The Scar

I

The kitchen was quiet except for the soft tick of the wall clock and the distant rush of waves against the cliff. Paul sat at the table in his usual spot, nursing a mug of coffee, already dressed for work—blue suit, white shirt, charcoal tie.

Laurie sat across from him, sipping her own coffee.

They talked the way long-married couples do when the day is just beginning. Weekend plans. The grocery list. Whether the gutters needed clearing before the rainy season.

“Did you call the plumber?” she asked.

“Yeah, he’s coming Saturday,” Paul said. “We’ll have to be here.”

When he finally stood, he stepped close so she could finish his tie. Laurie set her mug down and reached up, fingers moving automatically—straighten the collar, slide the knot up, smooth the fabric.

Her eyes drifted to his face.

There, on his chin, just off-center, was a thin, pale scar.

“What happened there?” she asked, her thumb hovering near it.

Paul touched his chin. “This? I’ve always had it.”

She frowned. “No, you haven’t.”

He laughed. “Laurie, come on. I’ve had this since I was a kid. You’re just noticing it now.”

But that wasn’t true.

She knew his face. She’d watched it change over the years—the new lines, the tired eyes, the way his smile had softened.

She would have noticed a scar.

She finished the knot, her hands a little slower now.

“You’re sure?”

“Positive.” He kissed her forehead. “I gotta go.”

He grabbed his briefcase and headed for the door. Laurie watched him walk down the hall, get into his car, and pull away along the narrow road that hugged the cliff.

When the house fell still again, she touched her own chin, tracing the place where his scar had been.

She took a sip of coffee and stared at the empty doorway.

II

Laurie spent the day the way she always did. She watered the plants on the sunroom porch, wiped down the kitchen counters, then settled into the living room with a book.

By late afternoon, the sky had turned the soft gold that came before dusk. She heard Paul’s car climbing the narrow road, gravel crunching beneath the tires.

She closed her book and stood.

The front door opened.

Paul stepped inside and set his briefcase beside the entryway. The weariness of another workday had begun to show around his eyes.

He crossed the room, leaned in, and kissed her lightly on the cheek.

Laurie blinked.

Paul always kissed her forehead when he came home.

Always.

He drew back, his smile fading.

“Everything okay?”

Laurie hesitated.

“Yeah,” she said. “Just a long day.”

“If you say so.”

He headed into the kitchen.

As he reached for a glass, he loosened his tie with one hand.

Laurie watched him.

Blue.

She frowned.

That morning she’d straightened a charcoal tie beneath his collar. She remembered smoothing the knot with her fingertips.

She looked again.

Blue.

Paul owned blue ties. There was nothing unusual about that.

Laurie said nothing.

She watched him move about the kitchen as if nothing had changed.

III

That night, they lay together in bed. Paul's breathing had settled into the slow, even rhythm of deep sleep.

Laurie remained awake.

She stared at the ceiling, listening to the distant surf below the cliffs and the occasional creak of the old house settling around them.

She slipped out slowly from beneath the blankets.

Paul didn't move.

She crossed the hallway without turning on a light and stopped at the small table by the front door.

Paul's briefcase still rested there.

She reached into the catchall bowl beside the door and picked up her house key.

She turned the briefcase onto its side and found a spot along the bottom edge.

Her hand hesitated.

This is ridiculous, she thought, as she dragged the edge of the key across the leather.

A single letter.

L.

She ran her thumb across it. The scratch was shallow.

Laurie set the briefcase back exactly as she'd found it, returned the key to the bowl, and stood for a moment in the silence.

Tomorrow, she told herself, it'll still be there.

She made her way back to bed, the sound of the ocean rising softly from the darkness below.

IV

Laurie woke with a start.

Morning light filled the bedroom.

She turned toward the other side of the bed.

Empty.

Her eyes went to the bathroom. The door stood open. No steam. No running water.

She slipped into her robe and walked down the hallway.

Paul stood in the kitchen with his back to her, one hand wrapped around a mug of coffee, the other scrolling through his phone.

He looked up.

“Morning.”

Laurie looked at the mug.

“You made coffee.”

Paul glanced down at it.

“Yeah.”

“I always make the coffee.”

A faint smile crossed his face.

“I know. You looked exhausted. I figured I’d let you sleep.”

She studied him but said nothing.

He finished his coffee, set the mug in the sink, and picked up his keys.

“I should get going.”

As he passed, he kissed her lightly on the cheek.

Again.

The front door opened and closed.

Laurie followed a few seconds later and stopped in the doorway. Paul crossed the drive, unlocked the white Mercedes, and slid behind the wheel.

The car backed onto the road.

Gravel crunched beneath the tires.

Then it disappeared around the bend.

Only after the engine had faded did Laurie lower her gaze.

The briefcase.

Her pulse quickened.

She hurried to the small table beside the door.

Nothing.

She stared at the empty tabletop.

Of course.

Paul had taken it to work.

She let out a slow breath and rubbed her forehead.

You’ll check tonight.

She closed the front door.

The house went silent.

V

The evening light had begun to fade by the time Paul came home.

Laurie sat on the living room couch with a throw blanket around her shoulders, a book open in her lap.

The front door opened.

She heard the familiar thud of Paul’s briefcase against the entryway table.

A moment later he stepped into the room.

“Hey, you.”

He leaned down and kissed her gently on the forehead.

Laurie went still.

The forehead.

Paul smiled.

“How was your day?”

“Fine. And yours?”

He loosened his tie.

“Long.” He sighed. “I’m gonna grab a shower.”

“I’ll get dinner started.”

He disappeared down the hallway.

A few moments later, the pipes groaned and running water filled the house.

Laurie was already moving.

She crossed the living room and lifted the briefcase from beside the entryway table.

She turned it over and searched along the bottom edge.

There.

The scratch.

Her breath caught.

Exactly where she’d left it.

Only—

It wasn’t an L.

It was a K.

Laurie looked away.

Then back.

K.

She ran her thumb across the groove in the leather.

She knew what she had carved.

The briefcase did not.

VI

Laurie sat across from Paul, barely touching her dinner.

He ate quietly, occasionally commenting on his day. Laurie watched him.

When he finished, Paul carried his plate to the sink and rinsed it under the tap.

“I’m gonna spend a little time in the office,” he said. “I have a few things to finish before bed.”

He dried his hands and started toward the hallway.

“Paul.”

He turned.

Laurie crossed the room before she could change her mind.

She slipped her arms around him and drew him close.

For a moment, she looked at him.

Then she lifted one hand and rested her fingertips against his chin.

Paul smiled.

“What?”

Her thumb traced the place where the scar had been.

“What happened to it?”

His smile faded.

“To what?”

“The scar.”

He frowned.

“What scar?”

“The one on your chin.”

Paul touched his face where her fingers had been.

“There isn’t a scar.”

Laurie stared at him.

“There was.”

He searched her face.

“I think you’re mixing me up with someone,” he said. “I’ve never had a scar on my chin.”

Laurie lowered her hand.

Paul watched her for another moment, then disappeared down the hallway.

The office door clicked shut.

Laurie's eyes fixed on the door.

VII

Laurie remained at the dining room table long after Paul disappeared into his office.

Somewhere down the hall, she could hear the faint tapping of his keyboard.

She moved to the sofa, opened her laptop, and clicked on the folder labeled Wedding.

The first photograph appeared.

Paul stood at the altar, smiling as she walked toward him.

Her eyes went straight to his face.

There.

The scar.

Small. Just beneath the corner of his mouth.

She opened another.

Then another.

The kiss.

The reception.

Their first dance.

The scar was there in every single one.

She opened the Honeymoon folder.

Paul stood on the beach, sleeves rolled up, laughing into the wind.

Laurie leaned closer.

His chin was smooth.

Another photograph.

The two of them at dinner.

No scar.

Another.

On the hotel balcony.

Nothing.

She clicked through them faster.

The beach.

The ferry.

The café overlooking the harbor.

The lighthouse.

Nothing.

Laurie stopped.

The wedding had been eight days before the honeymoon.

Eight days.

She opened the wedding folder again.

Scar.

Back to the honeymoon.

Nothing.

VIII

Laurie poured coffee into two mugs.

Paul sat at the table, scrolling through his phone.

“Are you okay?”

“No.”

He lowered the phone. “What’s wrong?”

Laurie kept her back to him, staring at the mugs.

“I don’t feel right.”

Paul stood and crossed to her. “Do you want me to call Sam?”

“No.” She turned to face him. “I don’t need a doctor.”

“Then what do you need?”

“I need you to stay home today.”

“Laurie—”

“Please.”

He studied her, one hand resting on her arm.

“You know I can’t just do that.”

“Can’t,” she said, “or won’t?”

He glanced toward his phone.

“I’ll call David. See if he can cover for me.”

“Thank you.”

Laurie picked up her mug and headed toward the bedroom.

Paul watched her go.

IX

“Paul.”

Laurie’s voice carried from the living room, low and steady. The last of the daylight was fading from the windows.

Paul didn’t answer, but she heard his footsteps approaching.

He stepped into the living room and stopped.

“What is this?” he asked.

Laurie had pulled one of the living room chairs around, so it faced the doorway. She stood beside it, her posture straight.

“Come. Sit,” she said, gesturing toward the chair.

Paul hesitated. “What’s going on, Laurie? You’ve been acting a bit… off today.”

She didn’t reply. She folded her arms across her chest.

“Sit, please.”

He walked toward the chair, eyes fixed on her. He sat.

“What am I looking at?” he asked.

“Nothing yet,” she said. "Just wait."

Laurie kept her eyes on the front door.

Minutes passed. Then a few more.

Paul shifted in the chair. “Look… I don’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what this is ab—wait. Is this about the scar again?”

Laurie stepped back. “Paul, I just—”

“No, Laurie.” He cut her off, standing abruptly. “I’m not doing this.”

He walked away toward the kitchen.

“Paul,” she called after him.

He didn’t stop.

Laurie sank into the chair, elbows on her knees, hands covering her face.

She finally stood and turned toward the kitchen—

—and froze.

The front doorknob was clicking.

A set of keys jingled on the other side.

Then the lock turned.

She turned.

The door began to open.

X

The door opened, and she stepped inside, keys still in her hand.

She dropped them into the ceramic bowl on the entry table and slipped off her shoes.

Her purse went on the couch.

Then she noticed the chair.

One of the armchairs faced the front door, angled strangely, as though someone had dragged it there.

She paused.

Nothing else seemed out of place.

She crossed the room, gripped the back of the chair, and returned it to its usual place beside the coffee table.

Her eyes went to the entryway table.

Paul’s briefcase sat there.

She touched the handle, then let her hand fall away.

“Paul?”

A voice answered from down the hall.

“Back here, Kathy.”

She walked toward the bedroom.

The hallway light was on.

She pushed the bedroom door open.

Paul sat on the edge of the bed. He looked up, the small scar on his chin catching the light.

Kathy stopped.

“It’s back.”

Paul touched his face.

“What is?”

She looked at him.

“Nothing.”

She stepped inside and closed the door behind her.

She crossed the room and sat beside him, resting a hand on his knee.

He leaned toward her and kissed her forehead.

From the living room, Laurie stood frozen, watching herself close the bedroom door.

Paul did too.