“You see, Peach. I think that this tattoo proves that we are, in fact, friends and always have been.”
“You’re reading too much into this,” she says, attempting to pull her hand away, but her gaze darts around the room as though she’s guilty and needs an escape.
“Are you trying to tell me that this tattoo has nothing to do with me?”
“That’s exactly what I’m saying,” she hisses, but she can’t hide the truth in her brown eyes.
“You’re a terrible liar, Peach. But I’ll wait for you to tell me about it on your own.” I release her wrist, and she quickly covers the tattoo with her bracelet.
“What do you want?” she whispers.
The thing is, I have no idea what I want, and the revelation of her tattoo has my mind spinning, so I say the first thing that pops into my mind. “Dance with me at the sand dance.”
Her jaw comes unhinged, and she begins tapping the black bracelet.
“I like those,” I say, reaching out and pressing my thumb to her wrist again, right above the tattoo. “You wear them a lot.”
Confusion has never looked more beautiful than it does on her pretty face.
“The pink one is a reminder to love yourself and the black one absorbs negative energy,” she mutters.
“You believe in crystals but not Pappy’s ideas on destiny?”
Her hands fall to her hips. My little warrior is coming out to play. “Who do you think gave me these?” she asks, holding her wrist in front of my face.
“Sounds like something he’d do.” I tilt closer to her. “So, will you dance with me?”
“Are you seriously asking me to a dance like we’re in high school?”
Suddenly, it feels imperative that that is exactly what we do. “I am.”
“I’m not going,” she fires back.
“Oh, you’re going,” Lottie calls over her shoulder. How the hell did she even hear us?
Rowan flips her friend off, but Lottie laughs while Rowan grabs me by the sleeve and drags me outside and around the corner of the building.
She faces me with her arms crossed over her chest, fire in her eyes, and her toe tapping aggressively against the dirt.
I tap my middle finger against my thigh in sync with her toe just to have another thread connecting us.
“I. Am. Not. Going. To. The. Sand. Dance.”
“Why not, Rowan? When’s the last time you were properly asked to dance?”
“Never.” Poison laces every syllable. “I never went to a dance. I wasn’t allowed, and when you run away and become homeless,by choice, at sixteen, there’s not too many people asking you to dance.”
Shock and fear show in her eyes while she rolls her lips in to keep herself from saying any more.
“You were homeless? At sixteen?” That knowledge slices my throat wide open, making speech painful.
“Just drop it, okay? And don’t you dare talk to Pappy about it. Not a word.”
Involuntarily, my hand rises. I watch it as if I have no control over its movements until it cups her cheek. My body releases tension that’s been there since the last time I touched her.
She is perfection, and when she melts into my touch, even for the briefest second, nothing else seems to matter but her and this connection.
“I’m so sorry.” I take a step closer, and she tries to lower her face, to break the thread tying us together, but I shake my head. “I’m sorry that so much of your childhood died with your father.”
