Chapter 15
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
EYE SHADOWS
LOLA
The apartment smells like coffee I forgot to throw out yesterday and the faint, stubborn trace of Nantucket salt still clinging to my hair, even after two showers.
I’m curled on the couch in the same leggings I wore on the ferry back, knees to chest, staring at the wall like it can save me.
I’m back in the loud buzz of the city—horns and sirens going off, and someone yelling about a bike lane—but in my apartment, the hum of the fridge and my own heartbeat sound almost as loud.
I left him sleeping. The slow rise and fall of his chest, and the way his hand had been resting open on the sheet like he was reaching for me—that’s what keeps replaying in my head.
I’d stood there in the half-light for longer than I should have, memorizing him and trying to permanently snapshot our night together in my brain.
Then I’d slipped out, door clicking shut behind me like a period at the end of a declarative sentence, one I never wanted to write.
I wanted to live in the ellipses with Tully forever.
With those, you could always pick back up where you left off.
Things might be left hanging, but those dots only meant there were things left to the reader’s imagination… and things beyond the page.
I wanted to live untold imaginations with Tully.
It was excruciating. I knew it would be.
I’d known the second I saw him, and again, when we danced, and even more so, when I let him pull me into that cottage.
But I went willingly, knowing that walking away again would carve something new out of me—something rawer than the first time.
Being with him again—talking and laughing and making love—it was worth it.
It was worth every second of the ache now, but I knew firsthand that there would be a price to pay. This kind of hurt would leave scars.
My phone buzzes on the cushion beside me. Isla’s name lights the screen. I almost don’t answer—my voice feels like it’s buried under gravel—but she’ll keep calling until I do.
“Hey,” I manage.
“Lola.” Her voice is soft and careful. “You okay?”
I swallow. “Yeah. I made it back.”
I can picture her in her kitchen, leaning against the counter, brow furrowed. “I thought you were staying longer in Nantucket. Are you really okay? Did things not go well with Tull—?”
“Yeah, everything went well,” I cut in, sharper than I meant to. Then softer: “I couldn’t stay.”
“Why not?”
Because if I stayed one more hour, I would have stayed forever.
Because the second I woke up next to him, I felt all the grief and shame creep back in—it had never really left, but if anything, since seeing him again, it had magnified.
Because Daniel’s voice is still in my head after all these years.
Because the life Tully built without me is big and bright and beautiful. And I’m still the girl who ran away.
I can’t tell my sister any of that.
“I just needed to come back,” I say. “Work was waiting.”
She doesn’t buy it. “Bullshit. You sound like you’re bleeding out over there.”
I laugh, but it cracks in the middle. “I’m fine.”
“I was afraid it’d be like this. You’re not fine. You left in such a hurry. And now you’re back in that shoebox apartment acting like someone died.”
Someone did, I want to say. The version of us that got one more night.
I press my forehead to my knees. “It was one night, Isla. That’s all it was ever going to be.”
“Was it?”
“Yes.” The word tastes like ash. “And it was perfect. But he’s got his life. I’ve got mine. We’re not the same people we were.”
She’s quiet for a beat. “If it was still perfect after all this time, I’m not so sure about that. Sounds like you still love each other.”
My throat closes. I don’t answer. I don’t have to.
“Lola,” she says gently. “You don’t have to do this alone. Come back, or I’ll come there. We can drink too much wine and trash-talk exes and pretend the world isn’t ending.”
I almost smile. “I’m okay. Really. I just need…time.”
“You’ve had years.”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “And it still hurts like the first day.”
“I’m so sorry,” she says. “Call me if you need me. Day or night. I mean it.”
“I know. I will.”
“I love you, Lo.”
“Love you too.”
The call ends. I drop the phone and let my head fall back against the couch. I close my eyes and see him again—asleep, peaceful, mine for a few stolen hours. The ache blooms fresh behind my ribs, sharp and familiar. I let it sit there. Let it build a new scar next to the old one.
It was worth it.
The bell above the door jingles at 9:02 a.m. I flip on the neon OPEN sign and breathe in the familiar mix of stencil paper, green soap, and the faint vanilla from the diffuser Isla insisted the place needed to feel “less like a dungeon.” My shop is called Mark & Muse Ink—a narrow storefront tucked into the East Village.
Exposed brick on the side walls catches the morning light.
The entire back wall is painted matte black, a deep velvet canvas I spent three sleepless weekends covering with vintage-inspired flowers.
Oversized peonies and wild roses in soft ivory, muted gold, and varied shades of pink and blue, hand-painted with fine brushes so the petals would look like they’re blooming right out of the darkness.
Delicate green leaves and vines curl between them, fading into shadow at the edges.
It’s the first thing clients see when they walk inside.
The effect is bold, elegant, and a little haunting.
The tagline etched in gold script on the front window reads Marked with intention.
The space stays decluttered and classy on purpose.
No chaotic flash sheets taped everywhere, no overflowing shelves.
Just clean black stations, polished wood counters, and a low bookshelf along one brick wall holding a few leather-bound sketchbooks—my private collection of designs, the ones I pour hours into when the shop’s closed.
A small Bluetooth speaker sits on the shelf behind the front counter, playing low indie tracks. When I set up the business streaming service, I made sure we could legally play sad girl songs all day long. Right now it’s Phoebe Bridgers’ voice, soft and aching, singing “Moon Song.”
I’m already set up for back-to-backs. A fine-line floral sleeve at ten, a minimalist wave on a forearm at eleven thirty, a cover-up at one, then a couple more until close. Everything quiets when I’m working, so I can’t wait to get started. It’s exactly what I need.
Briar—my piercer, chaos coordinator, and the light to my dark—leans in the doorway between stations, studying me. She’s got bubblegum-pink hair this month and a septum ring that glints when she tilts her head. “You okay, Lo? Was it a stressful weekend at home?”
“I’m fine,” I say, prepping my station without looking up. “Just didn’t sleep much while I was there.”
She holds up her hand and moves to her station, pulling out her makeup bag. “Here, let me just touch you up.” She pulls out her concealer and dabs some under my eyes. “There. That’s a little better.” She bites her lip and holds up a brighter lipstick.
I sigh and put some on.
Juni, my apprentice who does killer blackwork, pops her head around the corner. She’s twenty-three, with wide eyes and pastel tattoos peeking from her sleeves.
“What happened?” she asks, looking between me and Briar. She makes a face. “You’re not sad about Patrick, right, Lola?” Her eyes go wider. “Sorry. It’s just…we’re glad to be rid of him, right?”
I can’t help but laugh. “Trust me. I’m not sad about Patrick. I…saw an ex while I was home, and it was…it’s nothing,” I mutter. “Let’s just get through the day.”
Briar exchanges a look with Juni. “Okay. We’re here, if you need us. You look like you’ve been crying a lot. What can we do to cheer you up?”
“I’m already feeling a little better,” I say, forcing a half-smile. “Can you go greet the floral girl? I think she’s early.”
They back off, but I feel their eyes on me all afternoon. The music shifts—Ana?s Mitchell’s voice raw and close on “Your Fonder Heart,” and I have to skip the song fast because that one makes me cry even on a good day.
I ink the floral sleeve with mechanical precision.
The client chats, while I nod, smile, and answer on autopilot, and the track fades into “Too Sweet” by Hozier.
It’s the same with the next few clients—I get lost in the work and the music.
But every time the machine stops, my thoughts get way too loud.
By a quarter to seven, the shop is dim, and the neon OPEN sign is flipped off.
Briar and Juni have clocked out, promising to text me later.
The speaker is still on low—“Sofia” by Clairo.
Oh man, she’s getting to me too. I’m wiping down my station, along with my running eyes, when the bell jingles again.
I glance up, expecting a walk-in emergency, but it’s Patrick.
He smiles that slow, expectant smile, and my stomach turns. I quickly turn and dry my tears.
“Hey, beautiful,” he says softly. “Missed you.”
“What are you doing in town?”
“I wanted to see you. And you’re ignoring my calls, so I thought I’d come to you.”
“We’re closed.”
“Lola, come on.” He closes the door behind him and locks it with a casual flick. “I just want to talk. And maybe get a little ink. Something to remember us by.”
“There is no ‘us.’” My voice is low and steady. I’m in no mood to deal with him right now. “Take the hint and leave.”
He steps closer, hands up. “I know I messed up, baby. I was scared of losing you, so I tried to control things. It was stupid. But I’ve learned my lesson. Please. Just talk to me.”
I shake my head. “I’m tired and done for the day. I’m leaving now. I don’t want to talk.”
His smile falters, but he recovers fast. “You’re still angry. That’s fair. But we’ve got something real. Don’t throw it all away. I didn’t always treat you like I should’ve, and I’m sorry.”
“Thank you for the apology.” I round the counter, putting it between us.
He exhales and runs a hand through his hair. “You’re all about leaving a mark for the occasion. I should’ve known you didn’t love me enough when you didn’t get one commemorating us. Why not close our chapter properly?”
“No.” The word lands hard.
Hurt and anger flicker in his eyes. Then the mask slips back into place. “It’s Tully, isn’t it. You’re still not over him.”
Whatever he sees in my face makes him take a step back, and then he nods slowly.
“Got it. Maybe I’m not the villain you’ve made me out to be. Maybe you are.”
That stings. And hits a little too close to where my thoughts have been ever since leaving Tully.
“I never said you were a villain,” I say quietly.
He unlocks the door and pauses with his hand on the knob. “You’re really blowing it, Lola. One day you’re going to wake up and realize you’re all alone, and by that time, no one will want you.”
He walks out. “Bite the Hand” by boygenius kicks in. Fitting. I stand there, breathing hard, until the adrenaline crashes. Then I sink onto the stool behind the counter, head in my hands.
I pull out my phone and text Isla.
Patrick just showed up. Wanted a tattoo. I said no. And he said I’m going to wake up, realize I’m alone, and by then, no one will want me.
Her reply is instant.
Isla
What a fucking asshole. Jerkwad. Dickhead. Twat waffle. Are you okay?
I snort as I stare at the screen. My thumbs hover.
Not yet. But I will be.