Page 17 of One More Made Up Love Song
“I don’t think so,” she says, and I let out a chuckle.
“I bet you can.”
She presses her lips together, then slowly cracks one eye open.
I grin. “Nice to see you.”
She breathes out a stuttering breath and finally smiles, tears brimming in her eyes.
“Should we take a photo?”
She nods, and Ivy steps up, holding out her hand for Darcy’s phone. Ivy moves Darcy into place in front of the backdrop, and I step up beside her, pushing my hands into my back pockets as I lean in just enough to look friendly without actually touching her.
Ivy holds up the phone, then pauses. “Actually, wait,” she says, stepping toward Darcy. She fixes something with her clothes—I can’t see what—then steps back again. “Maybe prop your hand on your hip?” Ivy says, and Darcy must do it because Ivy nods. “Right. Perfect. That looks better.”
I’m used to this part of Ivy’s involvement. I asked her once why she couldn’t just take the picture, and she explained that a once-in-a-lifetime meet-and-greet with someone’s favorite artist should not be ruined by bad angles or inept photography. If she can spend four seconds to help someone look cute standing beside me, she’s going to do it.
I’ve always appreciated that Ivy cares like this. That she wants these moments to feel special for people.
As the meet-and-greet progresses, I smile my way through a lot of photos and happy tears and giggling teenagers, but the last woman in line gives me pause.
She can’t be older than twenty, wearing a black tank top and jeans, her arms covered in tattoos. It only takes me a second to realize they’remytattoos.
The lightness that’s carried me through the meet-and-greet so far evaporates, replaced by a heaviness that settles into my gut. I force myself to smile anyway.
“Hey,” I say, holding out my hand. “I’m Freddie.”
She gives me a confident smile. “Obviously,” she says. “I’m Leah.”
“Hi, Leah. Thanks for being here.”
She leans a little closer. “I have eleven tattoos,” she says, a quiet intensity in her tone. “They all match. Or they almost match. I’m trying to get them as close as I possibly can. I’m saving money for the rest—all seventeen—though I’ve read there’s a secret number eighteen that no one knows about. Want to fill me in? Then I could match all of them.”
I push my hands into my pockets and take a deep breath. It’s pretty frequent that I see someone who has a tattoo inspired by my music. I like it most when people do song titles or lyrics because it means I wrote something that resonated.
But I’m less comfortable when people try to match a tattoo that I have.
This is the first time I’ve met someone who’s trying to matchallof them.
Ivy steps closer. “We’re running out of time, Freddie. Maybe just a quick picture?”
I give my head a small shake, a silent communication to Ivy that I’ve got this. I appreciate what she’s trying to do, butif there’s any chance I can stop this woman from getting ink I’m guessing she’ll regret in a few years, I have to try.
“Leah, how old are you?” I gently ask.
She swallows, a new uneasiness flitting across her expression. “Nineteen.”
I nod as I reach behind me to pick up a tour poster so I can sign it for her. “Have you ever been in love?”
She frowns at this question. “Um, I don’t know. I don’t think so.”
“Do you want to be? Not with me,” I quickly add. “This is not a proposition. Just generally.”
She still looks confused, but she answers the question anyway. “I mean, sure. Don’t most people?”
I hold her gaze, hoping I’m not making a mistake when I say, “Do me a favor, okay? Don’t get any more tattoos. At least not ones that look like mine.”
A blush climbs her cheeks, and she chokes out an embarrassed laugh. “Why not?”
