Chapter 11
I lose time again.
It happens a lot. Hunched over my sketchpad with graphite smudges up to my wrist, I get in the zone.
Sometimes it happens in other ways. When I’m thinking about Hoss. When bad memories cloud my vision until my brain breaks. Those are more like blackouts. But I didn’t think about Denver today. Or the doctor. Or the scars I keep hidden.
Today is a good day.
So far.
Music thrums low on the speakers. Grunge, old punk, and some Glass Animals thrown in to keep it weird. Just the way I like it. Outside, rain patters lazily against the windows, and I glance up.
Shit. It’s already noon.
My phone flashes. One unread message. Not from Dove. Just Kody checking in to make sure I ate something that isn’t vodka.
I grab my jacket and head to the deli down the street. The deli guy knows me by now. Probably thinks I’m a freak for never ordering the same thing twice.
Today, it’s a Reuben for Declan, turkey pesto for Dove, and roast beef for me.
Back at the shop, I drop Declan’s at his station, where he works on a geometric sleeve for a tourist with a sunburn. I bounce before he can give me a dissertation on deli meat.
Hood up and head down, I cut through alleys and side streets, letting the drizzle soak through the edges of my sleeves. Dove’s shop isn’t far, just a few minutes from the tattoo parlor if I walk like I have somewhere to be, even if she makes it clear I don’t.
In the bay with the roll-up door open, she bends over the guts of an engine. Grease smears her forearms, and that somehow makes her look even hotter than this morning.
I stand there, sandwich in hand, watching her for a long, hungry minute. Waiting for her to look up.
She doesn’t.
“Brought you lunch.” I sidestep into her line of vision.
Nothing. Not even a shift of her eyes.
There’s a tall guy next to the tool bench, wearing a name patch that says Taaq. He leans against a tool cart with his arms folded and an eyebrow raised.
I nod in his direction, and he nods back. Just two wolves sizing each other up across neutral territory.
“For her.” I hold out the sandwich.
He takes it and inspects the wrapping like he’s checking for explosives. “She eat meat?”
Fuck, I didn’t think of that. She ate salmon last night, so I know she’s not vegan.
Feeling suddenly irrationally territorial, I snap, “She didn’t gag last night, so either she eats meat or she was being polite.”
He grins at that, and I hate how easy his grin looks. Hate it even more when he turns toward her as if I don’t exist.
“Hey, Dove,” he calls. “Your boyfriend dropped off food.”
Her only response is a grunt.
Not even a glance.
I’m suddenly cold despite the muggy shop air. Her frostiness doesn’t bother me, but come on. A half-second glare in my direction wouldn’t kill her.
If she expects me to stand here like a simp until she deigns to give me her attention, she has the wrong guy. But that’s the thing. She doesn’t expect that. She expects nothing from me. Not my help. Not my protection. Not my sandwich.
Without another word, I leave before I do something unforgivable like grab her throat and shove my tongue between her pressed lips.
Back at the tattoo shop, I plant myself behind my station and draw until I forget how to feel. The sketchpad fills fast. Faces, shapes, dark fairy tale designs I keep obsessing over. I don’t stop until my fingers cramp.
Then the clients start coming in.
First, a girl from Juneau. She wants a black rose on her ribs, and I slay it. Delicate lines. Bold shading. She stares at it in the mirror afterward like I just gave her a mind-blowing orgasm. Then she hangs out, flirting and begging me to go out with her tonight.
Not interested. Even if I didn’t have Dove on the brain, I don’t date clients.
I don’t date anyone.
A local fisherman walks in next. He wants a giant squid wrapped around a lighthouse. Unusual request. Killer design. I freehand the whole thing while he talks about storms and losing his brother to the sea. I don’t say much. Just let him talk. I think he’s lonely.
I get it, man.
The afternoon drags on with ink and music and fading light. My phone vibrates every few hours. I check it. Nothing from her.
I text again.
Me:
You good?
Brought a sandwich just to watch you pretend I don’t exist.
Worth it.
I’ll be there when you’re finished. I dare you to look at me this time.
Dove?
Okay.
Nothing.
Ghosted.
The setting that shows Read is disabled on her phone, so it feels like a double punch.
Declan leaves around eight, flipping the sign to CLOSED on his way out. I clean my station, mop the floors, and restock needles until ten. Everything is neat and controlled. Unlike me.
The rain picks up again, drumming harder, like it’s trying to get inside. I slip the sketchbook into my satchel, tug on my beanie, and lock up the shop.
The streets are mostly empty, the kind of quiet that makes my thoughts louder. I take the long way to her shop. I don’t want to seem eager, even if I am.
The garage is still lit. I stand in the doorway, watching for a second, smoking a cigarette. I don’t know why my pulse is so high. Everyone else went home. It’s just Dove in there.
Dove and that unworthy engine she apparently loves more than me.
I flick away the cig and slip into the bay, my rain boots squeaking on the concrete. She lifts her head at the sound.
Finally.
She sees me. Straightens up. Wipes her hands on a rag but doesn’t smile. Doesn’t say my name.
“You change your phone number?” I tuck my fingers into my pockets.
“Didn’t check it.”
“All day?”
“Been busy.”
She doesn’t offer more. Doesn’t step toward me. Doesn’t look sorry.
“I brought you lunch.”
“I saw.”
“You done?” I squint at her.
“Give me five.”
I wait in the rain.
She comes out five minutes later, wiping grease off her cheek, her bomber jacket zipped halfway up. No purse or umbrella. The rain soaks her blue hair.
We walk in silence, side by side but miles apart. The dull orange glow of streetlights reflects on wet pavement.
She doesn’t speak.
I don’t ask why.
The harbor appears like it always does, silent, mist-veiled, boats bobbing in their slips. The yacht I share with Leo waits at the far dock, ropes taut against the cleats, haloed in dock lights and sea fog.
Dove follows me down the ramp without question.
I untie the lines and hop aboard first, reaching back to steady her hand as she steps on deck. She doesn’t need it, but she takes it anyway.
That’s something.
Inside, I fire up the controls and ease us out of the slip. The yacht hums as we glide through the black, rain-slicked bay with only the sound of water curling off the hull and the low rumble of the motor.
She sits in the passenger seat, arms folded, watching the shoreline fade into mist. Her fingers twitch in her lap like she’s counting something. Maybe all the things she hasn’t said. Maybe all the things she never will.
I don’t push. I just steer. Back to the island. Back to more silence and loneliness.
Her phone buzzes in her pocket. She checks it.
Not me.
“Everything okay?” I can’t keep the resentment out of my voice. I don’t want to fight. I want her to talk to me. Look at me. Be with me.
“Yeah.” That’s it. One word. Short. Flat. Nothing behind it.
“You mad about something?”
“No.” She looks out the window.
“Well, I am.” I press my tongue to the roof of my mouth, staring hard through the windshield. The rain makes it easier not to look at her. I feel my heartbeat in my jaw, in the back of my neck, in the way I grip the wheel too tight. “You didn’t answer a single text.”
“I was working.”
“You could’ve said that.”
“I didn’t think it mattered.”
I flinch.
She might as well have kneed me in the nuts.
When I reach the island, I dock, kill the engine, and sit there. My fingers drum the wheel. She doesn’t move to get out.
“I’m not your past.” I roll my neck. “I’m not Jag. Or your piece-of-shit ex. Or any of the assholes who made you feel like you have to avoid men to survive. I’m here. I show up.”
“I didn’t ask you to.”
That hits harder than anything she said—or didn’t say—all day.
“Yeah.” Blood throbs in my ears. “You’ve made that clear as fuck.”
For several minutes, the only sound is the ping of the engine cooling down.
“I know you show up.” She exhales and rubs her hands on her thighs. “I don’t know what to do with that.”
I study her features. She looks exhausted. Haunted.
“You don’t have to do anything.” I want to touch her, but I don’t. “Just let me be near you.”
“I’m not good at that.”
“Neither am I.” Dragging a hand down my face, I bark a humorless laugh. “Holy frozen hell, you have no idea. I’ve lived the most abnormal, fucked-up life. I’m not here to compare shitty experiences. But if anyone can understand what you’re going through, it’s me.”
A small smile dimples the corner of her mouth and quickly fades. She finally looks at me. Really looks with those honey-warm eyes. “I didn’t mean to ignore you.”
“Yeah, you did.”
I lead her to the guest house, shrouded by a dense mist, the windows fogged and lights low.
Inside, I spot a pizza box on the counter, still warm. Someone dropped it off. Kody, probably. Ever since he took over the distillery and expanded into culinary service, he’s been feeding everyone like it’s part of his job description.
We kick off our boots and hang our jackets by the door. I toss my sketchbook on the table, and we eat without talking, hunched over our plates, scrolling on our phones like strangers.
“Who’s texting you?” Finished eating, I collect our empty plates.
She hesitates, then says, “Jag.”
My jaw tightens.
I don’t ask for details. She’ll just ignore me. But my anger rises fast, pressing under my skin.
“Want a drink?” I ask instead.
“Sure.”
I pour two vodkas, one of Kody’s latest infusions. Birch and spruce tip. Smoky. Earthy. Tastes like Alaska in a glass. I hand her a tumbler and lean against the counter, sipping from mine.
We stand in silence. The kitchen light hums overhead. Our shadows stretch across the floor, reaching for each other, trying to bridge the gap we don’t know how to cross.
“You drew today?” She turns her attention to my sketchbook.
“Yeah.”
“Anything good?”
I flip it open, the pages curling from being handled too much, and show her the latest ones.
Dark Disney princesses. Horror-style. Steampunk Belle with mechanical limbs and cracked porcelain skin.
A reimagined Sleeping Beauty tangled in IV lines, trapped in an endless lucid dream.
Snow White with broken mirror shards embedded in her skin, each one reflecting a different distorted version of her face.
Most of them look like Dove in some twisted way. The graceful shape of her features. The curve of her mouth. Her eyes, always angry or defiant.
“Wow.” She stares at the illustrations for a long time, flipping back and forth between them. “You’re insanely talented.”
“Thanks. It’s my take on the classic fairy tale heroines. They’re all tough in an unconventional and misunderstood way. They appear self-destructive, but some dark shit has happened to them, and they take matters into their own hands.”
Like someone else I know.
Her gaze flicks to mine.
She doesn’t move closer. Doesn’t touch me. But she gifts me with her eyes. Steady, bright, curious eyes. It’s the most intimate thing she’s given me.
“Do you have tattoos?” Her gaze skips down my body and quickly returns to my face.
“You wanna check?”
She gives me a bland look.
The truth is I have too many scars. Deep, ugly scars that aren’t healed enough to cover with ink. I’m not sure they will ever heal.
“No tattoos.” I shrug. “You?”
“None.” She tips the glass back, swallows what’s left, and sets it down with a soft clink. “I always wanted ink. Know anyone good who works with difficult canvases?”
“Depends.” I lean in, making her blink. “I’d love to mark you. But not if you’re going to disappear the second it means something.”
Her breath catches, and she briefly closes her eyes. “I’m sorry I shut you out today.”
“I forgive you.”
“Don’t forgive me so fast.”
“Then be sorry slower.”
A soft breath pushes through her nose. If she were another woman, it could’ve been a laugh.
I finish my drink and rinse our glasses. “Tell me about your new job.”
“I can come and go whenever.” She rests a hip against the counter beside me. “Work as much or as little as I want. Paid by the job. No pressure.”
“That’s good, right?”
“I need to work as much as possible.”
“I go to Sitka every morning, catching a ride with Kody and Leo, or I take one of their yachts. You’re not trapped here. You can commute with me. Or Kai can take you whenever.”
She nods.
“I didn’t see Jag today.” I nod at her phone. “You’re talking to him?”
“He texts me. I don’t respond.”
Good to know the scary stepbrother isn’t getting better treatment than me.
I grab my sketchpad and head to the couch.
Shockingly, she curls up beside me, feet tucked under her, keeping her distance, but her eyes stay on mine.
“Jag will be back in Sitka tonight.” She draws in a slow breath. “What are you going to do about your job?”
“I’ll go in. I’ll draw. I’ll ink. And I’ll leave.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I’ll deal with him.” I twist on the couch to face her. “Did he make you this way?”
“What way is that? Cold? Defensive? Distant?”
“You’re not cold. You’re armored.”
“And you?” She tilts her head. “What are you?”
“Charming.”
“And humble.” Her lips twitch.
I reach for her hand, and she tenses. But she doesn’t pull away. My thumb traces the calluses on her fingers, her palm warm and small against mine.
“You didn’t have to bring me lunch,” she whispers.
“I wanted to.”
“Why?”
“Because the thought of you going hungry makes me feel sick.”
She looks down at our hands.
Then she stands, walks to the stairs, and, without a backward glance, goes up. The door to her room closes. Not a slam. Just… Final.
I sit there, staring at the dent her body left in the couch cushion.
I’ve never felt more alone.
Everything inside me vibrates with the urge to chase her. To force her to talk. To ask her why she’s always halfway on the run from me.
But I don’t.
If I go up there, she’ll open the door only to shut it in my face.
I’ve known her for all of two days. She needs time. I’ll give her that.
But when she’s ready, I’ll be the one waiting at the cliff’s edge to catch her.