Page 53 of Never Really Mine
I lead her out into the kitchen, where we say a quick goodbye. Beau nods at Josie, mouth full of pizza. When the door clicks shut behind her, Beau steps over to me, taking my hand and leading me to the counter, sitting me down on a stool. He slides a plate with two slices across the counter to me.
“Thanks,” I murmur, picking up the slice and taking a huge bite. I feel awkward as I remember last night—the way his mouth felt on my breasts, the gentle tugs as he pulled the barbell free.
I moan around the mouthful of pizza.
“Good?” Beau asks, sitting down next to me.
“So good,” I mumble. I bet I look like the definition of a train wreck right about now, but I could care less. This pizza tastes like it’s my first meal in days. We eat in silence, and when I’m so full I can barely breathe, I wipe my face, tossing my napkin onto the plate. I look to my left and my eye catches on Beau’s upper arm again.
“Did you get a tattoo today?” I ask.
He glances down where I’m looking, as if he forgot, then replies, “Yeah. Thomas finally popped his tattoo cherry, so I figured I might as well get one too.”
I reach out, lifting the sleeve of his t-shirt up. Under the clear bandage is an intricate work of art. A large roman numeral clock takes up most of his upper arm, with three butterflies flying from twelve o’clock position.
My finger reaches up, lightly trailing over the bandaged skin. “Wow,” I breathe. “It’s beautiful.”
Beau takes in my reaction. I can feel his gaze on mine, watching closely as I try not to cry at the beauty of it. “It turned out really well. Something I’ve been thinking about for a while,but the timing never felt right. Until now.” He tilts my chin up so I’m looking into those brown eyes.
I can’t do this, not right now. If the butterflies now permanently etched on his skin have anything to do with me, or the butterfly on my forearm, I’m done. I’ll fall head first into the hole that has been tearing through my heart and into his waiting arms. Clearing my throat, I lean back. “What did Thomas get?”
Now that I’ve thoroughly ruined the moment, Beau clears his throat. He stumbles over his words, like he forgot what Thomas got. “Just a few trees on his back.”
“Did you take a picture?” I ask, already reaching out my hand. If there’s one thing Beau and I do best, it’s talk tattoos.
“Shit, no,” Beau mutters. “I’ll have him text me a pic though.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me one bit?” I laugh. “You always forget to take pictures.”
He laughs in response. “True story.”
Now that my stomach is full, I’m left with a bone deep exhaustion. “I’m off to bed, unless you need anything?” I ask.
“Not a thing. Let me know if you need something,” Beau says, the same thing he says to me every night before I go to bed. And every night, I think of the same thing as I lie alone in my bed, wishing I could ask him to climb in next to me and hold me. When I’m yearning for him to tell me that he’s going to be there, no matter what. No matter when things get bad for me, and I try to ruin us, the way I’ve effectively done so far. I want him to hold us.
33
MARLEY
Aslice of pain makes me hiss as I slide my finger under the wrapping paper. “Shit,” I curse. I watch as the small bead of blood pools on my fingertip. I’m sitting on the living room floor, wrapping Christmas presents for the late family Christmas this afternoon. I call out, “Beau?”
“Yeah?” Beau’s voice calls from the guest bathroom. I hear his footsteps as he strides into the living room. His toothbrush is hanging from his mouth, white foam spilling out over his lips onto his freshly groomed beard.
I chuckle softly. “I got a papercut. Can you grab me a Band-Aid, please?”
Beau sighs in relief. He stands before me in his dress pants, hanging low on his hips. Toothbrush still sticking out of his mouth, he settles his hands on his hips. “You can’t scare me like that, Mar.”
“Like what?” I joke. “I called your name, Beau. If that was scary, we need to check your blood pressure.”
His eyes narrow as he pulls his toothbrush from his mouth. He runs back to the bathroom without another word, and I can hear the water run, then the cabinet door opening and closingbefore he’s running back toward the living room. Beau kneels next to me. With him this close, I can practically taste his sharp cologne.
“Hand,” he commands, holding his own hand out expectantly.
I chuckle when I realize that not only did he bring a Band-Aid, but he brought the whole damn first-aid kit. “Oh my god, are you going to give me stitches?” I gasp in mock horror.
“I’ll do what I need to do, butterfly,” Beau says, his irritation clear as he gently takes my hand. He takes a cotton ball, dabbing at the tiny amount of blood. With careful dexterity, he applies a dollop of antibacterial ointment, and wraps my finger in a Band-Aid.
“Am I going to live?” I tease.
