"Somewhere."
"It was really me?"
I nod. "Thought it would get under your skin."
"I kind of wondered…" She almost blushes. "But I was too enamored to ask. I couldn't believe it. Someone I knew was going to be a tattoo artist. It was like meeting a movie star. I didn't think… well, I guess…"
"People with rich parents usually go to college?"
"It was already absurd. A high school student who didn't plan to attend university. Unthinkable."
"You told me that."
She laughs. "I know. I was in awe of you. Going after what you wanted. Not caring what anyone else thought. Giving your dad that huge middle finger."
I make that kind of motion.
"Is that why you started?"
"To say fuck you to my dad?"
She nods. "You two were already at war."
"Yeah." I pick up the fallen angel costume. Focus on the slick plastic. Instead of the ugly memories. I like Luna. A lot. I want to know her. And I want her to know me. But I can't go there. Not right now. "We have been. Since I can remember."
"Since your mom—"
"Yeah." There's too much to say about her. And how I'm walking in her footsteps. "That was part of the appeal at first."
"Very Holden of you."
Fuck, it is. I shake it off. "I'm not sure when I fell in love with drawing. Maybe the day I picked up a pen. I was always doodling. In class, after school, on those boring trips to see relatives."
"The ones where your parents leave you in a room with all the other kids? Even though they're three years older and they think you're a lame baby?"
"Yeah."
"I hated those."
"It wasn't as bad for me. I had Daisy. But she already kept to herself."
"Always had her nose in a book."
I nod. "So I had to entertain myself. And drawing felt right. It made sense. I could take what I saw and explain it. Or think up something else. Or take the ugly shit in my head and put it on paper."
"How old were you?"
"When I figured that out?" I ask.
She nods yeah.
"Nine or ten, maybe. My parents meant well. Even my mom. But I still knew I had to be strong. Quiet. To keep my problems to myself. Only… there was so much shit in my head. It was tangled. I couldn't make sense of it."
"Until you started drawing?"
"Yeah." I run my hand through my hair. "It always helped. Even now… when my head is a fucking mess and it hurts to close my eyes. I pick up a pen, find a paper, let my thoughts flow onto it… and it's still fucked up, but it makes a little more sense."
"It's easier?"
"Yeah." I bring my index finger to her forearm. The place she wants her new tattoo. "I'd always thought tattoos were cool. Since the first time I saw one."
"Your dad at the beach?"
"No." I chuckle. "He kept his under wraps for a while." Wait a second. "Fuck. You imagining my dad at the beach?"
"If I am?"
"Can't think straight when I'm jealous, angel."
"Jealous of your father?"
"Are you kidding?" My other hand finds her hip. "You talk about how hot he is all the time."
She smiles. Runs her fingertips over my jawline. "I shouldn't like you jealous. But I do." She leans in. Presses her lips to my cheek. Chin. Lips. "Gabe is attractive, sure, but I'm not interested."
"Yeah?"
She nods. "I don't want to fuck anyone but you."
"What if he offered to join so we could double-team you?"
Her head falls forward with her laugh. "Oh my god."
"You'd say no?"
"I'd still be fucking you. It's a grey area."
"Uh-huh."
"Yeah-huh."
She nods into my chest. Hooks her arm around my neck. "You know you don't fool me, Ollie."
"You think I won't get pissed?"
"No… changing the subject. There's something you don't want to say."
Maybe.
"You don't have to tell me." Her fingertips dig into my skin. "I know keeping things to myself. Dealing on my own."
And I hate the thought of it. Of Luna, alone in her room, trying to stomach all the pain she can swallow. Trying to carry her burden all alone.
I want to help her.
I want it too fucking badly. If I'm asking that…
It's only fair, I guess.
Even if that means—
Fuck.
One thing at a time. At least this part is easier. "Would you lean on me? If I offered?"
She bites her lip. "Are you bargaining?"
"If I am?"
"I don't know. I do like a deal."
"I know."
She looks up at me, considering it. "Okay. A story for a story? You go first."
I nod.
"Every detail on your ascent"—she raises a brow, asking if it's the right word. When I nod, she goes on—"to brilliant tattoo artist."
"Brilliant?"
"You think I'd let some wannabe put ink to my skin forever?"
"You haven't done it yet."
"Even so," she says.
I trace the lines onto her skin. It's easy to forget how important this job is. Yeah, I'm not a doctor or a teacher or a cop. But I leave people with a permanent mark.