Page 30 of Love Rewritten

“Deal.” The question comes easily. “First question. Why did you help me at that first party? I can’t imagine you’d help every drunken college girl like that.”

He thinks for a moment. “Well, I did feel really bad that you spilled your whole drink on yourself.”

I feign offense. “ThatIspilled my drink?” I raise a brow, waiting for him to catch on.

He holds both hands up in defense. “Okay, okay. I spilled the drink on you. But seriously. I helped because I felt bad. And when I recognized who you were, I told myself I needed to at least try to get to know you. Even if we only stayed friends. That day at the bike meet when we ran into each other?” He waits for my acknowledgment. When I nod, he continues. “I was kicking myself for not getting your name.”

My heart leaps as he tells me all of this. I feel my cheeks heat. “Well, I’m glad things worked out the way they did, even if it was a little messy.” I think that’s the first time I’ve thought about it that way, and I think I believe the words. I likely wouldn’t have gotten to know Dallas if things hadn’t played out the way they did. I most likely would have crawled right back to Sam like I have every other time. But not this time. I’m stronger this time. With Dallas, I have the support system I didn’t know I needed.

He gives me a sweet smile. “Me, too.” He pauses. “Okay. My turn.” His eyes roam my body briefly. “I want to know about all your tattoos. Lord knows I’ve seen them all, but I’ve never asked about them.”

“All of them?” I ask, thinking about how long that might take.

“Every last one of them.”

“We’ll be here for hours if I explain all of them.” We won’t, but it may take a while. He shrugs and settles into his spot further. I sigh. “Honestly, most of them I just really liked. There’s not much of a story.”

He turns up his nose. “Don’t care. Now, go.”

I roll my eyes but look myself over to decide where to start. I point to the one that wraps around my left thigh. “This one is gorgeous. I had originally asked for a snake or something similar and my artist thought a serpent might be more fun. Plus, it’s a bit more fantastical since I read so much fantasy.” I pull my right leg up to point out the mandala on my foot. “This one I just thought was cute.”

I continue pointing out all the small tattoos that litter my body, including the quote on my rib cage. He asks how badly that one hurt. I tell him it was the most painful of all of them, but it’s fitting for the meaning behind it. I finally move on to the last one, the biggest one.

“This one,” I say, pulling the collar of my shirt down where the stem of leaves pours over from my back, “is just pretty, but it blends into the memorial tattoo I got for my dad.” I lift the back of my shirt and turn around for him to see it better. It’s the number four in the same font as a jersey. He traces the number with his hand. It sends a shiver across my skin.

When he pulls away, I turn around and he’s smiling far bigger than I expected. “How did I never make that connection? I remember you said he played baseball, too, but my brain didn’t connect the two, I guess.” He stops and starts to shift away from me but glances over his shoulder. “I’m number four, too.”

“I know.” I smile back. “I think it was fate.”

He takes a deep breath as if he’s about to reveal some huge secret no one knows. “Did you know …” he starts and then gets up from the bed, the tail end of his word hanging in the air. He moves to his closet and pulls out a box from the top shelf. When he lifts the top, I see a few trinkets, but he pulls something out from underneath them. He lets the fabric unfold to reveal the front of a shirt. It’s a jersey, but not a baseball jersey. Based on the design, my best guess is soccer.

My brows twist together as I try to process what he’s trying to say without words.

He sees my confusion and starts explaining. “Cole played soccer.” He turns the jersey around to reveal the back where the number four sits in a bold white color. “He was also number four.”

My mouth drops open as I start putting the pieces together. My tongue ties in so many knots that I can hardly form a coherent sentence. How is this possible? Dallas neatly folds up the jersey, places it back in the box, returns it to the closet, and then rejoins me on the bed.

“My jersey wasn’t always the number four. I used to be thirty-two. That’s just what they assigned me. But when he died last year, changing my number was one of the first things I did to remember him, to keep him alive if only for the rest of my college career.”

I stumble over my words. “I don’t even know what to say.”

“Weird coincidence, huh?” He folds his hands in his lap as I process. I nod and then shake my head as if that’ll reset my brain. “Okay. Your turn,” he says, seeming to move on from the last jaw-dropping revelation.

I adjust myself to sit crisscross and contemplate my next question, completely unsure of how to follow up on the previous conversation. “Oh, I know. You said you had three siblings. But I’ve only heard of Rose and Cole. Who's the fourth?”

Dallas takes a deep breath. “After Rose and Cole were born, my mom got pregnant again. They were super excited. But she miscarried. I don’t know how far along she was. But I guess that tattoo is my way of honoring her and the baby.”

I reach for his arm to see it again. Four triangles inked into his skin on the back of his arm. He turns and lifts his arm to give me a better view. “I think that’s a beautiful tribute.”

The corner of his mouth ticks up. “Thanks.” We both return to our positions, and Dallas says, “Okay. One more. But this next question feels very out of place after yours.”

We both chuckle. “Just go for it.”

His eyes narrow as his smile grows. It’s playful. “What’s your middle name?”

I’m caught off guard. I had expected something sexual. “That’s your question?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. I don’t know how we haven’t discussed this yet, but that’s something I should know, being your boyfriend and all.”

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