Now Wendy glances at Tink. “Um, I’ll let him decide,” she says quickly, “if he likes it.”
Tink’s face is blank. “Can I see?” he asks.
Wendy looks at me first. I give her a small nod and hand her the sketchbook back. “Go for it.”
Wendy swivels the page around and hands it to Tink. “It’s the star,” she says, “like, from the other night. I don’t know, I just thought it was cool, how you can always find your way by it. And then I was thinking it would look really cool with this fairy girl, and that maybe you would like it in particular. And?—”
“Wow,” a single syllable falls from Tink’s lips. Husky and a little awed, he rubs his jaw with one hand, angling the page with the other. “You drew this for me?”
“Well, yeah,” Wendy says and laughs a little bit. “I mean, I am not allowed to get a tattoo yet, so…” She glances at me.
And I give a little sigh. “Yeah, there aresomelaws I have to follow,” I say. Half sarcastic, half short.
“If you hate it, that’s okay too,” Wendy says hurriedly, her eyes searching Tink’s face. “Kit can probably do something better or you don’t have to?—”
“No,” Tink says. “I’ll do it. Just let me…” He glances down at his sweatshirt. “Be right back.”
When he leaves, Wendy wastes no time plopping her sketchbook onto the counter—and mine, I notice.
“Hey,” I say. “Where’d you get that?”
“Downstairs,” she says, like it’s obvious. “Can you do your version now?”
“Uh, sure.” I take the pencil she’s offering, gulp the rest of my coffee so my artistic brain can come online, and set Wendy’s drawing out a bit in front of me as I flip through my pages in search of some blank real estate.
Wendy peers over my shoulder the whole time. And as I much as I hate being watched, I don’t really mind if it’s just her.
“Wait,” she says, as I turn pages, and grabs my elbow. “Hang on. Is that from the other day?”
She lets me go and nods at the page in front of me: my sleeve design from the other day: Joan of Arc, the crest, the lion and dog.
“Oh, yeah.” I hold it up a bit so she could see. “I finished it after you left.” I glance back for her reaction. “You like?”
Wendy considers.
“I thought it was supposed to be a girl.”
I look back at my drawing. “It is a girl,” I say. “Joan of Arc, remember? Don’t you have one of thoseGirls Who Kicked Buttbooks about her?”
“Yeah, but like…” Wendy looks up at me. “Why’d you draw her as Tink?”
“I…” The question takes a moment to register. “What?”
My ears ring, sudden and sharp. Wordless, I take the sketchbook from Wendy, look at the design.
She’s right. I don’t know how I didn’t see it before, but she’s right. The short blonde hair, the little upturned nose, the curve of the lips…
I stare. At that drawing, and then the next one, and the next, page after page, the figures, faces, expressions.
Holy shit. Holy shit. I’ve just been drawing Tink.
Tink goes with the forearm.Inside.
I smooth the stencil over it, steady, even pressure. His skin feels warm despite the gloves and paper in the way, and my heart stumbles in my chest.
Nerves. Normal. Inking someone you know is always higher-stakes. Especially if it’s their first. Nothing more than that.
I swallow and peel back the paper. “How’s it look?”
