I look around the room, thinking how perfect a tree would be in this space. It’s practically made for Christmas. The fireplace is ideal for stockings, the mantle perfect for garland. I can see it all in my head, a cozy little Christmas. He really should do Christmas. I understand why he doesn’t, but it’s such a waste of a good cabin.
Boone’s intently watching me. “So, what else about your family, besides your dad that I know you loved and your mom that you don’t seem to as much?”
“I didn’t really grow up in a family that felt complete, even though statistically we were a traditional family unit. My mother and dad stayed together, but they never seemed as if they wanted to be together. I have a younger brother, Kevin. Kevin and I are more than siblings; we’re more like best friends. We do this thing at Christmas that we call Santa Secrets. We lie under the Christmas tree and reveal all the things we’ve kept from each other all year. We started doing it when I was nine and he was seven. My dad had told us that Santa gave the best presents to truth tellers, so we figured it was our last-ditch effort to get all the truth out before Santa came.” I smile at the memory that has become tradition.
“You still do that?” Boone questions.
I nod my head. “Oh yes. The secrets have gotten better each year. Sometimes we intentionally keep something from each other just so we have something big to reveal at Christmas.”
“Honest Kate keeping secrets?” Boone teases me, the left side of his mouth turned up into a lopsided grin.
“Hardest thing I do all year,” I laugh. “Okay, ask me something else. Something beyond the skin-deep things of family and food. Not that I don’t think your favorite color or place to vacation would be interesting, but…”
“Green, I don’t vacation, and what’s with the bird tattoo?”
The question makes me swallow hard and pull my mouth into a tight line. I knew he’d most likely seen it. It’s a little hard to miss, especially when a man had to undress and redress you like a floppy, lifeless Barbie doll.
“My dad loved bluebirds,” I mutter.
“But the placement…” His words trail off.
“I’m aware.” I cross my arms and lean back into the sofa.
“It’s just a little weird if it’s a memorial tattoo and it’s on your lower back…” The corner of his lip is twitching upward, and there’s a sparkle in his eyes, that while I’m completely humiliated, creates an urge to make him smile.
“It was the 2000s,” I explain. “I mean, really, we were completely unhinged during that time. Plucking each other’s eyebrows like we were a Mrs. Potato Head; wearing bright blue eyeshadow that, let’s be honest, no one in this world can pull off; and dropping it low when everyone needed to stay up.”
Success. The twitch grows into a grin. “But the clouds kind of make it look like…”
At this, my face warms. “I’m aware. It’s an unfortunate placement, but I was only seventeen.”
“You have to be eighteen to get a tattoo unless your mom…”
The thought of my mother signing off on a tattoo makes me give a stiff laugh. “Ha! No. My mother still has no idea it exists. And yes, I was seventeen, which should indicate the type of tattoo artist I went to, which then would explain the fact that the clouds do not look like clouds and more just like wind.”
Boone laughs, but it’s not like a laugh I’ve heard yet. It’s deep and rich and more stimulating than the first sip of coffee in the morning. It echoes in the small room, and I don’t mind being surrounded by it. In fact, I want that sound to bundle around me so I can relax into it.
“You know, you can have it removed. Have anew tattoo done in his honor.”
“I don’t know. While this one is embarrassing, it tells a story of a seventeen-year-old girl that was grieving deeply and needed something permanent that made her feel in control when she felt anything but. Although I can’t exactly see it, I know it’s there. Erasing it seems like erasing who I once was. Who I needed to be then to become who I am now.”
Boone tilts his head. His blue eyes narrow in that way where you feel someone is really looking at you, trying to peer deeper into your delirious ramblings. “You are an interesting woman, Kate.”
“Interesting in a good way?” I question, tucking a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
“I haven’t yet decided,” he admits.
“You’re interesting, too,” I shoot back.
“Interesting in a good way?” he asks.
“I haven’t yet decided,” I repeat with a small shoulder shrug and a smile.
Chapter Twelve
I’m trying not to think about how Boone’s sheets are wrapped around me, how I lost a fight about who got the bed while my fingers were covered in sticky dough while forming cinnamon rolls, or how in the span of hours, a stranger figured out how to remove my armor of fast-talking honesty to find flesh and feelings beneath it all.
It’s why I can’t go to sleep even though I’ve had my eyes closed for what I calculate is at least forty-five minutes. It’s why when I hear Boone enter the bedroom, I keep my eyes tightly shut. Even when I can feel him near me. Even when he quietly kneels beside me. Even when he gently rubs the area around the gash on my head as if his thumb is a feather.
