Like a librarian would wear.
I throw the pencil down.
“Damn it.”
On the mantle, Grandma Rose smiles at me from her silver frame. She’s wearing the cat sweater she wore every Sunday while she made pancakes. I was sixteen when that photo was taken. Angry, scared, certain the universe had given up on me.
You’re just right, she used to say, pressing her weathered hand over her heart.Just exactly right, my Billy.
My throat tightens. I haven’t been Billy in years. I left that name behind the day I aged out of the system. I left behind everything that reminded me of being unwanted. Except for my time with Grandma Rose, Billy was unwanted. Every soft, scared, hopeful part of my heart that I’ve learned to hide? That all goes into these designs.
And now some stranger is walking around with my heart half-inked on her collarbone.
Daisy.
I shouldn’t be standing here painting kittens that look like her.
My phone buzzes. I freeze mid-brushstroke, heart lurching—then force myself to walk calmly across the room. It’s not her. It won’t be her. No way I could be that damn lucky.
Zane: Hitting up Joe’s tonight. You in? Wingman duties required.
I stare at the message. Joe’s Bar is Zane’s favorite hunting ground—dim lights, good music, plenty of women who don’t mind a charming smile and empty promises. Most nights, I don’t mind tagging along, nursing a beer in the corner while Zane works his magic. It’s not like he even needs a wingman, but it gets me out of the house, and sometimes that’s all I need.
But tonight. Tonight, the thought of watching him flirt with strangers while I can’t stop thinking about Daisy and the soft gasp she made when the needle first touched her skin...
Knight: Pass.
Zane: Third time this month. You dying or something?
Knight: Or something.
Zane: Dude. You need to get fucking laid.
Knight: Thanks for the insight.
Zane: I’m serious. You’re wasting away. Come have some fun.
I toss the phone onto the couch without responding. Fun. As if that’s what I want. As if anything about this feeling could be calledfun.
The painting stares at me, blue eyes soft behind tiny glasses. I didn’t mean to paint her. But here I am, hooked on a woman I barely met.
A woman who would probably run away screaming if she knew the real me.
But if she knew that the gruff tattoo artist who made her cry was the same person who created the design she loved enough to permanently mark on her skin—what would she think?
If she knew the real you, she’d leave. Everyone always leaves.
I grab my phone again before I can stop myself. Open Instagram. Type her name into the search bar, and there she is. Third result. Daisy Bowles. The profile picture is her laughing, hair windblown, cat earrings catching the light.
Her feed is exactly what I’d expect. Pictures from a local animal shelter, where she volunteers every Tuesday and Saturday. Her in a volunteer T-shirt, her arms holding several kittens, one shot of her laughing while a tabby perches on her shoulder. She looks free and joyously happy in the shelter pictures, and my heart yearns for that kind of joy. There are pictures of her with stacksof children’s books. And there, a screenshot of my art. She’s captioned it:Finally doing something just for me.
My heart thumps in my chest. It’s not the first time I’ve seen a share of my art on Instagram, but this is different. I’ve never cared about why anyone likes my art, but I care about Daisy.
I open a direct message. I stare at the blinking cursor, not sure what to say.
How’s the tattoo healing?
Four words. That’s all it would take. Four words. Maybe she’d respond. Maybe we’d talk. Maybe I’d find out if she’s been thinking about me too—
