Page 43 of Ink Me Three Times
She straightens, blinking now, the haze clearing. "Wait, seriously?"
I nod, squinting at it. "Yeah. Here… look." I show her the spot. It’s small. Clean. Like a nick. "Right near the bottom. Probably didn’t even… I mean, it’s not like…"
Her gaze shifts between it and my face. "You didn’t finish outside."
"No. But with the tear here?" I glance at it again, brow tense. "It's so low, it probably didn't matter. The tip’s intact."
We stare at it together in silence for a moment. It feels absurdly anticlimactic… this fragile little thing, flimsy and useless now, after everything.
She exhales slowly. "Okay. Not ideal. But not the end of the world, right?"
"Right," I agree, nodding. "Worst case, I’ll run out and get Plan B in the morning. Just in case."
"Okay."
She bites her lip, thoughtful. But then she looks at me again, really looks, and whatever tension was starting to creep in softens.
"Still worth it," she murmurs.
And that?
That undoes me all over again.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Ivy
"This is not a sport,"I mutter, staring at the plywood boards like they personally offended me.
"It’s a way of life," Jesse replies with a straight face, adjusting the stupid sweatband he’s wearing like we’re training for a decathlon.
I glance down at my boots, scuffed black leather, thick soles, zero breathability, and then over at the field of grown adults hurling beanbags like it’s the damn Olympic trials.
I’d thought he was joking when he said Vanessa dropped out of his team for the Coyote Cup and he needed me to sub. I hadn’t realized I’d be thrown into a town-wide spectacle where half the population was already half drunk and entirely too serious.
Apparently cornhole is religion here.
I should’ve stayed home with Pickle and watched trash TV. Instead, I’m standing under a baking sun in a black dress and boots that feel like leg prisons while everyone else wears cheerful T shirts with punny team names. Jesse’s team isCornHub. I wish I was kidding.
"Just aim for the hole," Jesse says, clapping me on the back like he’s sending me off to war.
"I swear," I mumble, squinting across the lawn.
The crowd isn’t huge, but it’s… present. Enthusiastic. And judging by the lawn chairs, coolers, and matching team bandanas, this isn’t their first beanbag rodeo. I toss a half hearted bag and it lands with a pathetic thump, not even close.
A cheer goes up anyway. I blink.
"That was… not bad!" Penny calls from the sidelines, hands cupped around her mouth like a tiny, terrifying coach. She's wearing a whistle. A real one.
I wave at her. "Thanks, boss."
She gives me a thumbs up, dead serious. I almost smile… until I realize someone else is watching me.
Freddie.
He’s leaning against a picnic table on the far side of the lawn, sunglasses on, arms folded. He’s got that whole relaxed dad thing going on, plain gray T shirt, ballcap, and that unreadable expression he always wears in public.
I swear I see him smirk when I miss another throw. But he’s not looking at me, not really.
