3. Tink #3
When I’m done, I scrub my hands in the way-too-hot blast of water and stare at myself.
I’m long past the jump scare stage where I didn’t recognize myself in the mirror.
Now I just have a kind of checklist. Key spots to zoom in on: T-shirt collar centered and covering binder straps, hem loose and untucked and not resting on my ass, hair messed up enough to keep my face half in shadow.
Remind myself to keep my shoulders back and walk like I’ve got a dick.
But that’s quick, all good. And I don’t really want to go back out yet. And so, because I’m tipsy, and I’m vain, I grip the seashell sink and take a good look at myself for once.
I am a good looking guy. A pretty guy, even, almost too pretty.
Those lips are hard to escape. Cheekbones, too.
My jaw’s sharp, but not square. The clothes, the posture, the thickened-up eyebrows do a lot to sell it.
That and the binder—I threw out the hospital one and got a new one, a better one, as soon as I could, internet order with a cash Visa gift card that I tracked stop by stop and grabbed almost before the delivery guy could scan the barcode. It all works. Complete package.
But still—
The doorknob swivels and the door bangs forward right into my arm.
“Hey!” I cry, and almost—almost—forget to lower my voice. Heart pounding, elbow smarting, I kick the door back into place with my boot heel and then slam my back against it for good measure.
“Oh shit,” comes a muffled voice. “Sorry.”
I don’t answer, just lean there for a second. Catching my breath.
I wasn’t doing anything, I remind myself. Wasn’t pants-down or shirtless or washing out my Diva Cup in the sink.
But I could have been. And that is an adrenaline blast in and of itself.
I force some breaths through my nose, straighten up off the door, and pull it open to face the hallway.
It’s Fox.
He says he and Kit are identical, but you wouldn’t know it to look at them.
Fox is taller, broader, almost brighter somehow, like the printer used up most of its ink before it got to his two-minutes-younger brother.
He’s tall, too, the only one that really makes me feel short, especially with the shadow from the one overhead light back here making even his friendly features look harsh.
“It says occupied, man,” I say, pointing at the little window in the doorknob. “Can’t you fuckin’ read?”
“Oh.” Fox blinks. “Uh. My bad.”
He doesn’t move. We’re standing close in this corridor, very close. My eyes are right at his collarbone, the undone buttons of his henley, and…
And fuck, I might be a little drunk.
“You goin’ in, or?” My words come out all pissed off. I am pissed off, I realize.
“Uh. Yeah.” Fox nods, and unfreezes. “Uh, my bad. Again.”
He slips past me into the bathroom. I listen to the lock thunk into place in the door and give my fists a single clench before I walk off.
That’s another thing I’ve learned. As a guy, you can be pissed off. You can be sulky, grumpy, angry, and it’s, like…fine. People respect it. Work around it. Give you a wide berth, just like the Mermaids are right now as I stomp my way back to the bar.
Fine. What do they know, anyway?
“There ‘e is!” Pan spreads his arms wide, beaming a big bright smile at my return. “Hey, man, about earlier, I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine,” I cut him off. “Just…” Don’t overexplain, I remind myself. Guys don’t talk so much. “You don’t have to,” I finish.
Pan sighs. “Don’t I, though?” He spins on his seat so he’s looking out at the rest of the Lagoon, arms flat on the bar behind him. “Don’t have to try and help out my right-hand man?”
The words are warm. Affectionate, even.
But they still hit me right in the chest.
“Think it’s supposed to be the other way around,” is all I say.
Pan swigs his beer and swipes at the air. “I just hate to see you all lonely, is all.”
“I’m not lonely,” I reply. “I’ve got you.” Pause. “All,” I add. “Got you all. All of you.”
If Pan notices my pause, he doesn’t show it. He just leans in, close. So I can hear him over the music.
“I just want you to be happy, Tink,” he drawls. “You’ll tell me if I can make you happy, right?”
God, he’s so convincing, so charming. You can see what the Mermaids see in him.
What all girls see in him. Not just personality, either.
How he’s tall but not too tall, slender but not skinny, all lean muscles and ease.
Winding ink over his skin, and that one earring dangling, the first piercing he ever got and first one Blue ever gave, so the legend goes.
That stupid firetruck hair. The faint dimples when he smiles.
The way that, when he looks at you, really looks at you, you feel like the only girl in the world.
“Yeah.” I say at last. My voice sounds too high. I cough. “Yeah. Sure. I’ll—whatever.”
I swallow more beer, glance up at the mirror panels one more time. At what they see. At what he sees.
Me. Tink. But still. Even for all that.
I rub my jaw absently. Touch a finger to my lips.
I could be pretty, I think. I think I even was, once.