Page 28 of Under My Skin
I knew the asshole was probably awake. With a roll of my eyes, I type back my response.
Everett:
I just dropped her off.
Something you should have done.
The three dots appear but then disappear before resurfacing again.
Simon:
Wait. She got on a bike?
With you?
Really? That’s his takeaway?
Everett:
Trust me, she wasn’t thrilled.
Simon:
She got on a bike with you, and now you want her number?
Half of me has the nerve to just call him and tell him to stop being an idiot. I’m not asking for Lucy’s number because we hit it off and had a great time together. I’m asking for her number so she won’t physically self-combust if this talk with their parents doesn’t go well. The last thing she needs is to feel like she’s stranded there.
Everett:
Look, either be a good brother and offer to pick her up, or give me her number.
Simon:
I got called in. Here it is, but this is fucking weird.
Another message follows with Lucy’s contact, and I quickly save it in my phone before taking one last look at the rushing water. He’s right. If I were asking for Lucy’s number for any other reason, this would be weird. Growing up, it was impossible to look at her as anything more than Simon’s little sister. She was five years younger than us, and five years back then felt like ahuge gap. We never went to the same school, always moving on to the next stage before she was even enrolled, and she always seemed so . . .young.
Way too young to be anything more than Simon’s sister.
But now? Hell, five years is nothing. A five-year difference feels like just a number. Rubbing a hand over my face, I head back toward my bike. Why am I thinking about this? I don’t need to overcome any barriers when it comes to Lucy because nothing needs to change. All I did was give her a ride, and now I’m standing here thinking about our age gap?
Jesus.
Once I’m seated on the bike, I yank on my helmet, like the added force might snap me out of whatever this is. But all I can think about is Lucy’s arms wrapped around me, her head resting against my back as she took in the view. I think of the way I calmed her down, and how her hand felt in mine. I think of how some of the panic in her eyes melted as soon as she could tell me how much she hates my tattoo.
My lips pull upward, and I look down at the small spider on my right hand as it rests on the throttle. I can’t say I love that she hates it, but I appreciate her honesty. With a shake of my head, I pull out my gloves and slip them on. With all of Lucy’s panic this morning, I had completely forgotten about them. As soon as she was on the bike, I needed to go before she had the chance to change her mind again. Starting the engine, I maneuver out of the lookout and pull onto the main road.
The entire ride to the shop, I try not to think about Lucy. I think about the clients I have today and the tattoos I’ve prepared for them. I think about the renovation upstairs and wonder how quickly Hal needs me to pick a damn paint color. I think about the schedules of the other artists. It’ll be a late night for me, but Toni and Alex try to get out early on weekends. No one likes being the one to turn away someone after they’ve drank too much, one of the reasons we don’t take walk-ins, and with a winery, distillery, and multiple breweries nearby, it happens almost every weekend.
I’ll stay to see if Lucy shows up, though.
And just like that, I’m back to thinking about her. I think about the scattered freckles across her nose that are barely noticeable now that she’s older. I think about the way she never lets her hair down, literally or figuratively. She’s always been like that—the more strait-laced sibling out of the two. I think about the way her frozen fear melted a little when I reached for her hand. I think about the way she looked at me when she heard her mom’s voice, like I was her only ally.
But I left.
She’ll be okay. She just needs to rip off the Band-Aid. Lucy might not like stepping out of her comfort zone, but she isn’t meek. She’ll get everything off her chest with her parents, and then she’ll be able to move on from this.
That’s what I keep telling myself at least. I reassure myself time and time again that she’s already fine by now. That they’ve probably cleared the air. But as much as I want to believe it, I still text her as soon as I get to the shop.
