Page 88 of All Our Nevers

“Just say it.”

“I mean, not to sound pathetic, but I couldn’t tell if you actually liked me or if it was just a physical thing. I just had to shoot my shot with you because you’re so… well, you know.”

“I’m so what?” I ask, expecting the superficial. I know I’m attractive—sue me for wanting to hear about it.

But he surprises me by saying, “You’re so strong-willed and smart. And you’re ridiculously hot. It already felt like I was playing out of my league, so I certainly didn’t want to make assumptions about your name of all things. I figured you’d tell me if you wanted to be called something different, and it would save me getting back on your bad side.”

I roll onto my back, steepling my hands in front of my face and pressing my eyes closed. “I really am a bitch, aren’t I?”

He laughs as he reaches across my body, wrapping me in his arms and pulling me back onto the bare expanse of his chest. “I like you that way.”

“Good,” I say, cheek coming to rest on his sternum. “Because I’m very unlikely to change at this point.”

I start to trace idle swirls across his torso as he nuzzles into the crown of my head, kissing my hair that’s still damp and smells like vanilla. It’s dangerously tender, but I can’t bring myself to pull away.

“Tell me about these,” I say, circling one of the tattoos on his ribs.

“What do you want to know?”

“Do they all have meaning or were they just designs you liked?” My crimson nails move from one dark image to the next.

“Most of them have a meaning, I guess.”

“Tell me.”

He hesitates.

“What?”

“Are you gonna mock me for it?”

“Depends,” I say, propping myself up to meet my eyes. “Are they worth mocking?”

“I don’t think so,” he says honestly, “but I’ve never really talked about them before.”

“Really?”

He nods, but doesn’t say more.

“You don’t have to tell me,” I say, attention fixed on the snake wrapping around one of his collarbones, fingertip skimming the pattern of its twisting body. “But I like them. They suit you.” My hand travels lower, to an image of a caterpillar on the right side of his chest. “I think this one is my favorite.”

“That one’s for my mom.”

“Yeah?” I ask, chest sparkling with curiosity and… hope. Hope that he’ll trust me with the truth.

How strange, to feel so strongly about such a small thing.

“She loved gardening when we were kids. She doesn’t really do it anymore because she has that wrist injury that makes it hard, but I remember her garden was always full of caterpillars in early summer. Fat and fuzzy and kind of disgusting but in a cute way. Andy and I used to name them.”

“What about this one?” I ask, fingertips warming the place where a loose cursive script sits on his ribs.

“That’s my grandma’s handwriting. Mo Stoirín is what she used to call me and Andy before she died. It means little darling.”

“I love that.”

I continue gently tracing each tattoo as I collect his stories, sometimes quiet and patient, other times teasing and joyful. Song lyrics in block letters. A stick-and-poke smiley face that his college roommate gave him. Dice from when he took out his loans for law school, when he felt most like he was taking a chance on himself. A fish for summers on the Cape.

I point to the plate of spaghetti on the inside of his bicep, and he hesitates before saying, “That one’s for Andy.”