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By the time they reached the body art tent, dust painted the hems of Everly’s skirts—and probably the inside of her lungs—but that discomfort quickly dissipated when she saw the room Stanton had brought them to. The walls were lined with pictures of various kinds of art, from face painting to henna to temporary tattoos.
Hefting his camera back to his shoulder, Logan resumed filming.
“Some of these people must do tattoos, don’t you think?” she asked as he trailed her around the space. After all the times he’d spoken on camera today, Everly no longer worried about breaking the fourth wall. That thing had been obliterated at this point.
“Probably.”
She ran her fingers over a small bird sketch, its wings wide in flight. “It’s got to be so… I don’t know… fulfilling, to know that you get to help people turn fleeting memories into something permanent.”
“Have you given any thought to yours?”
Everly skimmed the bird with her finger again, then peered at him over her shoulder. “I haven’t gotten the drawing right yet, but I’m thinking an open birdcage with a flock bursting out of it.”
His expression softened a little. “For freedom?”
Her heart stuttered. “Exactly.” He’d been listening while he recorded her.
“One bird for every piece of me I’ve kept locked up.” Her eyes pored over the other pictures, black-lined reimaginings of various mythology monsters, woodland creatures, and flower garlands. “You have one, right?” She’d seen the edge of a tattoo peeking out from under his rolled-up cuffs, but never enough to figure out what it was.
“Yeah. On my forearm.”
Everly turned to face him. “What is it?”
His gaze, usually so steady and intense, skipped to her feet. “Paw prints. For each of the dogs I’ve lost.”
Surprise cut through her knees, almost knocking Everly over. When she’d imagined what his tattoo looked like (she might have, once or twice—or more—daydreamed about removing his shirt to see those arms sans all the plaid), she’d always assumed it would be something wilderness related, like an ax or a tree or a mountain, some symbol that aligned with his lumbersexual aura. Not something so vulnerable and soft.
“I’m so sorry. It sucks losing a pet.” Her fingers braided through the fabric of her overskirt. “We never had one growing up, but my grandmother had an animal sanctuary, and Ellis and I were there all the time. Whenever she lost one, it was like someone chipped a little piece out of me. The worst was Sheldon, one of the pygmy goats. He’d been my buddy at the sanctuary for years—he’d follow me around and sit beside me while I did my homework every night. When old age finally got him, I sobbed for weeks.” The farm had never felt quite the same after Sheldon was gone. He’d left a goat-shaped hole behind no one could fill.
Logan nodded again, but his eyes had finally stopped avoiding hers.
“Can I see it?” she asked softly.
“Sure.”
He secured his camera on a shelf behind them, then shoved up his sleeve. It was tight, the fabric not fully giving around his muscles, but he managed to expose most of the tattoo.
He held out his inner forearm. Just below his elbow were four black paw prints about the size of golf balls arranged in a vertical line.
Everly’s heart hurt. “You’ve lost four dogs?”
His eyes narrowed into a squint, and he paused to rub a hand across the back of his neck. “I like to adopt the older ones, which means I don’t always get as much time with them.” He glanced down at his arm. “I like having a visible representation of the mark they left on me.”
“They take a little piece of us with them,” she said quietly. That’s what her grandmother used to say.
He nodded.
“You have some dogs now, right?” Everly asked. He’d mentioned them a few times. “Alan and… Linguine?”
“Ravioli,” he corrected her, his head down as he dug his phone out of the pouch on his kilt.
“I knew it was something Italian.” Everly watched him poke at the screen. “If you don’t name the next one Gnocchi, I will never forgive you.”
His lips twitched against a laugh. “Ravioli is the name he came with.”
He moved to Everly’s side so they could both see his phone and began to flip through pictures of the dogs. She wanted to concentrate on them, but her brain was too focused on the pressure of his arm against hers. The solidness of his biceps. And the effect that both of these things were having on her insides.
Her head jerked up when she heard Stanton suddenly call her name. He was standing in the tent opening, Sady by his side, her phone out as usual.
