Page 156 of The Long Way Home


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Thirty-Eight

Magnolia

It was perfect actually, how it happened, and it happened a couple of times because I’m like a bottomless pit with him. There’s no such thing as enough.

Afterwards, we lay in bed for hours, hands intertwined, me on his chest, our legs all tangled like our hearts are and have been and always will be. We’re not talking about anything serious at all, we’re talking about everything else.

“Pretty into rocks now, hey?” He looks down at me with a grin.

I sniff, amused, and I bury my face in him.

“Love an educated man?” he asks playfully. “Fuck, I’m going to have to go to uni—”

“So,” I say and pull myself from him. My eyes scan down his body. “Do you want to walk me through your new… additions?” I poke one of his tattoos that wasn’t there the last time we were doing this.

He grimaces. “Not really.”

“Too bad.” I sit up and wrap myself in the sheet so he’s completely exposed. He rolls his eyes.

“New.” I touch the magnolias woven through a deer’s antlers.

“Just the flowers.” He gives me a little look. “You know I love a flower.”

“Two dead bees.” I eyeball them on his right hand. “Not my favourite.”

He grimaces.

“Fuck NYC.” I trace over it with my finger and he just watches me with heavy eyes.

“What else?”

He flashes me the index and middle finger of his right hand.

Index finger: Carver.

Middle: Hunnisett.

Our school houses at Varley.

“Is there a reason my house is on your middle finger?” I ask, eyebrows up.

He sniffles a laugh, nods once. “Yes.”

My gaze drifts over to the dead Bambi and my heart sinks. I think my eyes start to well up because he props himself on his elbows and shakes his head.

“I was fucked up, Parks.”

“You must have really hated me,” I barely say without taking my eyes off it.

“Never.” And then he points to one of his ribs on his right side.

It’s the time you wasted for your rose that makes your rose so important.

“How many new ones did you get?”

He counts in his head, squinting as he does. “Sixteen? Seventeen? Eighteen.” He nods to himself and I smack his arm.

“Eighteen! That’s so r—” He flashes me his left forearm.

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