Page 62 of Nights at Seaside
She wrapped her arms around his neck and pressed her lips to his. “Nope. I’d rather stay right here. How about you? Do you need to leave for the club?”
“I told Roach last night I’d be late. We’re meeting at ten.” He eyed the basket on the table. “Were you thinking of getting another tattoo?”
Sky’s smile faltered. “Actually, I wanted to show you these.” She pulled the basket closer, and she rose to her feet and moved toward the chair beside him.
He touched her hips and said, “Stay with me. I’m already going to miss you when we’re apart today. Let me feel you close for a little while longer.”
She sank down to his lap. “Okay.” She tucked her hair behind her ear and began taking the papers out of the basket. “I wanted you to see these.”
“The tattoos you’ve done?” He sat up and looked over the papers she was laying out before them. His gut clenched as he read each one.Fire in my belly, you in my soul. Wandering through life, wanting, waiting, reaching for more.Every word made the hair on the back of his neck prickle.
“Where did you say you got these?” The accusatory sound of his voice surprised him and was obviously not lost on Sky, who furrowed her brow.
“From customers.”
“Because they touched you,” he said more to himself than to her, remembering her words.
“Yes. Exactly. Why do you sound upset?” She searched his eyes, and he wondered if she could see the anger he felt simmering inside him.
“Because, Sky. These aremywords. All of them.” He unfurled a napkin and read a passage.How can I move forward when you’re slipping away?
“Then youarethe P-town poet? But you said you weren’t.”
“P-town poet? Is this what you meant? These?” He lifted her to her feet and paced the deck. “I don’t understand how you could have gotten those.”
“Ididn’t get them.” She looked at the papers littering the table. “Sawyer, I told you. Customers came in with these—these papers and napkins and pieces of receipts—and asked me to tattoo this stuff for them. I still don’t understand. If you’re the P-town poet, why are you denying it? These are lovely. They’re really heartfelt and—”
“Sky, I don’t know anything about a P-town poet. These aremywords frommysongs. This is my handwriting.” He picked up a handful of papers and sifted through them. “You’re telling me that there are people walking around with verses of my songs tattooed on them?”
“One for each paper you see there, yes.” She sank down to a chair. “You know the night we first saw each other at the Governor Bradford’s?”
“Of course.” He sat beside her, feeling like he was in theTwilight Zone.
She picked up a napkin and handed it to him. “One of the waitresses brought this in yesterday.”
He read the words. “I must have left it behind. After I saw you I began writing the song at the bar. All I had to write on was a stack of napkins. I guess I do that a lot, write on scraps of paper and napkins. I never think twice about leaving a crumpled-up napkin with the trash from my meal. That night, I wrote and rewrote the verses until they felt right, and I thought I took all of the napkins with me when I left, but obviously not.” The idea that other people had seen his writing made him feel exposed, violated. He’d have to be more careful.
She placed her hand over his and smiled warmly. “Maybe when you’re writing songs, you get so caught up that you lose track of some of your notes?”
“Yeah, I guess. I can’t believe someone would pick up my stuff. I mean, it was on anapkin. Who would do that?”
“Someone who recognized the beauty of your words.” She opened the napkin and read the passage aloud. “I’ll take it all. Hear it through. Wrestle your demons to remain beside you.Those are the words you said to me after we made love the first time. You said,Lay your head on my shoulder, your heart next to mine.”
Anger curled up inside him. “Even though I choose to occasionally sing the songs I write, that’smychoice. I don’t like knowing that strangers find my notes and hang on to them.” He looked at Sky, and it sank in that she’d been keeping his words, his songs, and that tugged at all of him, pushing the anger to the side, making room for love.
“Come here, sweetheart.” He pulled her onto his lap again and pressed his lips to hers. “That’s part of the song I wrote for you the first night I saw you.”
He sang to her in a soft voice, every word laden with emotion.
“I saw it in youreyes.
Wounded, hiding, somewheredeep.
Tell me, lovely, do you cry when yousleep?”
Her lips drew down, and a lock of hair fell in front of her eyes. He tucked it behind her ear and began singing again.
“Crying out in yourmovements.
