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I bug my eyes at him, silently urging him out with it.
His gaze dips to my chest, and he seems to pause, like something’s caught him off guard. His dark brows knit, lips pursing. He looks…confused.
Frowning, I drop my gaze, not understanding what it is that snagged his attention and put that look on his face.
My tattoos?
My thin white V-neck is completely soaked through from the rain. It clings to my torso, putting my ink on full display.
It’s nothing crazy—not like I’m covered head to toe. Just a nice shoulder piece in the American traditional style that extends from my right forearm to up and over my pec. At the top, near my collarbone and extending over my shoulder up my neck, constellations peek out from between thick clouds. Down my arm, a woodsy scene backdropped by rolling mountains. All in shades of black and gray.
I have other pieces, but this is probably my favorite apart from the date scrolled across my heart just next to where this ends. I started this piece at eighteen, and have been getting it slowly filled in the years since whenever the mood struck, waiting for the day it finally felt finished.
I thought the date of my daughter’s birth would’ve been it. Like that’s what I was waiting for all along to say,There. It’s done.
But there’s still something missing. I just haven’t figured out what yet, or been inspired to even try.
A throat clears and I peer up through my lashes.
The kid stands a little taller, putting him only a few inches shorter than me at his full height. He lifts his chin haughtily, looking off pointedly at some spot in the horizon. Features tense.
The sun hidden only moments ago peeks out from where the storm clouds have begun to dissipate, cutting a ray of light over the boy’s face, turning his brown eyes a molten gold.
My lip curls, and a humorless laugh rumbles my chest.Right.
His head snaps forward, eyes wide, cheeks ruddier than they were a moment ago. “What?”
Shaking my head, I turn away. “Typical,” I mutter.
It’s not the first time I’ve gotten a reaction like this, all just because of my ink. Though you’d think the younger generation would have more appreciation.
Jesus, way to make yourself sound ancient.
I’m only thirty-two. Emphasis ononly.I’m hardly an old man.
But these days I feel a lot older. And a lot more jaded than I probably should be. And I look at this kid and all I feel is fucking exhausted.
And pissed off.
At him. At me. At Mel. At the universe.
“What the hell does that mean?” he says quietly with a hint of a growl.
Somewhat surprised by the attitude, though I’m not really sure why, my brows draw up. I rock back on my heel and turn just enough to cut him with a knowing look.
He’s quick to compose his little snarl, taking on an air of snootiness. He blinks rapidly, giving his head a little jerk, almost like he’s trying to shake out the redness from his cheeks. Like he’s a fucking Etch A Sketch.
Spoiler alert: it doesn’t work.
Movement draws my attention downward to where he’s again tapping his fingers together, faster now.
I frown.
What the hell is up with this kid?
“You jonesing or something?”
“Huh?” he mutters, blinking all doe-eyed up at me. His fingers still.
