Page 86 of Love Me Tomorrow

Reds.

Blues.

Greens.

A single word is torn from my throat: “How?”

With stiffness radiating from every inch of his frame, Owen moves toward the portable workstation. Ink bottle clutched in hand, he stares down at it like it’s personally betrayed him, tense silence cloaking us both, and then releases a gritty chuckle that doesn’t sound at all humorous.

A shiver works its way down my spine.

“Practice,” he grinds out, roughly shoving the bottle of ink onto the workstation, between a mauve and emerald green. “Years and years of practice.”

“I don’t understand. You and Gage are—”

“Fraternal twins.”

My chin snaps back in shock. “But y’all look identical. I mean, maybe notidentical.” Unlike his twin brother, everything about Owen is more potent to me. The sheen of his hair. The structure of his face. The body that is so powerful that standing in his proximity has always made me feel slightly breathless.

“Not identical,” Owen tells me, crossing his arms over his burly chest when he plants his ass against the side of the table. His pose is casual, but his expression is nothing less than restless. Black eyes sweep past me, like he can’t bear the thought of looking too closely, only to return to my frame intermittently. A tick pulses to life just below his jawline, and then keeps on ticking. “We’re the same height, almost the same weight—but none of that is truly indicative of anything. We’re not a match. Well, not an exact one, anyway.” His mouth curls sardonically. “Which means that, DNA-wise, I can be colorblind while he isn’t. Doesn’t defy the laws of twinness.”

On wobbly legs, I inch closer to him. I want to catch his gaze and make him look at me. Owen and I, we might not betogetherby definition of boyfriend/girlfriend, but that doesn’t mean I don’t know him well enough to push past his carefully crafted walls. Walls that, if I’m being honest, are taller and thicker than I ever anticipated.

Questions fire at me from every which way, but I stick with the most important one: “You’ve clearly kept it a secret . . . why?”

His brows knit together, that always-present furrow deepening. “You’re not gonna ask me what colors I can actually see?” A small pause on his end that hastens my breathing to a fast clip. “What I see when I look atyou?”

Curiosity begs me to sayyes,but I strong-arm Miss Nosy back in the box and key the lock shut. “That’s what the internet is for,” I tell Owen smoothly as I shrug into my button-down. I leave the front parted, so I can keep it away from the still-sensitive tattoo. “I’m sure I’ll wear out my laptop battery tonight when I embark on a research stint of a lifetime.”

That manages to pull a startled, genuine laugh out of him, and I cut short of patting myself on the back.

Sobering, Owen runs a thumb along his square jaw. “There are different types of color-blindness, Sav. It’s not a one size fits all sort of gig.”

“Right. Of course.” I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “That makes sense.”

His gaze traces my face, and my already warm cheeks burn even hotter under all that intensity. Then, like he knows I’m seconds away from bursting and begging for him to continue, he says, “Greens . . . but also reds too. They’re my main problem colors.”

My fingers twitch and brush my waist. “But the blue—”

Mouth twisting in a grimace, he averts his eyes and seeks out the floor. “It’s not as easy as just sayin’ I don’t see two specific colors, but the others are totally normal. It’s not like that at all—fuck, how do I put this?”

“The Color-blindness for Dummies option. Whatever that is.”

With one inked hand, he taps his face, right over the crescent-shaped scar beside his right eye. “I don’t see what you see. Reds and greens are more brackish, almost a dull yellowish brown. Outside of technology, though, the world rarely offers a perfect red or green; life is a mix, a seamless blend of magentas and teals and oranges and every other hue under the sun. Which means that my color-blindness affects everything and sometimes . . .” The fingers at his temple plow through his hair. Settle on the nape of his neck, the muscles in his bicep clenching hard. “Sometimes shades are lost on me. The blue was so deep, so fucking dark, especially in the bottle, that I . . .” Squeezing his neck, he visibly swallows. “It’s a mistake I haven’t made in years, and never on another person.”

His raw confession splinters something within me.

Owen is all bristling confidence. It guides his hands when he tattoos memories on skin. It guides his mouth and his body as it plunders mine. And yet, I watch it falter now as I study him, trying to understand all that he isn’t saying.

Dropping his arm to his side, Owen turns. Striding over to his own workstation, he begins to tip ink bottles over. “I have a system,” he mutters, never once looking back at me over his shoulder, as if he can’t physically bring himself to do so. “I’ve numbered everything—see?” He jerks up one of the plastic-wrapped bottles, holding it upside down so that I can see the white label stuck to the bottom. “Every color has a coordinating gradient. Colors aren’t perfect and my eyes certainly aren’t, and I needed a way to organize everything that wouldn’t have me fucking up left and right.”

My lungs deflate on a swift exhale. The rainbow dandelion he inked on me . . . “The color chart,” I breathe out, stepping past him so I can grab the laminated trifold off the counter. “This is—this is how you get the colors right without clueing anyone in.”

It’s pure genius. Absolutely innovative. And still, Owen looks like he’s on the verge of turning tail and running.

He nods, slowly. Sets the ink bottle back in its place and reaches for the trifold, taking it back from me with an almost embarrassed sense of urgency that cranks up my compassion tenfold.

“Owen,” I whisper, “I’m not judging you. Please know that.”

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