duh.”
Waiting a moment, he says, “I spoke to Aleix before we left.”
“Whappened?” I ask too quickly, fumbling my words. “I mean, what happened?”
“He's gonna talk to Fauna tonight, come clean about everything. He knows he acted like a shit to both of you.”
“Think she'll forgive him?”
“Not that he deserves it, but probably. She loves him a lot, and I guess they weren't technically together when he was seeing you.”
“And we never slept together.”
“Yeah, and there's that. That helps.” That's an odd choice of words, but I choose to say nothing.
“I feel so frigging bad.”
He turns his head to look at me, his eyes sharp. “Don't you fucking dare try to blame yourself for his screw up. It's not your fault.”
“I know.”
Chapter 8
Ibbie
WE FALL INTO a comfortable silence as we both turn back to the clouds and the stars, the only noise coming from the rustling of the grass as it moves in the soft breeze. Our breaths mist out in front of us. I tuck my cold fingers into the sleeves on Walt's jacket, wondering how he isn't freezing his frigging nips off right now in that shirt.
I want so badly to ask him about the kiss, to demand where it came from and what it means. Because I don't have any answers, and even though he was the one who instigated, I most definitely didn't push him away. But for the first time in my life I find that words aren't coming easily, like I've spoken so many in my lifetime already that I've simply ran out. Now that would be a tragedy.
“Was your boss pissed about you missing the show tonight?” Walt questions eventually, folding his hands across his stomach comfortably.
“He was pretty cool about it actually. As long as I only make it a one time thing. Not that I'd be wanting to skip again. I'm lucky enough that I actually love what I do.”
“I think it's great,” he confides. “You know, how you're following your dreams. That you've always just known what you wanted to be doing with your life so you worked hard at it, made it happen. Most people don't have your determination to follow their dreams like that.”
“Thank you.” He just keeps on surprising me. I get curious then, so I ask, “What are your dreams?”
His silence stretches on for a full minute before he turns to look at me again. “My dreams?”
“Sure.”
“How do you know being a tattoo artist isn't my dream?”
I tilt my head, because I don't know. “A feeling, I guess.”
He stares at me for the longest time. “Funny how well you know me,” he muses quietly. “after everything we've thrown at each other. You're right. Not that I don't love tattooing – being able to create art on a person's body is incredible. But it isn't what I want to do forever, not like Digby and Reid.”
“So what do you want to do?”
“I want. . .” He pauses, turning back to look up at the sky as if he's too embarrassed to meet my eyes when he tells me. “I want to be an artist. I don't want to just hide my art at home where nobody else can see it. I want to show it, maybe even sell it.” A long sigh escapes him. “I've never told anyone else that before.”
I'm touched that he shared it with me. Something flips over inside my stomach, because he's such a frigging cutesicle stick when he's all shy and bashful like that. “You've never tried to sell it before?”
“No fuckin' way,” he replies automatically, shaking his head like that's the most absurd idea he's ever heard.
“Why not?”
“I don't know. I'm probably not good enough anyway. It's just a dream.”
“Please, I've seen your work. You're amazing. Your tattoo work,” I amend, when he looks at me suspiciously like he thought I might have sneaked a peak earlier while he was in the shower. But it's true. Fábia once showed me the elaborate tattoo on her back that Walt must have spent so many hours on. The tattoo spanning right across her shoulder blades is of a fiery avenging angel riding on the back of a fearsome
Waiting a moment, he says, “I spoke to Aleix before we left.”
“Whappened?” I ask too quickly, fumbling my words. “I mean, what happened?”
“He's gonna talk to Fauna tonight, come clean about everything. He knows he acted like a shit to both of you.”
“Think she'll forgive him?”
“Not that he deserves it, but probably. She loves him a lot, and I guess they weren't technically together when he was seeing you.”
“And we never slept together.”
“Yeah, and there's that. That helps.” That's an odd choice of words, but I choose to say nothing.
“I feel so frigging bad.”
He turns his head to look at me, his eyes sharp. “Don't you fucking dare try to blame yourself for his screw up. It's not your fault.”
“I know.”
Chapter 8
Ibbie
WE FALL INTO a comfortable silence as we both turn back to the clouds and the stars, the only noise coming from the rustling of the grass as it moves in the soft breeze. Our breaths mist out in front of us. I tuck my cold fingers into the sleeves on Walt's jacket, wondering how he isn't freezing his frigging nips off right now in that shirt.
I want so badly to ask him about the kiss, to demand where it came from and what it means. Because I don't have any answers, and even though he was the one who instigated, I most definitely didn't push him away. But for the first time in my life I find that words aren't coming easily, like I've spoken so many in my lifetime already that I've simply ran out. Now that would be a tragedy.
“Was your boss pissed about you missing the show tonight?” Walt questions eventually, folding his hands across his stomach comfortably.
“He was pretty cool about it actually. As long as I only make it a one time thing. Not that I'd be wanting to skip again. I'm lucky enough that I actually love what I do.”
“I think it's great,” he confides. “You know, how you're following your dreams. That you've always just known what you wanted to be doing with your life so you worked hard at it, made it happen. Most people don't have your determination to follow their dreams like that.”
“Thank you.” He just keeps on surprising me. I get curious then, so I ask, “What are your dreams?”
His silence stretches on for a full minute before he turns to look at me again. “My dreams?”
“Sure.”
“How do you know being a tattoo artist isn't my dream?”
I tilt my head, because I don't know. “A feeling, I guess.”
He stares at me for the longest time. “Funny how well you know me,” he muses quietly. “after everything we've thrown at each other. You're right. Not that I don't love tattooing – being able to create art on a person's body is incredible. But it isn't what I want to do forever, not like Digby and Reid.”
“So what do you want to do?”
“I want. . .” He pauses, turning back to look up at the sky as if he's too embarrassed to meet my eyes when he tells me. “I want to be an artist. I don't want to just hide my art at home where nobody else can see it. I want to show it, maybe even sell it.” A long sigh escapes him. “I've never told anyone else that before.”
I'm touched that he shared it with me. Something flips over inside my stomach, because he's such a frigging cutesicle stick when he's all shy and bashful like that. “You've never tried to sell it before?”
“No fuckin' way,” he replies automatically, shaking his head like that's the most absurd idea he's ever heard.
“Why not?”
“I don't know. I'm probably not good enough anyway. It's just a dream.”
“Please, I've seen your work. You're amazing. Your tattoo work,” I amend, when he looks at me suspiciously like he thought I might have sneaked a peak earlier while he was in the shower. But it's true. Fábia once showed me the elaborate tattoo on her back that Walt must have spent so many hours on. The tattoo spanning right across her shoulder blades is of a fiery avenging angel riding on the back of a fearsome
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