Intense.
Like her.
"You like it?" she asks.
"Not as much as you do."
"Too much to handle?"
"I can handle a lot."
Her eyes meet mine. They look for something. Some reason to believe I'm talking about her, maybe.
She's a lot, sure, but in the best fucking way. "I like that about you."
"Oh?"
"You're like the chocolate."
"Expensive and delicious?"
My laugh eases the tension in my shoulders. "Intense. But, yeah, delicious." My eyes flit to her hips. My body begs me to continue. To find some way to express this without words. But that's impossible. Some shit has to be said. "Sean is an idiot."
"True."
"You're demanding, yeah. You're difficult sometimes. And you have high fucking standards. But that's what I love about you."
"Thank you." Her finger skim her mug. "We… uh… if this is some way to change the subject… you don't have to talk about anything."
"No." I pick up the French press. Motion shall I? When she nods, I fill her cup. Then mine. "We never really finished our conversation."
"Which one?" Her eyes flit to my crotch. "A lot of conversations end with our clothes off."
"About art."
"How you got into it?" she asks.
"Yeah. This part is good. Funny."
"It gets better than you drawing me naked?"
I chuckle as I set the carafe on the table. "I've drawn you naked a lot, angel."
Her cheeks flush.
"You have any idea what you did to me, running around in that black bikini all summer?"
Her eyes spark. She knows what she did to me. And she's reveling in it. "Maybe."
"Tease."
"Right back at you."
Fuck, it's too easy to flirt with her. I want to do it forever. And I can. I will. After this.
If she still wants anything to do with me.
I swallow hard. Try to find a place to start. Say the first thing that comes to mind. "Thanks." I pick up the mug. "For the coffee."
"Of course." She picks up her mug. Holds it up to toast. "To intense."
"To intense." I tap my cup against hers. Bring it to my lips. The warmth of the coffee is soothing. And the taste is familiar. Intense, yeah. Rich, nutty, and bitter too. "I don't remember the first tattoo I saw. But I remember the feeling. Of seeing this mark on someone's skin. This art, there, forever. It was scary. And thrilling. I was still a kid. A year felt like forever. An actual eternity—"
"Or at least as long as you have skin."
"Morbid."
Her laugh is soft. "You know what I mean."
Yeah, I do. "It's with you." My fingers go to the ink on my forearm. My first. "Your entire life. Whatever happens after… that ink is still there, on your body. What else lasts that long?"
"Love?"
"Maybe." My shoulders tense. "The idea stuck with me for a long time. At first, it was a fascination. With the idea of forever. Then the ink itself. The art of tattooing."
She traces the line.
Fuck, that feels good. Too good. "When my parents announced they were finally splitting… I was pissed. Angry. Self-righteous. How could they lie to me? Tell me they loved each other, that they would be together forever, that our family was forever? And now they were changing it. Tearing it apart. And it's not like it was mutual. It was another ultimatum from Dad. After a bunch hadn't worked."
Her eyes fix on me.
"I'm not sure I got it then. How bad it was. How often Mom was using." My fingers curl into the ceramic. There's something soothing about the warmth. The smoothness. "At the time, I thought he was a merciless asshole. She was trying. Why was he so hard on her? Why was he telling her she needed to be better? Why couldn't he love her the way she was?"
"It's a fair question."
"Maybe. I don't know. Maybe she was always like that. Maybe he should have known better… accepted her, flaws and all."
"Was she?" Luna asks. "Always using?"
"I don't know. When we were kids, she was always around. I don't remember a lot. But I remember that sense of love. Patience. Warm days at the park. On the beach. A trip to fucking Disneyland."
"You hated it?"
"Yeah." I run a hand through my hair. "Already brooding and difficult. Even as a kid."
"Even when you thought both your parents loved you?"
"I know they love me. It's more… If I can trust Mom to stick around. To be there. To be coherent. To be the fucking parent." My chest tenses. "I'm not sure when it started. At first, it was quiet afternoons. I'd get home from school and she'd be fuzzy. Like she wasn't there."
"High?"
"Yeah. But I didn't realize at the time. She just seemed… calm. But too calm."
"Yeah."
"Then… it was all night. All day. And she started missing shit. Forgetting to pick me up from school. To get groceries. To make dinner."
Luna takes a long sip. Folds her hands around her mug. "You picked up the slack. I remember that."