“Nah, I’m kidding. Well, not about the Mariners, unfortunately. I am a fan. But as far as other hobbies go? Football, I guess? Watching, not playing. Obviously.”
“I don’t know,” Rosaline teased. “Fifty bucks says your tackle’s going to be an ESPN top play of the week.”
Poppy shut her eyes and groaned. “Ugh, that means mydadis going to see it.”
And he’d tell her mom and she’d definitely have something to say about Poppy’s red-carpet throw down.
“It’ll blow over,” Rosaline assured her, which was nice and all, but she didn’t know Charlotte Peterson. Issues didn’t blow over in the Peterson household as much as they were either swiftly swept under the rug and never talked about again, or they were constantly dredged up. Over and over and over again, never allowed to be forgotten or left in the past. There was no in-between.
“Here’s to hoping,” Poppy said wryly. “What about you?”
Rosaline’s brows rose. “What about me?”
“Talents, skills, hobbies, etcetera?” She nudged her plate aside and rested her chin on the heel of her hand. “Aside from making a mean PB&J.”
Rosaline stuck out her tongue and shrugged. “Does having a burner account to live tweetLove Islandcount as having a hobby?”
“Um, yes. And I’m going to need your handle ASAP.”
“I don’t know.” Rosaline’s voice turned teasing. “That’s privileged information.”
Poppy jutted out her lower lip, making Rosaline laugh.
“I don’t actually tweet that often. It’s really just my weird way of staying in touch with my sister Bianca. We don’t have much in common except for, as it turns out, a weakness for trashy reality TV.”
“Bianca’s the tattoo artist, right?” Poppy ghosted her fingersover a curl of ink at Rosaline’s wrist, black lines crisp and clean with minimal bleeding. It was beautiful work. “Did she do this?”
Rosaline nodded. “Most of my tattoos are courtesy of Bianca. Back when she was an apprentice, she needed help building her portfolio, and unlike our sister Helen, who’s very vocal in her refusal to get a tattoo because she believes it would be akin to putting a bumper sticker on a Ferrari, I already had several and was more than happy to help.”
“Did you give her free rein on the design or...?”
Her lips twisted. “Much to the immense disappointment of my parents, there isn’t an artistic bone in my body. I just told her what flowers I wanted and let her run with it.” She pointed at the flora, blossoms and vines, a never-wilting, never-dying, unchanging bouquet upon her skin. “Hellebore. Clematis. Dogwood. Delphinium. Ivy.” Rosaline’s fingers rested just above the crook of her left elbow and an almost shy smile graced her lips. “Poppies.”
Something inside her chest fluttered riotously. “They’re beautiful.”
Poppy didn’t believe in fate, knew that the fact Rosaline had her namesake—nick-namesake—tattooed on her body was nothing more than a coincidence, that plenty of people had poppy tattoos. They symbolized everything from peace to eternal life to remembrance, beauty and success, death and sleep, messages delivered in dreams. It still put a warm spot behind her breastbone and an ache between her ribs, a foreign yearning that, if she weren’t careful, could blossom into something too big for her to contain.
Rosaline’s smile grew and her hands rose to cup Poppy’s face. “I think so.”
Her lips were soft, and she tasted like raspberry jelly, sweet and tart. Poppy pressed closer and grabbed the front of Rosaline’s shirt, dragging her as close as the space between the barstoolswould allow, smiling into the kiss when Rosaline let out a tiny gasp of surprise against her mouth. Now that she’d gotten a taste of Rosaline, she wasn’t sure how she was supposed to ever stop. The prospect of boarding a plane back to Portland in the morning put an unsettled pit of anxiety in her stomach rivaled only by the disquiet she felt when she thought about the inevitable day Rosaline would get tired of her, their pseudo-relationship having run its course.
On the counter, Rosaline’s phone vibrated, pinging once, twice, three times. With a reluctant groan, she pulled away, pecking Poppy on the mouth before reaching for it. Her eyes flitted across the screen, her expression pinched.
Poppy shifted anxiously on the barstool. “Is everything okay?”
“Other than the fact that Curran is apparently in possession of my phone number?” She arched a brow as her phone pinged again. “Everything’s fine.”
“Cash is texting you?” She frowned. “Why is he texting you and not me?”
“He said he did and you’re not answering.”
Right, her phone was still tucked away inside her clutch, which she’d left in the foyer. “Well, it’s almost midnight.” And Poppy had been busy.
Rosaline snorted, shaking her head softly. Her phone sounded like a slot machine with the way it kept going off in her hand. “They may have skipped the after-parties, but I don’t think they skipped the booze.” A strange look suddenly flickered across her face, her mouth slightly dropping open. She lifted her head and met Poppy’s gaze, the look in her eyes inscrutable. “Um, here. See for yourself.”
With no small amount of trepidation, Poppy took Rosaline’s phone.
Cash (11:43 p.m.):ROSALINe! Tell potpart to pick up her phone
