer if you want. Sometime over the summer or next winter or …”
    I stop stirring and face Dad. “We have our tickets. The appointment is in two weeks. How can you even ask that?” New York isn’t an option this fall, but if I don’t get my face fixed, it won’t be an option for next fall either.
    He scratches his thinning hair, leaving pieces of it up in wisps. “We were always told that there might not be a fix for your scars. I pray there is for your sake. I just don’t want you to be disappoi—”
    â€œAnd times change,” I insist as my neck heats up, spreading embarrassment and anger far too quickly for me to hide my reaction. Even Elias’s kiss couldn’t totally dissolve the comments I heard today. “And that’s not what we were told. We were told we needed to wait until I was older and the scars were fully healed.”
    Dad and I have looked over the website of the plastic surgeon a million times. It’s amazing what he’s done for scarring on other people. And then I wouldn’t have to leave for college until my face looked … normal. That has always been part of my plan.
    Right now I’m an ugly mess.
    My eyebrow is half gone. I’m missing a bit off the corner of my upper lip. Four welted lines mark from the corner of my eye, the edge of my nostril, the top part of my lip and chin. The angry purply-red scars almost touch my eye and have messed up part of my hairline. Only doctors have ever asked me if the scars feel funny, but they do. Both to my fingers and to my face.
    Dad and I stare at one another for a moment longer, both knowing we’ll go, both knowing I won’t relent, and Dad in his dream world thinking I’ll somehow wake up one day okay with looking so freakish.
    I won’t.
    â€œI understand you wanting them gone,” he says. “I just want to make sure you’re happy now too.”
    Right.
    The doorbell rings. I’m off the hook for this conversation.
    But as Dad goes to answer the door, my stomach rolls over. When I meet new people, there’s always staring and then subtle (or not-so-subtle) glances over my face, and sometimes there are questions. Most often are quick, guilty glances followed by avoidance.
    I can’t imagine strangers’ reactions changing so, according to Dad, that puts the burden on me to decide how I feel about their reaction. It’s one of many things I have yet to master. The reality is that it’s really hard to tell myself they’re thinking anything different than the random comments I overhear at school. She’d be maybe even pretty if … It’s the one at the edge of her eye that freaks me out … Wonder if they feel as gross as they look …
    I shove out a breath and pour a half cup of red wine into the spaghetti sauce. The tangy smell of grape and alcohol tickles my nose, and I take a whiff right off the top of the bottle. Dad doesn’t drink, and I’ve never had a drop, but I breathe in deeply again.
    There’s chatter from the entryway, and the new guy says something about