Page 49 of The Do-Over

“But still not right. Downtown at Mooshie’s?”

He shook his head. “Not.”

“What, too cool for you?”

“Too trendy, more like.”

“So…? Wheredidyou go?”

“402 Ink.”

“Okay.” I grinned because I already knew that. “So will you take me there?”

“You do know they take appointments, right?” His right hand was relaxed and kind of draped over the steering wheel, his left elbow resting on the window frame while just a few of his fingers actually managed the steering. It was cool confidence, just like him. He said, “All tattoo shops. Odds are not in your favor that anyone can fit you in today.”

“Really? Don’t you have any connections?”Any coworkers?“Any favors you can call in?”

“Just because I have a tattoo doesn’t mean I have a contingent of tattoo artists who are available to me for favors.”

“?‘Contingent of Tattoo Artists.’ Band name. Called it.”

That actually made him smile. “I like it. You’d be the singer, I assume?”

“Are you kidding? I have a terrible voice. Tambourine all the way.”

“Weak.”

“No, ‘weak’ is not helping your friend get squeezed into a tattoo appointment.”

“Oh, so you’re my friend now.”

I pulled down the visor, grabbed the lipstick in my bag, and reapplied. “Yes. We’re friends, Nick Stark. Deal with it.”

Nick turned on his blinker and merged onto the interstate. “If you’re my friend, name three things you know about me.”

“Um, let’s see. Three things.” Now, if I had been being honest, I could probably fill a few notebook pages with the things I knew about him from all my repeated days. But I pretended to struggle before I said, “First, I know that you drive a truck.”

“Low-hanging fruit, Hornby.”

“Okay.” I flipped the visor back up and said, “Um. For starters, you don’t take notes in Chem but always get a better grade than me.”

“You nosy little shit—keep your eyes on your own paper.”

I was smiling as I put away my lipstick and said, “Number two, you always smell like soap.”

He gave me the side-eye. “It’s called showering.”

I rolled my eyes. “No, you smell likesoap, soap. Like you’re made of Irish Spring or something.”

He made a tiny chuckle sound before saying, “You are such a weirdo.”

“Am not. And number three. Hmmm.” I looked over at him. “You’re less of a jerk than I always thought.” It came out more sincere than I intended—a big change from my previous joking tone—and I blushed, looking down at my knees.

“Well I guess that’s good,” he said, giving me a closed-mouth smile while hitting his turn signal and switching lanes. “Right?”

“Right.” I cleared my throat and said, “So will you help me?”

He said, eyes on the road, “Well they aren’t open until after lunch, but yes.”

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