“Corbin,” he finally answers in an uneven voice, his eyes flicking to my face and then zeroing in on something in the distance. As soon as the name leaves his mouth, my heart squeezes and contracts in a way that it doesn’t normally, like it knows something I don’t. Maybe it’s the tequila got lost and just found its way through my heart. I have no idea.
I cock my head to the side, mulling over the name. It’s different, but I’ve heard it somewhere before. But where? Maybe the new guy at the grocery store is named Corbin. No. That’s wrong. Is that the name of the new bank teller? Nope. I think his name is Cecil or something, but it begins with a ‘C’, so I got the first letter right. I honestly have no idea where I know the name from, but I do.
“It’s beautiful.”
He coughs, grabbing at his chest, his body jerking forward. My eyes widen, and my hands instantly dart in front of him on their own accord as if doing so will help the situation. He coughs again and turns to face me, clearing his throat.
“Shit. Are you okay, Corbin? Nevermore? I don’t know what I’m supposed to call you now, but are you good?”
He lightly chuckles while he grins nervously, massaging the back of his neck. “Ha. Yeah. I’m good. You just shocked me is all.”
“If calling you beautiful makes you choke, then I’ll tell you it’s the ugliest name I’ve ever heard. Sheesh. You almost gave me a heart attack.”
A huge laugh belts out of him, making me laugh with him. Once we both settle down, he leans back against the wall, and I do the same. Now, we’re closer than before. I can feel the heat from his body radiating from him.
“Whichever you’re more comfortable with, but can I be honest?”
I nod.
“I like how you say my name. It’s sexy.” I blush, but I’m not sure if I’m embarrassed or turned on by his declaration. Maybe it’s a little bit of both. It’s my turn to look away. I’m afraid to look at him right now, too afraid of what I might do or say because I’m nervous.
He licks his lips, watching me again. His eyes are on my face, I don’t face him, but I know where he’s looking. I can see him from my peripheral. My left leg goes over my right again, and they bounce up and down. A squeaking sound comes from somewhere under me. I freeze instantly, and the sound stops. I squint, moving my legs again. Squeak. I arch an eyebrow and look at him.
“Yeah, it does that. I’ve been meaning to replace this; just haven’t gotten around to it, I guess,” he admits, shrugging. “My turn,” he nudges me with his shoulders, and a small anxious giggle escapes my mouth.
“Your turn for what?” I eye him suspiciously.
“To ask a question. I think you’ve had more than twenty-one, don’t you?”
I chew on the inside of my cheek as I think about it. I have no idea how many questions I’ve asked him, but I agree it’s been quite a few. “No idea. I wasn’t counting, were you?”
“Nope, but it’s my turn.”
“Okay, but I warn you, I might not answer,” I’m honest with him.
“Your tattoo. What inspired it?” It takes me by surprise. I thought he might ask about my name, or where I’m from, but he doesn’t. He must really like this piece. He touches the crow, rubbing along its outlines just as he did the first day.
“Honestly, a hand-drawn picture back home at my grandma’s.”
“At your grandma’s?” His voice rises a couple of octaves as if he doesn’t believe me, but why wouldn’t he?
“Yes. My tattoo looks just like it. Ok. I added more color to it, but they’re essentially the same. They’re brothers. They don’t look enough alike to be twins, but definitely brothers.”
“Who?” His finger stops moving, and he looks over his shoulder. I chuckle and blink my eyes.
“The crows.”
“What made you decide that?” His fingertips slowly move back and forth over the constellation behind the crow.
“They don’t look enough alike to be twins, but definitely brothers.” I shrug. “Maybe their sisters. I don’t know, but they’re something to each other, ok?” I bite my lower lip.
“Think they could be lovers?”
I feel his eyes on me again, and his finger stills. I face him, despite how fast my heart is beating, and push away the stupid amount of fear that is telling me I’m not good enough. “Ya know, I never really thought about it, but maybe.” It doesn’t feel like either of us is talking about tattoos or drawings.
“Do you know who the artist is? The one who drew the picture at your grandma’s?”
“Actually, no.” I had admired that drawing for years, before deciding to get it inked onto my skin, but never thought to take the picture out of the frame. Grandma agreed to let me take it to the tattoo shop to get my ink, but made me promise it would stay behind the glass. She didn’t want it to be ruined. I understood and honestly, wound up leaving it at home when I remembered I could take a photo of it and print it out without risk of the picture being damaged.
