Pretend You're Mine (Inked Hearts 3)

The last year, she kept dropping hints about how I needed to find a “real job.” Never mind that we used to stay up all night talking about how we’d never fall into that bullshit trap.

Yeah, we were kids. But it’s not like she was ever idealistic. She meant it.

“I’m guessing you got the invitation?” Something creeps into her voice. Regret. Remorse. Or maybe pity.

In her eyes, I’m still a loser tattoo artist. Not like her respectable finance bro fiancé. My hair is too long. My arms are too inked. My jeans are too ripped.

I don’t own a suit much less wear one to work every day.

“Yeah.” Memories flood my mind. The two of us sitting on the swings at the park by her place. Marveling at our sneakers and pinkie promising we’d never get jobs where we had to wear anything else.

Promising we’d never let each other give up on our dreams.

The rubber padding under my feet.

The bright moon against the dark sky.

The sprinklers hitting the grass.

And that watermelon ChapStick on her lips.

I can’t get anywhere near the fucking fruit without thinking of her.

“Ryan…” Her voice drops back to that soft, sweet tone. I love you. “I’m so sorry.” But I don’t love you anymore. “I told Mom a million times. I told her it was rude to invite you. But she doesn’t get that you aren’t over me.”

Words tumble from my lips before I can stop them. “I am.”

“Oh.” She barely manages to hide her surprise.

No, I’m not over Penny. Not even close. But fuck her for assuming that. It’s not like she’s around to watch me slice my fingers trying to pick up the pieces. “I’m seeing someone.”

This is bullshit. Even I can’t sell it.

I don’t see anyone. All my clients look the same—skin stretched over bone, grunts of pain, nervous smiles.

Women flirt with me constantly. It’s something about getting ink. Some rush of dopamine. Some desire to get that hot tattoo artist notch on their bedpost.

Women go apeshit for my wavy hair and my inked arms. But that does nothing to thrill me. It’s only a knife in my chest, seeing women gaga for the shit Penny hated.

My ex-girlfriend’s voice shifts to some tone I can’t place. “That’s great, Ryan. Really. What’s she like? Pretty?”

“Yeah.” Of course, that’s her first question.

It’s all appearances with her now.

Or maybe she was always like this. Maybe I was blinded by how much I loved her.

“What does she do?” Her voice pulls me back into the moment.

The air conditioner hums. The black curtains ruffle against the window. The black sheets soak up the light from the fluorescent bulb.

I swallow hard. Push away all the images forming in my mind. Of times when shit made sense. “Why’d you call, Penny?”

“I’m going by Penelope now.”

Of course she is. “Question stands.”

“I wanted to apologize. For Mom. The wedding planning is making us both crazy. It was insensitive.”