Page 22 of Heart Strings
She’s all business, and while it’s…civil, it just won’t do. Lo was embarrassed when the boat ran aground, but we’d shared a moment there…before and after the mishap. The chemistry between us is still electric, even if she’s doing her best to ignore it. But I won’t let her ignore me.
Silence feels loud when there’s so much to say. It’s overwhelming. Adrianne Lenker’s raw, timeless voice laments how all the money in the world can’t buy forgiveness. It’s the reminder I need.
We collect the supplies Lark left us and line them up on the table.
“Okay.” I sit down beside Lo. “Show me how to make one.”
She starts with the label that wraps around the tiny plastic jar. There are individual stamps for each letter of their names and each number in their wedding date. She lays out only theletters and numbers we’ll need, putting the rest of the set aside. Two stamp pads: black for the text and gold for the claddagh. It’s slow going, and by the time I’m finished with one, I’m sure this is going to take all day.
Perhaps that’s the point. Surely, Lark knows they make custom stamps and printed labels for these sorts of things. It feels like a deliberate choice, just like pairing us together for the task. I have to admit…I’m not upset about it.
“How about we focus on the stamping first? All the labels and tags.” Lo pulls up a guest list on her phone.
“Fine by me.”
She grabs the tags; I take the labels.
We go about stamping in silence. The faint rosemary scent of Lo’s shampoo catches my attention and I inhale greedily. Memories of tea in bed on Sunday mornings swirl in my mind as Lo moves brusquely in my peripheral vision. I watch for a sign that our proximity affects her, too, but she’s unreadable.
We reach for the same stamp and our hands bump.
“Sorry—”
She yanks her hand back. “No, you go ahead—”
“I insist—”
I reroute, reaching for the gold pad instead at the same time she does. We freeze mid-motion and I huff at the synchronicity.
“You can talk to me,” I say. “This doesn’t have to be awkward.”
Lo sighs. “I…don’t really know what to say.”
“Well”—I dab the stamp onto the ink pad—“we can start with the basics. You had clinicals today?”
“Yeah, most days on top of coursework. But I took the afternoon off for an appointment,” she says, keeping her hands moving.
“My da and I went fishing at Salmon Weir Bridge this morning. The season’s nearly over and it was the first time I’ve had a chance to go with him.” From the old stone bridge, we watched a pastel sunrise against the cathedral’s impressive green dome. Da’s a decent angler, and the River Corrib had been generous. “So, Marie picked up ventriloquism last year—”
Lo pauses. “Like, a talking dummy?”
“Unfortunately.”
“That’s…pathological.”
“The whole family has been pranking me with them ever since! This morning, my da asked me to get his tackle box from the shed and the awful thing was sitting on top of it.”
A light laugh escapes her. “Fantastic.”
“You would think that.”
We find our rhythm. I sync the inking of the stamps to the bassline of the song, looking up to see a glint of amusement in Cielo’s face. We match each other’s pace, stealing glances at each other. She speeds up; I follow suit.
Next thing I know, we’re racing. Lo is a blur of motion, frantically spelling out the names of the bride and groom. She slaps her tag down in the center of the table with a triumphant grin. I want to kiss it off her face. God, I’ve missed her.
“Best out of three?” I ask. Anything for this easy energy to continue between us.
Cielo purses her lips as she considers. “Only if we raise the stakes. Loser stamps ‘loser’ across their forehead.”
