Epilogue
EPILOGUE
NOVA
Three Years Later
“You have a walk-in.”
I glance up from the weathered binder open in the middle of my desk, Jeremy standing with his head and shoulders hanging in my office, his hand gripping the frame of the door. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to this version of Jeremy, his hair neatly combed back, his faded badger sweatshirt swapped for a button-down tucked into a pressed pair of navy-blue slacks. Charlie organized a whole Princess Diaries makeover intervention the last time Jeremy came home for spring break wearing Birkenstocks and white tube socks. The two of them have been swapping pattern recommendations and tailor information ever since.
“Can you schedule them for later in the week? Whatever open slot there is.”
Jeremy shakes his head.
“You can’t schedule them?” I ask.
“No.”
I blink. “Why not? Did you forget how to use a pen and paper at NYU?”
He only works at the tattoo shop sparingly, whenever he’s in town to visit his parents. I don’t need the help with the rotating receptionists we have on staff and the other artists in the shop, but he says he likes spending time here when he can, and I like the company.
He’s also still angling for that free tattoo. Apparently, there’s a girl in his Italian language class he’s been trying to impress.
“They said they need to be seen tonight.”
“That’s nice, but they don’t make the rules.” I’m supposed to meet Charlie at Matty’s in twenty minutes. If I’m late, he starts making complicated maps of the town using parmesan shakers and toothpicks.
And I hate making him wait. He’s done enough of that.
“They said it was an emergency.”
“Who did?”
“Your walk-in.”
I narrow my eyes. “A tattoo emergency?”
Jeremy rolls his lips against his smile and taps his palm against the edge of the door. He might have tidied himself up over the years, but he still shows flashes of that impertinent teenager. The little shit that used to put his pet gecko in my hair when I babysat him. “That’s what they said, yeah. I’m going to put them in room two.”
“Jeremy, no—” But he’s already gone, disappearing down the narrow hall that leads to the front. I hear the low murmur of conversation and then a door opening. Fuck. He’s put them in a private studio. A private studio means it’s either an extensive piece or they want it on their ass. I’m not in the mood for either of those things tonight.
I snap the binder closed and push back from the desk, sliding my phone out from my back pocket.
NOVA: I just got a walk-in. I’m going to be a few minutes late.
CHARLIE:
NOVA: I know. But I’ll make it up to you.
CHARLIE: I’m listening.
I snort and tap my thumb to the photo gallery icon at the bottom of my phone. I scroll until I find the picture I want, then send it over.
CHARLIE: Fuuuuuuuck.
CHARLIE: We’ve talked about you sending indecent photos, Nova girl.
NOVA: It’s a slice of chocolate cake.
CHARLIE: It’s the last slice of chocolate cake that you’ve hidden like a tiny gremlin. Where is it? Is it at Beckett’s? Layla’s? Buried in a secret bunker in the middle of the south field? Tell me.
It’s actually behind the milk in our garage fridge, but I know Charlie thinks I’m more devious than that, so he hasn’t bothered to check. Layla made me a double-fudge brownie cake for the third anniversary of the studio opening, and Charlie was a man possessed from his first bite. I thought he and Caleb might get in a fistfight over the frosting.
NOVA: It’s yours. An apology for being late.
CHARLIE: Apology not needed but passionately accepted.
I sigh. Charlie and I have been on opposite schedules for the past week. The harvest festival has finally achieved the level of notoriety the town wanted for it all those years ago, thanks in large part to a pumpkin sculpture contest and the enthusiasm of the new mayor. But as a result, I’ve been slammed with walk-ins in town for the festivities, and Charlie’s been occupied with the committee he demanded a permanent place on. I’m tired of only seeing his face when we’re both dead on our feet, his cheek smooshed in the pillow next to mine, his arm thrown over my hip.
I have another picture on my phone that Charlie hasn’t seen yet, the second part of my apology. Pale pink lace and colorful embroidered flowers that curl up around the edges. I snapped a picture in front of the mirror when I was getting dressed this morning and promptly forgot to send it.
I send it now, just as I slip into room two, tucking my phone back in my pocket with a smile. I hate missing Charlie, but I like the games we play until we find each other again, tension spooling out between us until I yank on it, tugging him back to me.
There’s a muffled groan from the person waiting propped up against the tattoo chair, a familiar gruff, grumbling sound that rolls low in his chest. I stop just inside the entryway watching Charlie blink down at his phone.
“Well, that’s more in line with the indecent photos you usually send,” he mutters, palm scratching roughly at the back of his head. “Fuck, Nova. When did you get this one?”
“Last weekend.” I fold my hands behind my back and stare at him. It feels like I dreamed him right up and dropped him in room two. “When I went shopping.”
“You told me you bought flowers.”
“Don’t those look like flowers?”
He swipes with his thumb at the screen and tilts his head to the side, his tongue at the corner of his mouth as he studies the picture. “I suppose you’re right.”
“Of course I am.”
He keeps staring at his phone and I keep staring at him. He’s wearing the suit I watched him shrug into this morning, navy blue with a crisp white shirt beneath. Long legs crossed at the ankles and hair messy from dragging his hands through it too many times today. He rubs his knuckles over the scruff on his jaw, and I get a glimpse of the ink on his wrist. I smile.
“Are you going to keep staring at that picture or are you going to kiss me?”
“To be honest, Nova, I still haven’t decided.” He clicks off his phone with a tap of his thumb and tosses it over his shoulder on the padded chair. “Just kidding. Come over here and plant one on me.”
I roll my eyes but close the space between us with three quick steps, sliding into his open arms and pressing up on my toes to catch his mouth with mine. He sighs as soon as my mouth is on his, relief and wanting and comfort in the press of his palm at the base of my spine, urging me closer.
“Hey, Nova girl,” he whispers with a nudge of his nose against mine. His knuckles press under my chin, and he drops another quick kiss to my mouth. “Missed you.”
“Hey, Mr. Mayor.” I smile at the sound he makes under his breath. He loves when I call him that, even if he blushes furiously about it every damn time. I thumb at the lapel of his suit jacket. “Thank you for making time for your constituents.”
A half smile hitches the corner of his mouth, blue eyes soft as they take in my face, tipped to his. “You’re my favorite constituent,” he mumbles.
“Don’t let Ms. Beatrice hear you say that.”
“Christ, you’re right. I just got back on the hazelnut latte list.”
“Don’t you two live together?” Jeremy calls from somewhere in the depths of the shop. I snicker and press my face into the front of Charlie’s shirt.
“One day, young Jeremy, this will all make sense to you,” Charlie sighs wistfully, one hand cupping the back of my neck and the other inching up my sweater. I wrap both of my arms around him and squeeze.
I denied myself this comfort for so long. I did have my heart bubble-wrapped, but not because I was afraid of getting hurt. Precious things should be protected, and I did a damn good job of flourishing beneath my own light. I thought being half of a whole meant I’d have parts of myself tugged away by another person. That I’d be distracted, compromised, diminished. But everything I’ve given Charlie I’ve handed over willingly. I want him to have all of it—my friendship, my trust. The good moments when I laugh so hard my stomach aches and the hard moments when the voice in the back of my head is louder than I’d like. He lifts me up when I need it and holds me steady when I need that too. I haven’t lost a single thing with Charlie.
“What are you doing here?”
“Been missing you,” he answers with a quick kiss to my hair. “Thought I’d make an appointment to see you.”
“You don’t have an appointment,” I point out, not moving my face from the hollow of his throat. I brush a kiss against the dip between his collarbones and his arms squeeze me tighter. “This is a walk-in.”
“Semantics,” he says, relaxing his arms so I can lean back. He curls a strand of my hair around his finger, tugs once, and then tucks it behind my ear. “Do you have time for a session before I take you home?”
I raise both eyebrows. “For a tattoo?”
“That is what you do here, yes?” He releases me from his hug and slips his suit jacket from his shoulders. He folds it carefully and drapes it over the table, then works at his cufflinks. “It’s about time I got that scorpion on my ass, don’t you think?”
Jeremy drops something behind us, and I turn to see a stack of sketches fluttering to the ground, folders still in his hands and the gold tray they were balanced on top of turned on its side.
“On that note,” Jeremey says, bending to collect the pieces of paper with a pained expression twisting his face. “I’m out of here.”
“You don’t have to leave,” Charlie calls. “I’m fine with you seeing my ass.”
“I’m not fine with it,” Jeremy replies quickly. His lips flatten in a line, and he tosses everything back on the desk. “I have no desire for a repeat of August second.”
August second. Charlie came in for the tattoo on his hip. We barely made it through my pen on his skin before we were reaching for each other, his mouth on my neck and both of my hands on the curve of his bare ass.
“What happened—oh, yeah.” A grin blossoms across Charlie’s face. My cheeks flush pink. We weren’t exactly quiet, and we definitely left a dent in the wall of room three. But to be fair, I didn’t know Jeremy was still lurking around. Charlie tips his chin. “Good call, man. See you later.”
“Bye, I’ll see you guys—”
Charlie shuts the door in Jeremy’s face, flicks the lock, and takes my hand, guiding me over to the tattoo station I have set up against the wall. He urges me down on the stool and then starts to work on the buttons of his shirt, fingers dancing nimbly down the neat line.
“Oh, wow. Okay. You’re serious.”
Charlie frowns at me. “Am I not always serious?”
I shake my head. “No, you most certainly are not.”
“Well,” he tugs his shirt off his arms and tosses it on top of his jacket. I’m distracted by the stretch of his biceps, the smooth lines of his torso. “You should know by now I’m usually serious about a few things.”
Car snacks. Classic movies. Themed festivals and how I color code my budget sheets. My lingerie shopping trips.
Charlie drags his palm over his chest, and my eyes trip down his torso, lingering on the tattoo I can barely see the top of, peeking out from the waist of his pants. A burst of blue and purple at his hip, dotted with stars. The supernova tattoo starts on his thigh and climbs up over his hip bone, reaching toward his stomach. It took three sessions and a stern warning to Charlie to stay perfectly still, though he was liberal with that instruction. You can see the wobble in some of the lines at his hip. Every time I glanced up and found him watching me, or when his fingers traced gently over the back of my neck as I bent over him.
He says the imperfections are his favorite part. That it makes it his and his alone.
I’m inclined to agree.
Charlie stretches his arms wide with a yawn, finally free from the constriction of his clothes, and I get a good look at the pinup girl across his ribs. She has blond hair tumbling over her shoulder and a coy smile, one hand tucked under her chin, a bouquet of tiny flowers on the back of her hand. Something in my chest turns over the way it always does when I see my work on Charlie’s skin. His ink is just for me, in places only I get to see it, hidden beneath his fancy suits and designer shirts. Mine , those marks say. Mine and mine and mine .
Possession and affection.
I let my gaze touch the flower on his wrist.
An acknowledgment and a promise too.
Charlie rubs his palm over his ribs with a content rumble, then plops down on the table in front of me.
“I want a new tattoo.”
I grin at him. “I gathered that.” I reach for my gloves and the rest of my supplies. “You’re addicted, aren’t you?”
“I like your hands on me.”
“You don’t need a tattoo for that.” I drop a quick kiss in the middle of his bare chest. “What were you thinking?”
“Your name,” he says seriously. “Across my forehead.”
I give him a look. “Don’t joke about tattoo design, Charlie.”
“Maybe here instead.” He traces his pointer finger over his heart.
I stare at the blank spot on his chest where I just kissed and then tip my face to his. His eyes are serious, his lips twisted down at the corners. He opens his mouth only to snap his jaw shut half a second later, a huff of frustration pushed out from his nose.
I drop the supplies I’ve been messing with and press my palms to his knees instead, creeping closer on my stool. He makes room for me like he always does, his legs inching wider, both of my arms draped loosely over his lap.
“What’s this about?” I ask.
He shrugs and grips the edge of the table, hands flexing and releasing. “I just want your name somewhere,” he mumbles, reluctant, a tilt to his voice like he’s embarrassed about it. He scratches once behind his ear, his tell for when he’s feeling anxious or uncomfortable. “I want it to be permanent.”
“You have my face on your ribs, Charlie.”
“I want it to be extra permanent.”
My confusion melts into affection, warm and easy. “It is permanent,” I tell him, looping my hands around his wrists and tugging until our fingers are twined together, palms pressed tight. I squeeze. “You don’t need my name on your skin for you to belong to me. Or for me to belong to you.”
“I know,” he sighs. “I know that. But sometimes…sometimes I want it.”
Charlie has come a long way with how he talks about the things he wants, but he still holds himself back when he thinks he’s being selfish. When he thinks he’s reaching for more than what he’s earned.
I squeeze his hands again. “I have a better idea.”
He perks up, interested. “Is it across my collarbones? You like to bite me there.”
I shift in my seat. I do like to bite him there. He makes the prettiest sounds when I do. “No, it’s not across your collarbones.”
“Beneath Pinup Nova?”
I glance at the tattoo across his ribs and feel a smile tug at the corners of my mouth. “No. Not Pinup Nova.”
“Then where?”
I drag my thumbs back and forth over his knuckles, looking at our hands. He has some blue smudged on the side of his palm, likely from whatever notes he was taking during his meetings today. I trace it gently and then move my touch to his knuckles. The space right above. I tap at the smooth, pale skin of his ring finger and look back up at him.
He thinks he’s been sneaky about it, but Charlie doesn’t possess an ounce of discretion. He’s been looking at engagement rings for over a year now. I know it’s something he wants—something he’s been wanting—and I also know if he thinks it’s something I don’t want, he won’t ever ask.
“Charlie.”
He’s gone still, his broad shoulders inching up toward his ears. “Yes?”
I scoot closer on my tiny wheeled stool. Five years ago, if you would have told me I was planning on proposing to a man in the back room of the tattoo studio I own in the town I grew up in, I would have laughed in your face. I never thought a committed relationship was something I could want, but Charlie has shown me every day that wanting and needing and loving and living are all strings on a braid twisted together. I tug on one of those ribbons and everything pulls tighter. Stronger.
I rub at his finger. “What about a tattoo right here?”
He glances down at our hands, then drags his gaze to my face. He stares at me for a long time. “Right there?”
“Mm-hmm.”
“That specific finger?”
“Yup.”
“What would you—” He takes a deep breath and then releases it, a tremble in his hands where mine grip his. “What would you want to put there?” he asks.
“A simple black band, I think,” I answer. It’s a monumental effort not to grin. “Not too thick. You could wear a ring over it, if you wanted. Maybe silver to match that new watch I got you last—”
Charlie grabs me under my arms and hauls me up his body, not waiting for me to finish my sentence. One hand cups the back of my neck and the other sinks into my hair, my body perched above his. He drags my face to his and kisses me, wild and wonderful, tongue and teeth and messy, delicious delight. He kisses me like he’s been dying to do exactly that since he walked into the studio.
Since we danced on a bunch of mismatched rugs.
“To be clear,” he whispers against my mouth. “You’re asking me to marry you, right?”
I laugh. It feels right to do it like this. In the back room of my studio with Charlie shirtless beneath me, his hands tight on my body and my knees hugging his hips. All of my marks on his body. Some of his on mine. We’ve always been a mess, the two of us. Impulsive and fumbling our way through. But there’s no one I’d rather make mistakes with than Charlie.
“Yes.” I drag my fingers through his hair and curl both of my arms around his shoulders. “I’m asking you to marry me. What do you think?”
He sighs, low and slow. His fingers spread across the small of my back, holding me tight. Holding me steady.
“Yes,” he says quietly. He drops a quick kiss to my shoulder, voice thick. “I’d love to marry you.”
We stand there like that for a long time, just the two of us, my cheek pressed to his heart, the steady thump of it in my ear. I drag my nails up and down his spine until he shivers. Then I do it again.
“Could I—” He stops abruptly, swallowing down the rest of his question. His bare arms tense and then relax against me, fingers twitching against my sides.
I tip my chin against his chest and stare up at him. “Could you what?”
He shakes his head and drops a kiss on my nose. “It doesn’t matter. We’ll figure it out later.”
“Figure what out later?”
“It’s not important.”
I sigh. “Charlie.”
“Nova.”
“Tell me.”
He watches me carefully, and I wait as he struggles to find his words.
“Could I take your name?” he finally asks. His Adam’s apple bobs in his throat with a heavy swallow. “When we get married, I mean. Could I—could I be a Porter?”
I have to take a second to breathe through the pinch in my chest. “Is that something you want?”
He nods.
I feel myself smile. “I’m pretty sure you’ve been an honorary Porter for a couple of years now.”
“Yeah.” He tucks some of my hair behind my ears, hands framing my cheeks. The look on his face is so tender, it makes me want to cry. His thumb rubs right beneath my eye and I think maybe I might be. “It’s a good thing no one else in your family has an encyclopedic knowledge of nineties R&B groups. I’ve really made myself valuable at trivia.”
“More than that,” I tell him, voice cracking.
He nods. “Yeah. More than that. You’re right.” He traces his thumbs beneath my eyes again and lets out a breath. “But I don’t want it to be honorary. I’d like to be a Porter. I want to be your family. Your biggest cheerleader and best friend. The guy who you keep peanut butter pretzels stocked for.” His eyes search mine, honest and true. “I want to be your husband. Full formal. Tuxes and everything.”
“Okay,” I answer.
His whole face lights up. “Yeah?”
I nod and press my forehead to his chest. Hold him tight.
“Yeah,” I say, smiling so hard my cheeks hurt. “Full formal sounds nice.”