Chapter 4
DAISY
You keep touching it.”
Sarah’s voice cuts through my thoughts, and I yank my hand away from my collarbone like I’ve been caught stealing. Across the booth at The Busy Bee Diner, she watches me with raised eyebrows.
“Does it hurt?” she asks.
“A little.” I wrap my fingers around my warm coffee mug instead, forcing them to stay put. “But I also... I love it. Even incomplete.”
Three days, and I haven’t gone more than ten minutes without touching the outline of a Purrfect Kitten inked into my skin.
Sarah leans forward, elbows on the table. Morning light streams through the café windows, catching the steam rising from her coffee. “And the artist?”
My stomach flips. I’ve been wanting to talk about him so badly I could burst.
“I can’t stop thinking about him.” The confession rushes out before I can second-guess admitting it. “Sarah, I barely know him, but something about him—the way he was with me when I started crying, the way he said there was no shame in quitting. He didn’t make me feel like I failed.”
“Okay, that’s either the most romantic thing I’ve ever heard, or you’ve gone off the deep end.” She grins. “Tell me everything.”
So I do. The way his hands trembled when he pressed the stencil to my skin. Him giving me his personal phone number. The way my body heated and responded to him in a way that’s never happened before.
“He held the door for me when I left,” I finish. “It sounds stupid, but the way he did it…it was like he wanted to.”
“It doesn’t sound stupid.” Sarah’s teasing expression has shifted into something warmer. “It sounds like he felt it, too.”
“Or he was just being professional.”
“Daisy.” She reaches across the table and flicks my hand. “A man who gives you his personal number and then holds the door like he wants to watch you walk away? That’s not professional. That’s interested.”
My heart kicks against my ribs. I want to believe her. Want it so badly I can taste it.
“So text him,” she says, like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “You have his number.”
“What would I even say?” I pull the card from my pocket—because of course I’ve been carrying it everywhere—and set it on the table between us. His name stares up at me in stark white letters. Knight. “Hi, you made me cry, but I can’t stop thinking about your hands?”
Sarah snorts. “I mean, maybe workshop the phrasing a little.”
“I’m serious.” I trace my finger over the edge of the card.
“Every time I try to compose a message, I sound either desperate or insane. Last night I typed ‘thank you for being patient with me’ and deleted it because it was too formal. Then I typed ‘I can’t stop thinking about you’ and deleted it because—”
“Because it’s true, and that’s terrifying?”
I slump back against the booth. “Yes.”
Sarah is quiet for a moment. She holds her coffee mug as the waitress Ophelia, refills it. “Thanks, Ophelia. We’ll take the check when you have a sec.”
“Sure thing, Sarah. You two have an amazing day!”
When Ophelia is gone, Sarah speaks again, her voice gentler. “Daisy Bowles. When was the last time you did something just because you wanted it, and I’m not talking about eating ice cream for dinner on a Wednesday night?”
When was the last time? The tattoo, obviously. But before that? I try to remember a moment—any moment—where I chose something purely for myself, without hearing my father’s voice listing all the reasons my choice was wrong.
I come up empty.
“The tattoo was a start,” Sarah says softly. “Maybe texting him is the next step.” She reaches across the table and squeezes my hand. “You’re allowed to want things for yourself. You’re allowed to go after them.”
I don’t say anything. Twenty-six years of being careful, of smoothing edges, of making myself small enough to fit into the spaces other people left for me.
And here’s Sarah, telling me I’m allowed to pursue what I want.
It’s not the first time she’s said this, but right now, it feels like I really need to listen for once.
“What if he’s not interested?” The words come out smaller than I intend. “What if I’m just building this up in my head?”
“Then at least you’ll know.” She squeezes my hand again. “And that’s better than spending the rest of your life wondering.”
The children’s section of the library smells like crayons and picture books, and it’s my favorite combination in the world.
Story time ended twenty minutes ago, but a handful of kids linger at the craft tables, coloring pictures of cats.
Today’s book was Tabby and the Lion, a story about a cat who learns to be brave, and now the room is scattered with drawings of orange tabbies and yellow lions, and one very enthusiastic scribble that might be a cat or might be a potato.
I move between the tables, admiring their work and encouraging the children’s creativity. This is the part of my job I love most. The pure, uncomplicated joy of children who haven’t yet learned to doubt themselves.
“Miss Daisy?”
I turn to find Emily staring at my collar with intense curiosity. She’s seven years old, missing her two front teeth, absolutely obsessed with anything cat-related, and has the eyes of a hawk.
“Yes, sweetheart?”
“Do you have a boo-boo?” She points at my neckline, where the edge of the bandage peeks out from beneath my shirt. “My mom puts bandages on my boo-boos.”
I crouch down to her level, smiling. “It’s not exactly a boo-boo. It’s going to be a kitten when it’s finished.”
Her eyes go wide. “A kitten? On your skin?”
“It’s called a tattoo. Like a drawing that stays on your skin forever.”
“Forever and ever?”
“Forever and ever.”
Emily considers this with the gravity only a seven-year-old can muster. Then she frowns. “Why didn’t you finish it?”
“Well. It hurt, and I got scared. Sometimes things take more than one try to get right.”
“You need to be more like Tabby!” Emily exclaims, and I laugh. She’s not wrong.
Despite how much I wanted the tattoo, I let the pain drive me away from something I wanted.
But I don’t have to let it end there.
“Will you finish it?” Emily asks.
I look down at her earnest face, at the crayon clutched in her small hand, at the purple cat she’s drawn with whiskers longer than its body.
“Yes,” I say, clarifying the desire I’ve had since I walked out of King Ink. “Yes, I will.”
Emily beams and returns to her coloring, satisfied. But I stay crouched there for a moment longer, one hand pressed against the bandage.
The incomplete tattoo is a reminder of something I started and didn’t finish. A promise I made to myself and almost broke.
I need to see him again. I need to finish this.
The thought rises with crystal clarity. Not just for the tattoo—though yes, I want to finish the tattoo. But more than that, I want to see him.
I’ve spent my whole life being the good girl. The one who ignores her needs and follows the rules other people give her. But something about Knight makes me desperate to ask for everything I’ve denied myself.
My phone weighs heavily in my pocket. His card is still there, too, edges worn soft from how many times I’ve pulled it out to stare at his name. I could text him right now. I could ask for what I want instead of hoping someone else would give it to me.
I close my eyes. My father’s voice whispers through my head: Good girls don’t chase men.
But Sarah’s voice is louder: You’re allowed to want things for yourself.
And underneath both of them, quieter but more certain: I want to go back. Not just for the tattoo. For the way I felt like I’d found something I didn’t know I was looking for.
My hands shake as I pull out my phone. Pull out his card and hold it gently in the palm of my hand.
Hi, it’s Daisy. I wanted to thank you for being so understanding the other day.
I stare at the words. Delete them.
Hi Knight. It’s Daisy. The tattoo is healing well, and I—
Delete.
I can’t stop thinking about you.
My thumb hovers over the send button.
Delete.
I shove the phone back in my pocket. I want to find the words that say everything I’m feeling without sounding desperate or crazy.
But I don’t know how.