Page 64 of London Inked Boys: The Complete Trilogy
Why is a woman like her still living with her parents at the age of twenty-seven?
“Yeah, it’s embarrassing, I know. I’ve had some stuff going on, and I needed to get easy access to London, so it madesense. What about you?” she asks, turning the conversation from herself.
I desperately want to ask her what kind of stuff, but I know I would be prying. She would have just told me if she wanted me to know.
“I went to Art College. Got a degree.”
Her eyes light up. “That’s amazing! You always did love your art, though you used to say it was only because it was better than maths and English.”
I chuckle at the memory. “I’d never have admitted actually liking a school subject back then. That would have ruined my street cred.”
“What street cred?” she teases me, and we grin at each other, caught in the moment.
I’m surprised I can’t see the electricity darting between us like one of those blue light balls we used to have in science class.
I force myself to concentrate on filling in her tattoo now the outline is done, though my pulse is racing. How has this happened? I’d woken up this morning thinking I was going to spend the day hanging out, maybe play some Xbox, and have a few beers down the pub, and instead my past has collided with my present. A horrific thought comes into my head. What if Kane hadn’t fallen ill, and I had never been asked into work this morning? Sophia would have come into the place where I work almost every day, and then left again, and I’d never have known about it. Our paths would have crossed so closely, but we might never have met.
“How does that look?” I ask her when I’m done.
She peers down at the symbol and smiles. “It’s great. Thanks so much.”
I wonder what she needed the symbol for strength for—what has she needed to be strong about?
I cover the tattoo and then hand her a leaflet on aftercare.
“Thanks, Rocco,” she says, swinging her legs from the bed, the long skirt falling to cover her skin. She’s dressed demurely in a long-sleeved t-shirt as well as the long skirt. That’s a change for her—when we’d been younger she’d lived in cut-off vests and short-shorts.
“Hey, I’d hate for us to lose touch again.” I feel nervous asking her. Dumb of me. This is Sophia, the girl I’d grown up with. “Can we exchange numbers?”
“Oh, I?—”
She glances away, and my stomach sinks. Is that a no? Why would she say no?
“Just as old friends,” I add hurriedly. “I mean, if there’s a boyfriend on the scene or something, I’m not trying to step on any toes.”
“No, it’s nothing like that.” A smile is fixed on her face. “Sure, why not?”
I don’t understand her hesitation. If anyone should be hesitant in exchanging numbers, it should be me. She’s the one who’d left me all those years ago. Maybe it hadn’t been her choice, but I hadn’t known where she’d gone, while I’d stayed in the same place, at least at first. She could easily have come back to me, or even called my house, but she’d vanished off the face of the earth.
4
SOPHIA
Ileave the tattoo studio with my emotions in a whirl. The past hour has felt like a dream. Had I really bumped into the boy from my childhood? Not just bumped into him, but had his hands on my skin?
The guilt I feel for not contacting him again after I’d moved sweeps over me as fresh as it had been back then. I’d thought it had been the right thing at the time—and it had been, as he’d gone to university and got a degree and lived his life—but nothing had changed. All the things that held me back all those years ago are still with me. If anything, they’re even worse now. I don’t want him to feel tied to me out of obligation and guilt. Yes, we’d grown up together, but we’d been kids back then. How could anyone not have fallen in love during those magical summers on the beach? But life is cruel and it’s messy, and my parents had moved away. Maybe if they hadn’t things would also be different, but I couldn’t have asked him to give his youth to a long-distance relationship with a girl who was sick.
I press my fingers to where the long sleeves of my top hide my arm. That’s where I’ll be spending the afternoon, and is the reason I’ve moved back in with my parents. I’ll be at the hospital three days a week from now on. At least it’ll give me plentyof time to read. That’s the only silver lining I can find in this whole situation. I try not to be bitter about things, knowing some people have it even worse, but staying positive all the time is hard.
I’d been so humiliated when Rich—Rocco, I have to start thinking of him as Rocco—had asked what I’ve been up to all these years. He’s accomplished so much, especially as he hadn’t exactly come from the best upbringing with his dad, but he hadn’t let it hold him back. What had I been able to tell him? That I have no job to speak of, having moved from position to position, but needing to leave each time my illness got worse, and I live with my parents. Christ. He must think I’m a total loser and is probably thanking God for his lucky escape.
Will he contact me again? My phone has suddenly taken on a new form—a device which holds the potential for either elated joy or heartbreak. I’m not sure how I feel about either situation. If he does contact me, what will I do? The same reasons why I’d allowed him to get on with his life all those years ago still apply. True, he’s a grown man now and able to make his own decisions, but the obligation still remains.
I walk down the high street, weaving between all the students, business people, and mothers with prams. My gaze catches the eye of one chubby little baby waving her fists in the air as her mother pushes her along, and the baby gives me a wide, toothy grin. My heart clenches, my eyes pricking with tears and a painful lump tightening my throat.
There’s never going to be a baby in my future.
I know I’m jumping well ahead of myself, but these were the things I need to consider. Rocco had been everything to me back when we’d been seventeen, and before that, too, for as long as I remember. It would be easy to convince myself the two of us could just be friends again, but I’d felt the way sparks had jumped between us when he’d touched my ankle, had watchedhis brown eyes darken with desire. I’d lain back on the bed while he’d tattooed my skin, and in my mind I imagined him laying down the needle and pressing kisses to my ankle, working his way up my calf and to my thigh, before settling between my legs. My core pulses at the image. He’d been a beautiful boy—all tousled hair and chocolate-brown eyes and long limbs—but he’d become a striking man. The beard, shaved head, and tattoos make him appear hard, but his lips are soft and full, and his eyes soulful. There’s no doubting that I’m just as attracted to him as I had been ten years ago, maybe even more so now. Does he feel the same way about me? Does he see the years on my face, the changes in my body? Time hasn’t been kind to me, and though I’m still relatively young, I certainly don’t look the way I had when I was seventeen.
