Page 18 of Our Secrets and Scars

“You gonna tell me what thehstands for?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

He shakes his head with a smirk. “Nope.”

“Are you ever going to tell me your name?”

“Why would I, when this is so much fun?”

And with that, he winks and walks away.

Three

Kinsley

Thesideofmyribs itch as I make the twenty-minute walk from my dorms to campus the following Thursday morning. The man who inked the tattoo onto me warned me that itchiness would be likely, but a good sign that everything’s healing as it should be. It doesn’t make it any less unpleasant though.

The late morning breeze sweeps under my loose-fitting shirt and cools my burning skin. It’s a relief, so much so that I can’t help the moan that slips from my lips and gets carried away by the late summer wind.

It’s been days, and I still can’t believe I allowedhimto convince me to get a tattoo.

Aside from the surgery I went through after the fire, I’ve never done anything to permanently alter my appearance. Yet, I’d hardly put up much of a fight when he challenged me to get a tattoo. It was pathetic, really, how quickly I let him win.

Even though I’d refused to back down out of sheer stubbornness ? and a very slight, inexplicable want to impress him—it wasn’t me who came out on top. It was him who got his way. And I ate right into the palm of his enormous, blue-inked hand.

I hear someone call my name, a voice that is distinctly male and familiar, but I ignore it as I duck inside the coffee shop that sits on the edge of campus. Shuddering from the discomfort that has all of a sudden taken over me, I join the end of the queue and throw a worried glance over my shoulder.

I watch through the window as Owen jogs to a stop, doubling over with his hands on his knees as he fights to catch his breath. He squints his eyes as he looks into the shop through the glass, looking for someone.

Me.

My heart beats erratically, thumping in the base of my throat as my stomach stirs and my palms sweat. Though he hasn’t done much to me other than not taking a hint, my body reacts to him as though he’s an imminent threat. I don’t understand it. There’s just something about him that has my instincts running on high alert.

“Next.” the barista’s voice startles me, and I turn away from the window to place my order. A strawberry frappe with dragon fruit, two squirts of white mocha syrup, and extra whipped cream.

Bex would always laugh at me whenever I had one, which was almost every day after school. We’d get off the bus one stop early and use our allowance to buy drinks and snacks at the Starbucks closest to our house.

Even when she was twelve, Bex would order black coffee with no cream or sugar. I guess I inherited the sweet tooth out of the two of us, but I always knew that she forced herself to drink that shit because she wanted to seem older and more sophisticated than she was.

It took her a long time to train herself to tolerate the taste until she reached a point where I believe she actually enjoyed it. She was resolute though, sticking to her order every time, never swaying despite how much I know that she would rather have ordered something else.

But Bex was like that. Resolute, stubborn, and determined, almost to a fault. When I was young, I wished I could be like that too. But I’ve always been impressionable and easily manipulated, contorting myself into shapes that others want me to be, so much so that I’ve never truly known who I am.

Bex knew herself though. She was stronger than me in that way. In a lot of ways, really.

She wouldn’t have let H goad her into getting a tattoo that she didn’t know she wanted or hidden away from a guy in her class who doesn’t know how to take a hint. She’d have stood up to both of them, resolute and unafraid.

She’s been gone for over four years now, and yet, even as only ashes whispering through tree branches and evergreen leaves, I’m still envious of her.

“Ma’am?” The barista prompts me, shocking me out of my thoughts. She’s holding a card reader; her face screwed up in irritation. “You need to pay.”

“I’ll get it.”

Velvet. Double cream. Melted chocolate. The voice sounds like all three.

A long arm extends past me, tapping a card on the reader. I drag my eyes along the length of it, following the line up the man’s body, up his chest, past the messy stubble on his jaw, over his soft lips and crooked nose, until I reach the ashy irises of the man I can’t seem to stop thinking about.

Him.

“Are you stalking me?” I ask, gaping at him.

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