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Abel laughs, the full sound bouncing off the walls around us. I swear he laughs at me more than anyone else. Either I’ve done a really good job at convincing him that I’m funny. Or, and the more likely of the two, he’s laughing at me – as inatme.
“Why are you laughing at me?” I pout out my bottom lip in dramatic fashion.
“Because you’re fucking adorable.” He sits up, pulling my feet into his lap. “Tell me about this.” He runs his finger across the feather tattoo on my foot.
“My tattoo?”
“Yeah.”
“After my mom got really bad, and we knew she wouldn’t be with us much longer, I started spending every free moment I had with her. I would sit next to her bed and read to her, talk to her, just be with her. I wanted to hold onto every single second that I could for as long as I had.” I pause. “One evening, I was sitting next to her, going on and on about whatever stupid thing was happening in my teenage life at the time. And Mom was just looking at me. But then something in her expression changed, and I don’t know, there was just this look on her face that stopped me mid-sentence.”
“What happened?” he asks when I don’t immediately continue.
“She told me that she had a dream the night before. That she saw herself as a bird, flying high and free, watching over all those that she loved. She said she didn’t think it was just any dream, but a telling of what was to come. She was going to come back as a bird and she promised that when she did, she would leave feathers for me to find, so that when I needed her the most,theywould remind me that I’m not alone. That she’s here with me.” I have to fight back the well of emotion that lodges in my throat. “Nine days later, as they lowered my mother’s casket into the ground, a feather floated down from the sky and landed directly next to this foot.” I wiggle my toes.
“Your mom.”
“Who knows. Could be. Or it could have just been a crazy coincidence, but I like to believe it was her. Which is why on my eighteenth birthday I went and got this tattoo. Whenever I’m feeling sad or I’m just missing my mom, I look down at my foot and it makes me feel a little better. Like she’s here.”
“I get that.” He runs his fingers along his chest where Finley’s name is hidden beneath the material of his shirt.
“Why don’t you tell me about some of your tattoos?” I gesture to the arm that’s sleeved from wrist to shoulder.
“These?” He holds up his arm, giving it a quick onceover. “None of them are even half as meaningful as what you just shared with me.”
“Except one.” My eyes go to his chest.
“Except one,” he agrees. “I think I’ll eventually get more. I guess I’ve just been waiting for something to inspire me. What about you? Do you want more tattoos?”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “That one hurt like a bitch.” I point to my foot. “I have no desire to feel that kind of pain ever again.”
“Not a fan of the needle, huh?” He chuckles.
“I know some people say it’s therapeutic, but it didn’t feel that way to me. It just felt painful.”
“They’re always painful. Sometimes that’s the point.”
“Well it must be over my head because I don’t get it.”
“That’s fair. It’s not for everyone.”
“Clearly.” I gesture to myself. “Anyway, so yeah, that’s the story on the tattoo.” I sit up and glance at the clock on the wall behind me. “Ugh.” I groan, turning back toward Abel.
“What the heck was that about?” He chuckles.
“You have to leave for your gig in an hour.” I pout out my bottom lip and make the most pitiful face I can come up with.
“An hour.” He narrows his gaze at me and my skin instantly prickles. “I can think of a lot we can do in an hour.”
“Can you now?”
“Most definitely.” He shifts up onto his knees. Wrapping his hands around the backs of my legs, he pulls me down the couch in one swift tug and settles in on top of me. “You are under my skin, Peyton Rivers,” he murmurs, dropping his mouth to mine.
“You’re under mine.” I whisper back.
