Page 5
“Sure.”
“How is it I’ve known Moe my entire life and we’ve never met?”
He looks back down at my wrist and shrugs. “We’re not that close.”
“Why?”
When he looks up at me this time, he seems slightly annoyed but still answers.
“Moe and my dad had some kind of falling out before I was even born, so he was never around much when I was little. By the time they kind of made up, I was a teenager and didn’t really know who he was.” My heart aches for Moe because I know how much he’s missed his family all these years, but I’m not sure it’s really my place to say anything.
“Do you ever go see him now?”
“Sometimes he will call me up and we grab dinner or hang out.”
“But you don’t go see him?”
He shakes his head. “No.”
I just nod and remain quiet. I won’t pretend I know what went on in their family but I feel for both of them. Moe, who has spent years wishing he was close to his family again, and Nix, who missed out on an amazing uncle.
Several minutes pass before he speaks again. “Can I ask you something?”
“I guess that’s fair.”
“What does this tattoo mean?”
My muscles tense and I press my lips together, my mind racing over my options here. This isn’t something I’ve ever talked about with anyone but there’s something about him that makes me feel like I could… if I wanted to. “It means love isn’t enough.”
“Well, obviously,” he shoots back, his brow arched. “But what is the deeper meaning?”
I sigh. “It means that people do some really shitty things in the name of love and it’s not an excuse.”
“What happened to you?”
“No,” I snap without hesitation and one side of his mouth tips up in a smirk.
“No?”
“I don’t talk about that.”
“You know, tattoo artists are like bartenders. People like to tell them their problems. I’m like a discount therapist.”
I nod, looking away from him to hide my smile. Damn him for being so charming.
“Yes, well, bartenders are very good at keeping secrets,” I say, turning back to him as he chuckles. I’m surprised to find myself smiling so easily with him. Not that I’ve spent the last twelve months with a frown permanently fixed on my face, but smiling has never felt as natural as it does right now.
“Can’t blame a guy for tryin’.”
“I guess not,” I reply. His blue eyes lock onto me and he winks as that easy smile curves his full lips. It sends butterflies fluttering through my belly and I look away to hide the blush creeping up my cheeks. I really don’t know what to make of all this. Of him. The buzzing of the tattoo gun is the only sound filling the shop as he works on my tattoo and my eyes droop, lulled into sleep by the hum and constant sting of the needle. Something as small as a tattoo can’t hurt me, not after all the crap I’ve been through. In fact, in a way, it feels like this pain is releasing some of that – freeing me from it.
“Well, you’re all done,” he says after a while and the buzzing stops as he sets the gun down and pulls his gloves off. He grabs a bottle of liquid off the table and squirts some onto a paper towel before rubbing it over my fresh ink. When he’s finished cleaning it, he covers it with a bandage and then grabs a roll of plastic wrap, rolling it around my wrist to protect the tattoo.
“All right, leave that on for, at least, a couple hours and make sure you keep the tattoo clean. Remember to put lotion on it a couple times a day, and whatever you do, do not pick at it when it starts peeling.”
“Okay.”
He stands and I hop off the table and grab my wallet.
