Relief hits me so hard it almost knocks the breath out of my lungs.
My parents would do anything for me. That includes helping a battered woman who killed her husband, getting her a job so she could stand on her own feet again, and now doing everything they can to help her get clean so she can be a mother to her son again.
“So Hale can have his mom back,” Dad adds quietly, like it’sobvious.
“Yeah,” I say, my throat tight. “So Hale can have his mom back.”
I wrap my arms around him in a fierce hug, and he hugs me right back, solid and steady.
IfIcanhelphergetclean,thenmaybeHalewill finally see how much I’ve always cared.
Andevenifhedoesn’t,thisisstilltherightthingto do.
Tattoo Spectacle
There he is.
I finally see Hale for the first time in years, and the breath leaves my body like I’ve been punched. He looks… incredible. Healthy. Taller. Broader through the shoulders, muscles filling out a frame that used to be all sharp angles and defiance. Puberty was kind to him.
He’s standing toward the back, talking animatedly with a large man I recognize immediately as Eric, his roommate, his coworker, his protector. Hale’s laughing, head tipped back, eyes bright, and the sight of it twists something deep in my chest.
Gods, I’ve missed him.
I can already picture the moment he realizes I’m here, really here, competing alongside him. The anger. The shock. The fire in his eyes. I used to live for getting a rise out of him, andpart of me still does.
The announcement crackles over the loudspeaker, calling us to begin the first day. I force myself to turn away from Hale and focus on the work in front of me. Hours blur together as I tattoo nonstop, channeling everything I’m not letting myself feel into my hands. I do good work, and by the end of the day, I know I’ll make it through to the next round.
More time.
More chances.
That’s been the goal since the beginning.
Ever since the PI I hired told me Hale had been accepted onto the show, I’ve counted down the days to this moment. Keeping tabs on him was easy. When he left Texas, he didn’t go far, a couple of long bus rides into Louisiana. Knowing he’d rather sleep in his car than go back to his parents nearly broke me. When he finally started staying with Eric, I let myself breathe again. That’s when I focused on building something solid, on becoming someone who could stand beside him… or support him, if that’s what he wanted.
When time is called, and I finish with my last client, I clean my station faster than I ever have. My hands are steady, but my pulse is not. I make my way toward Hale’s booth slowly, savoring the seconds before he notices me.
He’s sitting now, relaxed, laughing at something Eric said. The sound hits me square in the chest.
I almost hate to interrupt. Almost.
I stop close enough for him to hear me and let the word fall from my mouth, soft and familiar and dangerous.
“Fylgja? That you?”
Finale
Gods damn it. I’m not going to finish in time.
I check the clock again, like it might magically give me more minutes if I glare hard enough. It doesn’t. I’m furious with myself. At my planning. At my optimism. At the fact that I didn’t account for my client hating the first sketch. I should’ve known better. I’m nowhere near done, and the final minutes of the competition are slipping through my fingers.
Disappointed doesn’t even begin to cover it.
When I’m officially disqualified, the shame hits fast and hot, curling deep in my chest. I paste on an easy smile anyway and walk toward the bleachers where my parents are sitting. I refuse to let anyone see how badly this stings.
Then I meet Hale’s eyes.
He looks disappointed, too. Not angry. Not judging. Just… sad. Like he wanted this for me almost as much as I wanted it for myself. The sight hurts worse than the loss. I wanted to be better for him.
