Her stare lingers on my arms, scanning my various tattoos. I have a few different pieces on both arms, liking the way they look when I play.
“Where’d you get the snake done?” she asks, tilting her head toward my left forearm where I have a black and gray snake wrapped around my wrist and extending up part of my arm.
“The UK,” I answer, smiling at the memory. I was nineteen and the guys and I were playing our first international show ever.
“Hayden has a matching one,” I tell her and don’t know why. She probably doesn’t care about the details or the history of it.
“You guys are close, huh?”
“You could say that,” I say, confused as to why she’d ask that when it should be fairly obvious judging by the fact that we’ve been in a band together for ten years.
But if this is her attempt at bridging a conversation, I can’t help but try to indulge her.
“Do you have any tattoos?” I haven’t noticed any on her, but there are plenty of hidden places I haven’t seen on Scar’s body that could be holding pieces of art.
She shakes her head. “Nope.”
“Don’t like them? Or let me guess, afraid of needles?”
That earns me a flash of a smile and I feel a surge of satisfaction.
“No, not afraid of needles,” she responds. “And I love them actually. But I just don’t think I’ve seen anything worth imprinting on my body for forever. Plus, that’s one last very permanent act of rebellion against my family that I haven’t been able to bring myself to take.”
My ears perk up at that, wanting to learn more about her family, where Scar comes from, any little crumb she wants to give me.
And then I remember I’m supposed to be trying to disentangle my feelings for her after last night.
But as I stand here, I can’t help but take in her posture, slumped on her elbows over the table, head hanging low.
“You all right?” The words slip out of my mouth before I can stop them, at the same time Scar says, “I’m sorry.”
We pause, waiting to see if the other will continue. “Sorry, go ahead.” I wave a hand at her and lean against the small counter.
Silence stretches between us, becoming a dull roar in my ears as I wait for her to speak. I stare into her eyes, refusing to be the one to look away, challenging her to do something that scares her. Challenging her to speak up, to be vulnerable for a moment, for her to show me something past the walls she keeps up.
Her mouth opens and closes, words struggling to come out and I can see her fighting to say them. I watch her lips, waiting to see if they’ll bring me salvation or ruin.
Scar picks at her fingernails. “I’m sorry for not watching your set.”
“It’s whatever,” I brush off, keeping my face neutral.
“It’s not. I promised you I would and I let you down.”
I shrug, not sure what to say to that. She knows I was excited for her to watch. I made that clear.
I’m interested; I’m just waiting to see if she’s going to reciprocate.
“I’m going to watch your next one.”
I open my mouth to interject but she keeps talking.
“I know my word isn’t worth a lot to you right now, but I promise I didn’t intend to blow you off. I was planning to stay, that entire day leading up to the show I was going to stick around. But…” she trails off and looks up at me.
She looks haunted, hollowed out inside and fighting with herself on what to say next. I can see she wants to give me an explanation, but is reluctant to do so for whatever reason. Her eyes plead with me not to push her.
So I don’t.
For now.