Page 58 of Red Flags Only

I’d respond, but…

Well, a girl can only last so long, you know?

My gaze drops, snags on his chest – where a copy of my own necklace rests above his beating heart, thumping the metal ever-so-slightly in time with its rhythm – then roves over to an arm. Here, what would be sharp lines of muscle are softened by the flow of ink, a cascade of colors starkly contrasted by the black-and-gray on his other arm.

I squint, head tilting at a cluster of colors that look familiar. I step closer to see, then my jaw drops. “That’s the butterfly I drew for you in sixth grade,” I say, as if he does not know. “I spent hours trying to get the wings perfectly symmetrical. I used rulers and everything, but it still turned out wonky. You got that tattooed?”

He hums an affirmative and the butterfly twitches as his muscles contract, then relax. “I got more than that. Look.” He lifts his arm in offering.

So I do. I take the permission to run my eyes along hisartwork, which, upon inspection, is actuallymyartwork. Doodles I’ve sent him. Words I’ve written. My signature, heart nestled beside it, over and over, filling in the space between depictions of stickers I’ve gifted and drawings I’ve made. I’m everywhere, covering every space between his wrist and shoulder, then bleeding out onto his chest and, when I walk around to check, his back.

My inhale stumbles its way into my lungs, burning.

“Jupie, this is…” Wow. “When did you get all these?”

He peeks at me over his shoulder, gaze soft. “Whenever I wanted,” he answers.

Blood rushes loud in my ears. “You must have wanted pretty often,” I whisper, tracing a shooting star with my finger. “Some of these are from before it was legal for you to get tattooed.”

“I got my first two at fifteen,” he says. “One for you.” He turns, pointing to a fern frond sketch I don’t remember drawing, mostly because I used to draw them oneverything. “And one for Mars.” He points to a Joker card on his other arm, surrounded by just as many if not more seemingly random things as the arm he’s dedicated to me.

“Are those all for Mars?” I ask, poking at a slice of carrot cake on his forearm. “How come these are in black and gray?”

“Because I have always gotten to experience Mars’ colors in person, vibrant and explosive. To bleed some into my skin felt redundant when I see it every day.”

I glance at the arm reserved for me, a riot of rainbow hues.

“Yours could only ever be in color,” he murmurs. “To dull you is to harm you, and I would never do that.”

I blink back a surge of wetness in my eyes. “Only brothers get dulled, huh?” I ask, an attempt at levity in a moment that feels heavy. Beautiful, soul-wrenching, heart-moving – but heavy.

“Do you think Mars would let something so small as ink dull him?” He shakes his head. “When I had this conversation with him, he said, and I quote, ‘Whatever you say, brother mine, but a couple of black lines aren’t going to dull my shine.’”

I snort, and Jove chuckles.

“Do you like them?” he asks, twisting his colorful arm at me. “I think Brandi did them justice quite well.”

My eyes widen. “Brandi did these?”

He nods. “Of course. Who else would I go to?”

A million moments race through my head of Brandi – friendly Brandi, with her ready smiles and not-so-quick chats. The way she’s never once treated me as a stranger, even when I was one.

Except, apparently, I wasn’t quite.

“She’s very talented,” I say. “It can’t be easy purposefully tattooing the wobbly lines of a pre-teen artist.”

He shrugs. “Seemed easy enough for her.”

So. Talented.

“Enough of this, though,” he says. “We have important business to get to.”

Ah. Right. “We can’t go out in public with you shirtless,” I tell him. “I don’t care how little you care for laws. Public indecency is not an act I will help you commit.”

“That’s fine,” he replies. “What I had in mind doesn’t require leaving the house.”

“Oh?”

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