Page 44 of Ink Me Three Times
He’s watching the woman beside him.
Blond. Pretty. Laughing at something he says. Her hand brushes his arm, and he doesn’t pull away.
Oh.
Well. I guess that answers that.
I look away, too fast, but it’s fine. I mean, it’s been weeks. One night. One mistake. It didn’t mean anything. He hasn’t brought it up. I haven’t either. We’re pretending it didn’t happen, and maybe that’s for the best. It’s not like he’s the long term type, anyway.
Still. My chest pinches, and it has nothing to do with the boots.
"Don’t look now," Jesse mutters, stepping up beside me with a red Solo cup. "But she showed up after all."
"Who?" I ask, still distracted.
He tips his cup toward the parking lot. "Vanessa."
Oh. Great.
Sure enough, Vanessa’s sauntering across the lawn in oversized sunglasses and a romper that looks designed to cause trouble. She’s not playing, just drinking spiked seltzers and watching like she owns the place.
She flops into a lawn chair, blows a kiss at Jesse just to annoy him, and then turns her attention to the tattoo twins like she’s picking her next victim.
Speaking of.
Mitchell is here. Of course he is. He’s on the rival team with Timothy, and both of them look way too good in sleeveless shirts. Mitchell’s tossing bags like he’s in a movie montage, muscles flexing, jaw set. The kind of guy who takes this way too seriously… and still somehow makes it look hot. His brother’s laughing at something, easy and sunny as always.
They’re winning. Obviously.
Everyone cheers when Mitchell sinks another bag clean through the hole. He barely reacts, just shrugs like it’s no big deal. But I see his eyes cut toward me. Brief. Then gone.
Freddie doesn’t look.
I hate that I notice.
"You okay?" Jesse asks, nudging me.
"Peachy," I lie, wiping sweat from my neck.
We take a break between matches. Penny jogs over to offer coaching tips,"You gotta flick your wrist, Ivy, like this,"and I nod seriously like I’m not slowly dying inside.
"She takes this more seriously than I do," I tell Jesse as she skips away, probably to design us matching uniforms.
"She’s been training for this her whole life," he says, deadpan.
I take a sip of my drink, then glance across the field again just in time to see Mitchell being handed a water bottle by a smilingwoman I assume is their mom. Same dark hair, same piercing eyes, just with more crow’s feet and zero tattoos.
"Is that…?" I start.
"Oh yeah," Jesse says, following my line of sight. "That’s the Twins’ parents. Ride or die for the cornhole crown. Pretty sure their dad has a foam finger in the truck."
Sure enough, a man beside her, mustache, visor, full on dad mode, is clapping like Mitchell just scored a touchdown in the state finals.
"That’s kind of… weirdly adorable," I say.
"Yeah, well. They grew up here. Locals from birth. The Mitchell-Timothy Paradox has haunted Coyote Glen since Little League."
I snort. "So they’ve always been disgustingly good at everything?"
