Holding Her Hand (The Reed Brothers 9)

I’ve heard varying stories about tattoos and am not sure what to expect. But when he applies the machine to my skin, it doesn’t hurt at all. It stings a little, but it’s nothing I can’t handle. He runs the machine, stopping to swipe over my skin every few strokes. Suddenly the motions stop, and I open my eyes to find him watching me.

His eyes are hazel, like all the colors of fall wrapped up in two perfect globes, with flecks of brown, green, rust, and orange. I get caught in his gaze, and I can’t look away.

He jostles my arm, and I jerk my gaze from the depths of his eyes and look at his mouth. “You okay?” he mouths at me with no sound.

I hold my fingers out in a five and place my thumb against my chest in the sign for “fine.”

He nods, bends his head again, and goes back to work.

I close my eyes and I don’t open them again until he’s done. The quiet peace is somehow nostalgic, and I let my thoughts ramble to my family’s trip to the beach on the days before the fire.

My father had held my hand as we watched a street vendor drop dough into a vat of hot oil. It bubbled and boiled, and finally the vendor scooped out a perfectly fried doughy treat, which he sprinkled with cinnamon and sugar and topped with syrup.

“I bet we could make that at home,” Dad had said. It looked easy enough.

Only it wasn’t easy. It was really difficult. The oil had popped and sizzled, and I didn’t expect that to happen, so I’d used a little water to cool it down, but that caused it to explode and burn my skin. Then the fire started, and I couldn’t put it out…

Something jostles me out of my memory and I open my eyes. I’m startled to find that my cheeks are wet and my nose is running. I swipe under it with the back of my hand, sniffling.

“Are you okay?” Ryan mouths at me.

I nod and motion for him to continue, but he sets his machine to the side, takes off his gloves, and then wheels his chair close to me. He uses his thumbs to wipe the tears from my cheeks.

He takes a deep breath and arches his brow at me, like he wants me to do the same, so I do.

He exhales, and I do too.

We go through this pattern no less than ten times, his autumn eyes staring into mine the whole time.

“Better?” he asks.

I nod. “Much.”

“Memories, or pain?”

“Painful memories,” I admit.

He nods like he understands. But there’s no way he could. I carry so much guilt that sometimes it feels like it’s going to sweep me away in a big, dark tide. Like the waves on the beach knock you over when one swoops in really hard. Only they threaten to never let me go.

He picks up his machine, puts on fresh gloves, and keeps working, looking up at me every now and then to be sure I’m okay. I watch the top of his dark head, and my gaze falls on a tattoo on the side of his neck. It’s a cloud in the shape of a dog, and it makes me smile.

He sets the machine down and looks up, catching me grinning. “What’s funny?” he asks.

“That tattoo makes me happy,” I say. I point to his neck. He covers it briefly with his hand.

“My dog died, and the day it happened, I saw this in the clouds. So I drew it and had someone tattoo it so I could keep it forever.”

“It’s beautiful,” I tell him.

“So are you,” he replies. Then his face goes pink again, and he looks away.

Heat creeps up my cheeks and I suddenly find it hard to breathe.

He grins when he turns back to face me. He points to my arm. “What do you think?”

“Are you done?” I ask.

“For today, yes.” He looks closely at my face. “Do you like them?”