19. 19
19
PARKER
I spent the weekend thinking about the green-eyed woman who has stolen my heart.
Saturday night, I had to exercise a ridiculous amount of self-control. The way Lyla was looking at me, reacting to me, had sent me into a frenzy. My dick had strained against my jeans, begging for her touch. But she was drunk, and I knew that I wanted to be a gentleman. As much as I felt the need to take her home the second I saw her at the pub, in that little black dress that fit her like a second skin, I had to hold back.
In just two short months, Lyla has become my whole world. She consumes my thoughts and has embedded herself in my soul. I love spending days with her and yearn for her touch. Even the playful nudges and her brushing past me at the cash register make my heart jump within my chest. Her scent is all over my cabin. We had been spending so much time together lately; a dinner here, a movie night there.
I’m the kind of person who needs space to recharge my battery. I’ve always been that way, and I never saw that changing. Even living with Annie proved to be challenging. But every time Lyla leaves my place and goes home, I miss her. I miss her soothing presence and having her laughter fill the space. It’s unsettling to say the least, as craving someone’s presence is new to me.
I pull up to the store and take a deep breath. I haven’t spoken to Lyla since I drove her home that night and I would be lying if I said I’m not nervous. I’m not sure if the interaction was too intense for her, and I hadn’t heard from her the rest of the weekend. My anxiety had gone into overdrive yesterday, obsessing over whether to call or text her, and wondering if I had scared her off. I hesitate for another few moments before getting out of my vehicle and making my way inside.
Taylor Swift is playing from the speaker today and Lyla is doing her usual morning clean. She’s rocking her hips to the beat and singing out loud, and I realize she must not have heard the bell chime. The music is louder than usual and she continues her very own concert. I lean against the shelves and watch her in fascination as she pretends to use the duster as a microphone. She seems to be in a very good mood today and I wonder if I have anything to do with that.
Suddenly, she turns around to belt out the next lyric and her eyes meet mine. They widen in horror and a blush overtakes her face.
“Oh my god, I didn’t see you there.”
“Clearly,” I smirk.
She blushes further. “Let’s pretend this never happened. You saw nothing.”
“Whatever you say, sweetheart.”
She turns to glare at me, but it’s half-hearted. I chuckle and walk to the office to put my jacket and lunch away. When I return, the music is quieter and Lyla is finished with cleaning. She now sits behind the register, sketching on her pad and only humming along to the next T-Swift song. I approach her and try to look at her drawing, but she quickly tears it away from my line of sight and huffs.
“It’s not finished,” she mutters.
“What are you drawing? ”
She hesitates before replying, “It’s just a tattoo idea. I’ve always wanted one and…”
I wait for her to continue.
“I want to cover my scars,” she murmurs.
I come around the side of the register and tear the sketchbook from her fingers. She reluctantly lets go of it and lets out a sigh of defeat. I look down at the page and see what she’s been working on.
On the page is a lily.
“They represent joy and life,” she whispers.
I continue looking at her drawing and feel a lump forming in my throat. I still feel sick every time I think about her scars. I can’t imagine living with the daily reminder of the pain of your past.
“I know someone who can do this for you.”
She looks up. “Really?”
I nod. “Yes. Theo is a tattoo artist during the day. He has a studio in his basement.”
“That would be amazing. But I’m kind of nervous. I’ve wanted a tattoo for so long but I’m scared of it hurting.”
I strip off my flannel of choice today and take my t-shirt off so she can get a full view of my upper arm piece. Theo did it four years ago, after Annie left. It’s a little tent, with a forest behind it and stars shining above them. It reminds me of where I came from and how much I love these mountains, something Annie had hated. It was a form of rebellion and had been my first and only tattoo.
Lyla’s fingers reach out to touch the inked skin. She looks it over appreciatively before her eyes lower and darken.
Is she checking me out?
Her fingers drift over my chest and down across my abs. I’m mesmerized by the feeling of her roaming my body. Her touch is light, but it sends heat shooting through my body. I have to continuously remind myself that we’re in the store so I can’t grab her right here and kiss every square inch of her body.
Her trance abruptly ends and she yanks her hand away.
“It’s beautiful. I’d love for him to do mine. Did it hurt?”
“A bit, but you get used to the sensation. The shading was the worst part, and even that wasn’t terrible.”
She nods thoughtfully.
“I’ll go with you and get one too.” I decide.
“You will?”
“Yes. But on one condition.”
Her eyebrow quirks with interest.
“You have to draw a tattoo for me.”
A smile spreads across her face and she asks, “What do you want?”
I know exactly what I want. I’ve been considering it for years, but never felt ready to do it.
“I want to get one that’s a tribute to my mom.”
She gapes at me. “You—you want me to be the one to draw that?”
I grab her hands and reply, “I couldn’t imagine anyone else doing it. The time never felt right and I never found an artist who designed one I liked.”
“What if you don’t like what I draw?” She asks self-consciously.
“I will.”
She looks at me with apprehension before saying, “Okay. Come upstairs after work and we’ll start working on it.”
I know that we can’t keep avoiding the conversation that needs to be had, so I take a deep breath and decide to approach it gently.
“So, about this weekend.” I hesitate for a moment. “I like you, Lyla.”
Her olive eyes soften and she reaches out to take my hand. It’s kind of our thing in these tender moments, as if we know the other person needs assurance in the form of physical touch. It allows us to feel anchored and safer in our vulnerability somehow.
“I like you, too,” she says, barely above a whisper. “But I need to take this slowly. If that’s okay. ”
I nod my head and squeeze her hand in mine. “I can be patient. You’re worth it.”
The smile that flashes across her face lights up my entire body. I could be patient, for her. I know she’ll need time to open up and feel comfortable with me in a different capacity, and that’s understandable. But one thing is certain.
Lyla Thomas will be mine.
And I won’t give up until she is.
We sit on Lyla’s couch after work every day that week and work through ideas. I talk about my mom and different memories, while Lyla sketches different things on her pad. She wasn’t showing me her progress, but I trust her to draw something worthy of my mom’s legacy. The first night, she simply listened and wrote some notes. The second night, she asked questions about the style I was looking for. The third and fourth night, she began drawing while I told stories of June Hamilton.
It’s now Friday night, and we sit in the same position we had every night. On opposite ends of the couch, facing each other, with knees pulled up and feet touching. The look of concentration fades from her face and she releases a breath.
“I’m finished.”
I sit up and reach for the pad. She pulls it back for a moment.
“You don’t have to use it if you hate it.”
I grab the book from her hands, look down, and my heart squeezes in my chest.
It’s perfect.
She’s incorporated so many beautiful things that represent my mother, and captured her energy within the page. It’s even chaotic and scatter-brained like her. The piece is in the shape of a circle, and there’s a plane to represent our sky-diving adventure, a mountain range for the town she adored, and a rose, her favorite flower. There are the lyrics she repeated to me over and over, from Tim McGraw’s song. Little wildflowers are scattered throughout the art, filling in the gaps.
Lastly, there’s a book with her name written on the spine. I eye the handwriting and look up at Lyla, my eyes misting over.
How was this possible?
“This…” I gape at her in disbelief. “This is her handwriting.”
Lyla nods and gives me a shy smile.
“I asked your dad if I could get her name in her writing somewhere, and he gave me an old form she filled out. I traced it so it would look exactly like hers.” She swallows nervously.
I look back at the tattoo she’d drawn and put a hand over my mouth to stop a sob from coming out. A tear silently glides down my face and I feel a pinch in my chest. I miss my mom every single day. Her light, her laughter, her love. She had been such a constant in my life, up until the day she passed. Even in her sickness, she was there for me. Her strength never wavered and I’d admired her more than ever while she battled the cancer that wreaked havoc on her body.
I remember feeling so robbed when she died. Robbed of time with her. Robbed of getting to see her be a grandparent. Robbed of the joy she spread everywhere she went. She had left a gaping hole in my heart that will never repair and I couldn’t help but think of how much she would have loved Lyla.
“Parker?”
I lift my head and meet her gaze. She looks at me with a silent question in her eyes.
“It’s amazing, Lyla. I love it.”
She sighs out a breath she must have been holding and gives me a warm smile that melts my heart. My approval means the world to her and it’s evident in how she visibly relaxes at my praise.
“Well, old man. Let’s book some tattoo appointments.”