“I want to know about these tattoos,” I say, then smile. “Even though I kind of already know about them.”
His ink is a stick figure drawing of two people—the one of him and Mia I saw on the corkboard in their cabin. The other is the grumpy cat, the design his artist mom did.
“Ask away,” he says, his voice warm and open, a difference from the Rowan at the start of the matchmaking, and I relish the shift.
I run my fingers over the ink on his right pec, tracing the tiny stick figures with the kind of reverence they deserve. It’s his daughter’s artwork, after all. “So…this one is Mia, right?”
“She drew it one afternoon after we moved into a new place.”
“In the city?”
“Yeah. Once it was clear Regina wasn’t coming back, we moved into the place we live now and settled in, and one night she sat down and drew this. She said, ‘This is us now.’”
Tears prick the back of my eyes. “That’s beautiful,” I say, my voice wobbly.
“Thanks,” he says, a little hoarsely, like the memory tightens his throat too. “I don’t usually…share that.” His voice is soft, with a note of reverence underneath it. But he looks away, like he’s trying to recall something. He must find it, because he turns back to me. “Actually, I don’t think I’ve told anyone.”
That tracks with him. He keeps things close to the vest.
“You’re not easy to know.”
He gives a small, soft laugh. “Truer words.” But as he strokes my hair, he adds, “Pot. Kettle.”
“Oh, hush. I’m an open book.”
He scoffs. “In no way are you an open book, Miss Christmas.”
“Didn’t you send me a top-five list of things about me once upon a time?”
“Didn’t you do the same for me? And haven’t you been recording details about me in your planner? And you still said I’m not easy to know.”
Hmm. He has a point. “Fine. You might be right.”
“You admit it then? You’re not easy to know?”
I consider his question a little more. I like to think I’m open. But maybe I only show people what I want them to see. Maybe I don’t let on when I’m sad or unsure. My mother certainly spotted my own skepticism when she asked if I still believed in love for me. I swallow and look him in the eyes again. “Sometimes Idon’t let on when I’m afraid or doubtful. Armor, I suppose.”
He slides his hand down my arm. “Yeah. Like recognizes like.”
It’s a bit of a startling comment—the idea that we’re similar when for the longest time, I’d thought we were opposites. I’m the sunshine to his grumpy. I’m the optimist to his pessimist. But maybe we’re not that far apart after all. Just different versions of the same story—we don’t trust easily. “Maybe,” I admit.
I marinate on that for a bit more as I trail my fingers to the other tattoo—Grumpy Cat, on the front of his right shoulder. “And this one your mom did?”
He chuckles with affection, a faraway look in his green eyes. “She drew it one day. Said it was me. I said it wasn’t. She said it belonged on me. I said, ‘Have it your way.’ And she did.”
Warmth spreads through me. “That’s very you too. A little challenge. A little gamesmanship.”
He arches a brow. “Just like you, snow angel. Just like you.”
I wave a dismissive hand, but it’s not as if I’m brushing aside the conversation. It’s that if I keep admitting how we’re similar, I might like him even more. I’m not sure my heart can afford that. “I love how close you are with them.”
“Me too. It’s nice, and I know I’m lucky. Not all the guys on the team have that. Not all my friends do either. And some guys…don’t even have their parents around anymore.”
I think of my friends too. Sabrina’s family gaslit her. Leighton’s mom left her. And Mabel…well, hers are here, but it’s complicated. “We’re lucky like that,” I say, though it hasn’t always felt that way. We’re still carrying wounds, each in our own way.
I blow out a breath that turns into a yawn I didn’t see coming.
Rowan swings his legs out of bed and heads to the doorway where he flicks off the light. Only the far-off glow from the streetlamp and a sliver of moonlight illuminates us when he returns to bed. “Bedtime for you,” he says softly.
