The printer hums as it spits out a temporary tattoo.
I cut the edges. Run my fingers over the paper.
Call Luna into the office.
She moves into the tiny space. "Where do you think?"
"Here." I wrap my hand around her right wrist. Turn her arm over. Run my fingertip up her forearm. Fuck, she's so soft and warm.
And this battle with my cock is so over.
It wins.
I lose.
She nods. Speaks softly, "There."
"Hold still."
"Okay."
I clean and dry her skin, place the paper, wet it, hold it for ten seconds.
She stares at me, watching carefully.
Then I peel off the paper and her eyes go wide.
"Ollie." She looks up at me. "It's so fucking perfect."
"Yeah?"
She nods. "If you want me to wait, I'll wait. But I know." She traces the line. "I want it."
My work on her body forever.
I'm not just losing the battle.
I'm losing the war too.
Chapter Twenty
Luna
At home, I study, Oliver builds furniture, the stereo blasts Pearl Jam. I don't even complain about the mumbling. It's not so bad in this context.
When he's finished, I move into my new space. A new room. My new room.
It's supposed to feel like my new home.
Like a place safe from the spectre of my parents' divorce.
But it's there. In the white string lights, the framed mermaid print, the deep red chair.
Everything is new. Different. Wrong.
It screams this is not my home.
I reorganize my makeup, but that doesn't help. Nor does arranging my outfits by style. Or moving the desk.
It's a nice room. Beautiful.
But it's not mine.
It's not a new, safe place. It's a temporary fix. An escape that constantly reminds me it's an escape.
Can I really stomach that all semester?
Longer?
I don't know.
I have to face something. At some point.
Not Allison. Uh-huh.
But maybe…
I pull out my cell. Open my texts from Divya. A few jokes about Shark Tank. A recipe for chai cake, along with a joke about how I never eat sweets.
No please forgive your mother.
Maybe I can do this.
Maybe I can face her.
She must need it. She's losing her family too. Losing her wife.
As long as she doesn't ask me to forgive Allison…
Deep breath. Steady exhale.
I text my mom.
Luna: What do you say to brunch Sunday? Same place, same time, just the two of us?
I can do brunch.
It's two hours. I can face this for two hours.
No problem.
Huge problem.
Every problem.
I smooth my wine jumpsuit. Zip my black purse. Apply a third coat of lipstick.
It's not right. It's still not right.
I can't wear this to breakfast with Mom. It doesn't say I'm so sorry that your wife is sleeping with her fucking secretary. I still love you but please don't make me say I love her. Please don't ask me to forgive her.
It's too much for an outfit.
Even if it's an incredibly fierce outfit.
Maybe more eyeliner. Or blush. Or a different purse. A different face.
A more sympathetic personality?
The kind of girl Sean would like. Sweet, complacent, easy to please.
So pleasant no one would ever leave her.
That's not happening.
But I can bring someone…
He's not sweet, complacent, or easy to please.
Right on cue, Oliver's door creeks. This is late for him. It's already ten. He's usually up before seven.
I peek into the hallway.
He stretches his arms over his head, pulling his black t-shirt up his torso. "Coffee?"
"Brunch."
"Is that a no?"
"Come with me."
He looks at me like I'm crazy. "Come with you."
"And Divya."
"To brunch?"
I nod yes.
"Do I look like I go to brunch?"
"They have a full bar."
He shoots me a really look.
Yeah, really. This is Oliver Flynn we're talking about. Not uh… some bastion of sobriety. This is the guy who carries a flask and brings "the good shit" to every party.
Only—
Oliver isn't going out. At least, I haven't seen him go out.
And he isn't drinking.
Or he's hiding it well.
Is he slipping whiskey in his coffee? Sipping his flask at work?
"They have coffee." I switch tactics. I can contemplate Oliver's self-destructive choices later. After I avoid my own. "And pancakes."
He shoots me that same really look.
"Or eggs." I bite my lip. "Uh… did I mention the coffee?"
He gives me a quick once-over. "The place on Abbot-Kinney?"
"Yeah."
"You're dressed for it." He gives me a slow once-over. "Wearing that red again."
"The other red was wine. This is plum."
"Uh-huh." His gaze flits to my lips. "What do I get out of it?"
That isn't what he's asking. That isn't how he means it. But, damn, the ideas in my head… "Coffee."
"I have coffee here."
"Blue Bottle. On the way. And after."
"I have work at two," he says.
"I'll bring it to you."
"At five?"
"I have a study session."
"Before your study session." He holds out his hand. "And you make dinner. Whatever I want."
"Yes. Sure." I hold out my hand. Whatever it takes to make this easier.
The restaurant is busy. Waiters buzz between tables of friends, couples, hipster families.
The scent of salt mingles with the citrus. The windows are wide open. The ocean air fills the room. Keeps it temperate.