Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
LENNON
It’s been a long, hard road. And we’re not even halfway through. The lawyers are still just in “discovery,” and it could be another whole year before the trial even starts.
I’m learning to make peace with it. Trying, anyway.
As my therapist says, why give that bastard a second more of my life than he already stole?
Yes, I still have to process the trauma. That’s the work we do in her office once a week.
But also, I’ve already lost a decade of my damn life.
It’s time to get busy living.
After so many years so damn lonely, my life is ridiculously full now. There’s August, and the coolest little boy in the world I’m getting to know, Owen, and our two kitties rounding out the madness.
The kitties certainly do their best to live up to their names, Mayhem and Goblin. Mayhem is a romper who loves climbing curtains, and Goblin will stare me in the face from across the room with mischief in his eye and then knock things off the shelf with his paw.
It doesn’t help that Owen giggles with delight every time he does it, reinforcing the devilish habit. Between Owen, Mayhem and Goblin chasing each other around the house, everything August and I neatly tidy up each night we’re on Owen-duty is absolutely wrecked by ten a.m. the next morning.
And I absolutely love it.
I’ve never loved my life more, in fact.
Or August.
How did I get so lucky as to be loved by this man?
His spirit is so goddamned beautiful, and he battles every day to manage his mood disorder like a Buddhist monk, practicing acceptance with his ups and downs.
We notice and have named them rabbit-mode and turtle-mode.
Neither mode has to have any power of judgment in it, and we work our lives to accommodate both.
The convention center we’re at today is packed so tightly with bodies that I have to turn sideways to squeeze past a group gathered around one of the demonstration stages.
Tattoo machines buzz from every direction, overlapping until the sound becomes a low electric swarm vibrating through the conference center floor.
Huge banners hang from the rafters, each one covered in snarling tigers, beautiful women, grinning skulls, and gorgeous scaled dragons. Every few feet, someone walks past wearing almost no clothing so an artist can photograph a finished piece.
I’ve been here since the doors opened, and I still haven’t stopped staring.
I’ve never seen so much skin turned into art in a single day.
August’s booth is near the center of the main hall, directly beneath a bank of bright lights. His black banner hangs behind him, displaying his name above a pair of skeletal hands cupping a human heart. Owen helped him choose that image, mostly because, according to Owen, skeletons are “boss.”
August’s table is covered with prints of his work, business cards, stickers, and a convention booking sheet that filled up right after breakfast yesterday.
There’s a line curling away from the booth now, people waiting to ask about consultations or get one of the flash pieces he designed specifically for the convention.
A year ago, he would have looked at a crowd like this and decided every person in it was about to discover he was a fraud.
Today, he’s bent over a woman’s upper arm, adding pale highlights to the edges of a black chrysanthemum.
His shoulders are relaxed beneath his T-shirt.
His breathing is even. Every so often, he sits back to examine the work, then leans in again with that quiet certainty I love watching settle over him.
It was turtle-mode this morning. He hates having turtle-mode on convention days.
It means he knows he has to be deliberate and conserve his energy because this weekend was already going to demand more of him than an ordinary workday.
So he slept late while I got everything set up at the booth.
He skipped the after-party last night. He ate the sandwich I put in front of him without insisting he wasn’t hungry.
It isn’t a failure when he needs to protect himself. It isn’t selfish. It’s one of the ways he stays stable.
And I’m so freaking proud of him.
He glances up as if he feels me watching.
His eyes find mine through the crowd, and the concentration on his face softens. Just like that, the entire enormous convention center disappears for me.
He can still do that.
He can look at me from across a room and make the world feel private.
I weave around the edge of the booth, careful not to bump the woman sitting in his chair. August lifts his machine from her skin and wipes away the excess ink before turning his face toward me.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
“Hey, famous tattoo artist.”
He snorts softly. “I’m working.”
“I noticed.”
I put one hand against his jaw and kiss him. It’s supposed to be quick because there are people waiting and he’s wearing gloves and the woman in his chair has already been extraordinarily patient waiting for her spot.
August ruins the plan by following when I pull away.
His mouth catches mine again, warmer this time.
Someone in line whistles.
The woman in his chair laughs. “Take your time. This is adorable.”
August smiles against my lips before leaning back. “You need something?”
“Just you.”
His eyes change.
It still happens whenever I say something like that. A flash of disbelief, so quick most people would miss it. As if some part of him still expects love to be revoked without notice.
I brush my thumb over the dark stubble on his cheek.
“You good?” I ask.
He nods. “Getting tired.”
“I’ll bring food in an hour.”
“Actual food?”
“Something with protein. And something green. You’ll complain about it and then gobble it up.”
His mouth curves. “Come here again.”
I kiss his forehead this time.
“I love you.”
“Love you more.”
“That’s an impossibility.”
“I love you the most, infinity,” he fires back, and I chuckle at his stubbornness.
The woman laughs again as I leave the booth.
I’m still smiling when I turn into the next aisle.
And absolutely freeze in my tracks.
Because a woman stands twenty feet away from me with an iced coffee in one hand and a convention badge hanging against her black tank top.
Her hair is darker than I remember, cut above her shoulders now, and both arms are covered in ink. Vines curl over one elbow. A moth spreads its wings across her forearm. There are more tattoos climbing her throat, delicate black lines that disappear beneath her hair.
She’s older, maybe in her late twenties.
Of course she is.
We both are.
And she’s staring right back at me, her mouth dropped open like she’s trying to make sense of something impossible.
I know the tiny crease between her eyebrows. I know those eyes.
Because she was my high school best friend.
Harper.
The cup slips out of her hand. It strikes the floor, splashing iced coffee across the concrete and the toes of her boots.
Neither of us looks down.
“Marie?” she asks. Because of course I went by my middle name back then.
I don’t remember moving. One moment, she is twenty feet away. The next, I’m pushing through people, knocking my shoulder against someone hard enough that they swear at me.
“Harper?”
Her face breaks. I think mine does too.
Then we’re running.
We hit each other so hard in a mutual hug, I lose my breath. Harper’s arms lock around my shoulders while mine wrap around her waist, and suddenly she’s laughing and crying against my hair.
“Oh my God,” she says. “Oh my God, Marie.”
I can’t speak.
Ten years fold in on themselves.
For one dizzy second, we’re girls again. We’re whispering things to each other that no one else in the world knows. We’re sharing clothes and secrets. We’re making promises neither of us understands enough to keep.
Then the years crash back over me.
The things that happened. That horrible moment in the hallway where I should have stood up for her but didn’t.
“I’m sorry,” I sob.
Harper jerks back far enough to look at me.
“I’m so sorry. Harper, I’m so fucking sorry.”
Her eyes widen. Tears spill down her cheeks, too, as she starts shaking her head. “No.”
“I just froze. But you stood up for me and I should have done the same—”
“Marie.”
“I knew you didn’t—”
“Stop.”
She grips both sides of my face.
People flow around us, some of them staring. Someone steps over the spreading puddle of coffee. I don’t care.
“Z said you hated me,” I say. “Every time I thought about calling you, I heard his voice telling me you didn’t want anything to do with me.”
Harper’s hands tighten against my face.
“He was lying. He did a lot of that.” Pain flashes in her eyes that speaks of a lot worse. “He would have done anything to get me away from Caleb and all to himself. He put the weed in my locker.”
My mouth drops open and I grab her forearms. “Oh my God, Harper! Are you okay? Did you get away from him?”
More pain flashes, etched in her brow. “He’s gone now. And I’m with Caleb. And our son.”
A horrible sound comes out of me, half laugh and half sob, and Harper pulls me against her again.
“I missed you,” she whispers.
That hurts worse than anything else.
I bury my face against her shoulder. “I missed you too.”
“I looked you up.”
I lift my head. “You did?”
“So many times.” Her laugh shakes. “I would find an old account or some dead link, and then I’d convince myself that reaching out would only make everything worse.”
“I did the same thing.”
“Of course we did.”
We stare at each other through tears.
Then Harper starts laughing.
It spills out of her, helpless and happy. I laugh too, because apparently we lost ten years being exactly the same kind of idiot.
She wipes beneath her eyes with the heels of her hands. “We are so stupid.”
“We really are.”
“I can’t believe you’re here.”
“I can’t believe you’re here.”
She looks past me toward August’s booth, then back at the badge hanging from my neck. “Are you working the convention?”
“August is.”
Something flickers over her face.
“August?”
I nod.
She studies me for a second, not pushing. Harper always knew when there was more beneath the surface. Even before either of us understood how valuable a tool that was.