Page 50 of Bitter Beats

“You would,” I scoff. “Okay, beach or lake.”

“Beach.” She looks personally affronted. I forgot she spent her childhood summers on Cape Cod.

“Lake,” I toss back.

Mckenna sits up straighter. “Road trips or flying.”

“Road trips. Hands down.”

She rolls her lips together and flicks her hand. “Flying.”

I snort. “Do you have any ink?”

She rears back, and my smile grows. Mckenna sips her coffee and points at me, making a wide circle with her finger. “How many tattoos do you have?”

“Fifty-three.”

“Fifty-three!” she shrieks. “Are you serious, Mav? There’s no way they all mean something to you. Is this something you do when you’re drunk or bored?”

I chuckle. “They all do mean something to me and…sometimes.”

Mckenna shakes her head and wraps both hands around her coffee mug, pulling it into her chest as she leans closer. “What’s your most meaningful tattoo?”

I scrape a hand over my chin. Narrowing my eyes back, I mentally weigh how honest I want to be. When girls ask me this question, I usually flash them the burning clover on the back of my left bicep and talk about the band.

But Mckenna is mygirlfriendand my roommate, and she’s trying…

I exhale slowly and stand. Lifting the hem of my T-shirt, I twist my torso and show her the right side of my ribs.

Mckenna leans closer, her eyes studying the intricate, detailed, cartoonish character who laughs when I do.

“His name’s Warren Willoughby,” I supply.

Her eyebrows shoot up, and her lips part. Surprise ripples across her face, but she doesn’t say anything.

I sit back down and gauge her reaction, but she’s waiting for my explanation.

Relief flickers through me.

Most people laugh. Most people think Warren Willoughby is something I made up. Got inked when I was wasted. A stupid caricature I pointed at in the pages of a generic binder.

But something holds Mckenna back from making those assumptions. Maybe it’s the tone of my voice, the thread of nostalgia in it. Perhaps it’s because her IQ is higher than I give her credit for.

Whatever the reason, I’m grateful, so I give her the truth.

“Warren Willoughby is a cartoon my pop—my grandfather—used to write. He was a cartoonist way back in the day. But Warren Willoughby is the character he created for me. When I was a kid, he wrote and drew up a world of adventures for Warren. Whenever we were together, he’d fill me in on the latest,and when too many weeks passed, he’d post me a letter with a storyline inside.”

Mckenna stares at me intently, her eyes big and round and breathtaking. She releases a slow exhale as if she knows the story will turn. An impending plot twist.

“Pop and I were boys.” I manage a shaky smile. “Best buds. He was diagnosed with dementia when I was in fifth grade. His mind deteriorated quickly, even faster than the doctors predicted. When I entered seventh grade, he didn’t remember Warren Willoughby. He didn’t recognize me.” My shoulders lift, nearly pressing against my ears. “I got the tattoo on my seventeenth birthday; I had a fake ID. It was my first one and the most meaningful.”

Mckenna’s eyes are shiny with tears. They look like marbles, the glassy blue ones with white streaks and green dots. The ones that make you believe that you hold the whole world in the palm of your hand. Her fingers find mine on the butcher block, and she grips my hand. Squeezes tightly. “I’m so sorry, Mav. I, well, I had no idea. I think it’s beautiful that you and your pop had a relationship like that. It’s thoughtful that you honored him with a Warren Willoughby tattoo.”

“Yeah.” I dip my head and avert my gaze.

Mckenna pulls her hand away and takes another sip of her coffee. “I stole a lipstick once.”

“What?” My eyes snap to hers, and a bubble of unexpected laughter explodes from my throat.

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