“Like with writing?”
“Yeah. Kinda.” It’s hard to explain. “It’s not like that’s required. If you know what you want, get a good artist, you can get great work right away.”
“Hmm… a good tattoo artist. Where can I find one of those?”
“No idea,” I tease.
Her smile spreads a little wider.
“What do you want?”
“I don’t know. I guess I just like that idea. The permanence. But I… I don’t know.” Her gaze goes to the tattoo on my chest. “I love this.”
“Danger is sweet?”
“Yeah. I… maybe it’s not who I am now. But I want to get there. I want to absorb the words.”
It would be perfect for her. “Right here maybe.” My fingers brush her chest. The curve of her breast. High enough she could show it off without getting arrested. Low enough she could keep it to herself.
Her cheeks flush. “Maybe… here.” She turns. Motions to her ribs.
“Gotta be honest with you, kid.”
The pet name still makes her light up. “Yeah?”
“That’s gonna hurt like a bitch.”
“Oh.”
“Ribs are awful.”
“You don’t think I can handle it?”
“You can. But it’s a lot for your first time out.” Fuck, it would look perfect. Thin words over the curve of her side. It suits her too. Something secret. Just for her. “Can I do it?”
“The tattoo?”
“Yeah.” Fuck, I need her to say yes. I don’t know why. I’m not usually territorial. But the thought of someone else marking her skin—”Whenever you decide you want it. If it’s tomorrow. Or three years from now.”
“Even if it’s later and we’re… not.”
“Yeah.”
She swallows hard. “Okay.”
“You promise?”
“I do.” She holds my gaze for a moment. Stares into my eyes, looking for something. She must find it, because she turns. Looks to the sky. “How did you get into tattoos anyway?”
“You don’t know?”
She shakes her head.
Okay, this is a fun story. And it’s easy to talk about. Mostly. “My mom was an animator. She loved all kinds of visual art. I don’t have that many vivid memories of her. Half of them are watching a movie or reading a graphic novel or wandering around a museum. When she took us to New York, she took us to the Met then MoMA. She’d ask us to stand there and stare at paintings forever. Even though we didn’t get it. Well, I didn’t get it. I was probably six at the time.”
“Yeah?”
I nod. “I was this tiny kid, staring at a blue canvas, wondering why it meant anything, thinking damn, that looks like the sky, how about we go outside? Though, fuck, kids probably have the most honest reaction to art of anyone.”
“How’s that?”
“They don’t get deeper themes. They don’t understand religion or love or sex. But they don’t have any mental baggage either. It’s not that kids can’t be fucked up. Or troubled. Or whatever. But they don’t have that voice that says this is important or you need to find an important meaning or if it’s in a museum, it must matter. They see a painting, they feel something. Always.”
“I don’t know.” Her gaze softens, like she’s diving into her head, looking for a memory. “The first time we went to the Met, I was just… tired.”
I can’t help but laugh. “When you looked at the paintings?”
“Every moment.”
“How old were you?”
“Nine or ten.”
“You’re a fast learner. Pretentious early.”
“Hey.” She play swats me. “That’s cruel.”
“Only if it’s not true.”
Her smile gets shy. She makes that a little gesture with her thumb and forefinger. “Do I have to go back further?”
“Yeah. To the drawings you did in kindergarten?”
“Mom and Dad with a big line between them.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Her voice softens. “They fought all the time. It was obvious they were only staying together for us, though I’m not sure I got that at the time. Only that it wasn’t right. That it was such an ugly relationship. When they finally got a divorce… I thought that would be better, but it wasn’t. My world was even more upside down.”
“That’s hard.”
“Not compared to losing your mom.”
I run my hand through my hair. Fuck, I really don’t know how to talk about this.
“You were so young.”
“Yeah.”
“Do you miss her?”
“I try not to think about it.”
“But you must.” Her eyes meet mine. “You followed in her footsteps.” She runs her fingers over the tattoo going down my shoulder. “You’ve given parts of your body to her.”
“That’s not—”
“Isn’t it?”
Maybe. I don’t usually talk about it. Better to avoid dwelling. Bad shit happens. So what? I can pick myself up and dust myself off. But maybe…
Maybe that’s just another excuse.
A way to avoid it.
I suck a breath through my teeth. “I remember the day it happened.”
Her eyes meet mine. They fill with something. Sympathy. And this expectation. Like I’m going to say something that matters.
It’s weird. I should hate it. On anyone else, I’d hate it. But I like it on Daisy. “She was in hospice care. At home. It was a normal day. Dad took me into her room after dinner. We read a book together. Said good night. She kissed me on the forehead and gave me this look… I still remember it. I’ll always remember it. It was like she knew it was over.”