Page 81 of Word to the Wise

Mason smiles, popping the cap off with it clenched between his teeth, and I can’t explain what it is about him that has my stomach in a constant flutter. His heart shines through his eyes, no matter how much he tries to bury it. And I’m terrified I’m going to hurt him when that’s the last thing I’d ever want to do.

He drops the marker cap to the seat beside him and turns my leg slightly so he can get a better angle on the side of my calf.

“What are you drawing?”

“You’ll see.”

He drags the marker along a path on my skin, and he has that same focus I’ve seen when he’s inking someone at the shop.

He does a quick outline before moving to a different marker. One after another.

Mason is known at the shop for his portraits and realism. But even at this angle, I can tell what he’s drawing on me is a little different. It’s wispy but also bolder. And it feels more like his sister’s style than his.

Maybe it’s the markers, or maybe it’s all the color. But there’s emotion bleeding from every stroke he paints across my skin.

“When did you know you wanted to be a tattoo artist?” I tip my head back to look at the stars while he draws on my leg.

“When I was eighteen and still in school. I always liked drawing, but a few guys went to get tatted at this shop on the Strip, and I went with them. Something about the challenge of translating art onto skin appealed to me. How you were literally marking people with things so important to them that they wanted to carry them around for their whole lives. That’s trust.”

I glance in his direction, and he’s still focused on my leg.

“My dad was pissed when I started my apprenticeship. That’s probably why it took me so long to do it. He wanted me to be practical and to follow in his footsteps. He said I was making a mistake and fucking up my life by following my passions.”

“He was wrong.”

Mason pauses and looks up at me. An equal mix of sadness and appreciation is in his smile before he goes back to what he was doing.

“I wish I was artistic,” I say.

“You’ve got much better things going for you.”

“Not really.” I shake my head. “I’m too rational.”

“You’re smart, Reed. You see the world like I’ve never been able to. And I’m pretty creative.”

I frown. “I don’t know why you have so much faith in me.”

“That’s because you don’t see yourself as I do.”

“And how’s that?”

“Like you’re the only thing worth looking at.” He avoids my stare with his words, but it wells up inside my chest, filling my ribs to the brim. “Done.”

Mason pops the cap back on the marker and sets it aside with the rest, helping me bend my leg so I can see what he drew.

“It’s messy, but you get the idea.”

A tree stretches the full length of my calf with roots that reach across the top of my foot. It’s abstract, but I see it for exactly what it is, and it’s beautiful. And in the center of the bark on the tree, I spot something that veins out until it meets the roots—a heart.

Mason traces his fingers over it.

“If you saw yourself like I see you, you wouldn’t question that you’re strong because you’d just know it. Everything has its season. We all lose our leaves and spend some time falling apart.” He moves down my leg slowly. “But your roots, Reed… they’re endless, and they come straight from your heart. Everything you do and say—to the way you love—is so big that everyone around you feels it. We all selfishly want it.”

My throat clogs as I watch Mason trace over the picture. It’s a tree, but it’s me—in his eyes. A version of myself I’d like to be. A strength he brings out because he believes in me with all of him.

Dropping my leg from his thigh, I sit up and crawl over to him until I’m straddling his lap. My knees dig into the cushions as I wrap my arms around his shoulders, dipping my mouth to his when words won’t suffice.

I’m in denial. I’m holding back and I don’t know why.

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