Page 97 of Scrimmage

“Stars. They’re rock and dust. Stardust is bullshit and so are stars. It’s all bullshit. They should just be called fireballs, like the drink. They’re not romantic, just a hot ball of rock waiting to burn out, die, and float lifelessly for eternity. Some of the ones we see have already fizzled out, and here we are stupidly wishing on something that’s dead.”

“This is starting to sound like an existential crises.”

“You chose to come here,” I point out.

“If you believe that’s true then why do you have them tattooed?”

I look down at the inside of my elbow. Nineteen tiny stars.

“Let me guess, boyfriend territory?” he snorts.

“Therapist territory."

“I’ve never understood tattoos.”

“They wouldn’t look good on you. They’d affect your Golden Boy status.”

“I guess so. What’d you look like before all of that?”

“Too pretty. Had to downgrade myself so bitches wouldn’t be jealous. Didn’t work.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Your skin is just your personal canvas. It’s easier than talking.” I look at him pointedly.

He leans against the opposite railing, stretching out. “What does your canvas say then?”

“Whatever you think it does.”

“I’m not an expert, but I don’t think that’s how feelings work.”

“No, it’s how art works. How do they make you feel?”

He puts his hand out, asking for permission. I have no idea what to do with that other than to give it. He brushes his fingers down my arm. It’s almost like he’s appreciating them, looking at the self-destruction on my skin. His fingertips are gentle as they trace the stars. “What do these mean?”

“That’s fucking rude.”

“Ashland,” he warns.

“Failure.” I try to snatch my arm away, but his grip is too tight.

“It’s the only happy thing on this arm.”

I bite my tongue. “What makes you think it’s happy?”

He glances up at me with hesitation. Those coal black eyes have a green tint to them. “It just feels like that.” He brings the fresh tattoo on my hand to his face. “This is new.” I don’t know if he wants a response so I don’t say anything. “You didn’t have it the last time I saw you. Did you get it at the convention?”

I can’t help but to talk back. “What are you? My fucking dad?”

He smirks. “No, Ashland, I’m not whatever disappointment turned you into a slut.” He holds my hand, carefully avoiding the new ink. “You shouldn’t tattoo angry shit on your body anymore,” he says giving it back.

“I’ll take that into consideration, Armory.”

“I prefer Ko." He stretches and his muscles flex. I have to tear my eyes away. “Oh, by the way.”

He picks up something next to him that I hadn’t noticed when he showed up and hands it to me. It’s a brand new sketch pad.

“What is this?”

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