Page 73 of So Steady

“I know we talked about it but you don’t have to come inside with me. I can just go in by myself.” She said it quickly, as though he mightwantto see the evidence of her life with another man.

“No problem.”

She kept staring out of the window, curling her fingers so tight, her knuckles were white. He saw himself reaching over and taking her hand, forcing her to stop self-flagellating, and talk to him. His palm tingled. He could do it. He counted down; five, four, three—

“We’re up on the left.” Nicole said. “Number twenty-seven.”

Fucking perfect. Noah slowed down, looking for twenty-seven. His eyes locked on a two-story slice of middle class. “That it?”

Nicole wasn’t listening. She craned her neck, looking around. “Oh, thank God. Aaron’s car isn’t here. He mustn’t be home.”

Noah felt a thrum of disappointment. It’d be easier this way, but he’d been nursing a couple of dumbshit confrontation fantasies. Mostly of shoving Nicole’s ex through a window while making it clear he’d fucked his fiancée into multiple orgasms. He parked at the curb and pulled out his cigarettes. “I’ll wait here. Call if you need me.”

“Sure.” Nicole’s brows drew together. “You haven’t smoked the whole drive.”

“You don’t like it.”

Her smile drilled a hole in his chest. “Thanks, Noah, for driving, and the croissants, and talking to me. It’s been great.”

The heat in his chest tried to turn itself into words but then his brain jammed. He nodded, stuck a cigarette in his mouth, felt like a fucking idiot.

Nicole pushed the passenger door open. “Okay, I’m going to head in.”

He watched her walk up her garden path, her watch flashing in the sun; the one that covered her tattoo. He realised he’d never actuallyseenNicole’s daisy tattoo. He had the sudden urge to follow her, convince her to pull the watch off her wrist, see the pretty lines inked into her delicate skin. He could picture what it would look like—Edgar, Sam, and Tabby had the same daisy chain on their left wrists—but he wanted toknow.

He closed his eyes. What would he ink on her, if he had the chance? The answer came at once—the ocean beneath an apricot sunset. He’d put it on her right wrist, wrapping around the delicate web of navy veins, the whole thing smaller than a book of matches. Pretty, feminine, perfect. He opened his glove compartment and pulled out his notepad and biro. The design wasn’t complicated. The beauty would come into the kiss of colours; cerulean and lilac water, ruby skies and butterscotch sunlight. He wasn’t competent in watercolour style of tattooing but compared to painting, how hard could it be? He made a brief list of the inks he’d need and then paused, cigarette hanging from his lip.

What the fuck was he doing? Drawing out this tattoo like it was going to happen? Like Nicole didn’t want to get rid of the ink she had? He threw the notepad back in the glove compartment, beyond embarrassed at himself.

Don’t forget why you’re here.He’d told himself that over and over while he was driving, but some dipshit part of him refused to get the message. It was time to sit himself down for a little talk. It was time to Make Some Things Clear. “Newcomb. You fuckin’ idiot. Don’t go telling yourself you’re in love with her.”

A response came in the form of an indignant head-rush. Who knew if you were in love with someone or not?

“I mean it. What do you and Nicole DaSilva have in common?”

Sex. They both liked…pancakes?

“Exactly. Look at yourself.”

He flipped down the mirror and studied his face, and Harold Newcomb stared back with his mother’s fish-green eyes.

“Do you look like her next boyfriend? Do you think she wants people to see you two together?”

Sick of looking at himself, he flipped the mirror back up and scanned his arms, examining the black roses, bloody axes, charred bones and brick-toothed dwarves, Cthulhu’s tentacles and snapping dragons.

“She wants kids. You think she wants to have your kids?”

He saw himself walking toward school gates to pick up a perfect black-haired, blue-eyed kid, the other parents locking their car doors as he passed. In the social media age, it’d take about twenty minutes for motivated mums and dads to find out who he was. Who he’d been.

“Daddy, why is everyone scared of you?”

And Nicole’s disappointment. Her stress. Her regret in procreating with someone who looked exactly like a professional bail jumper. A heaviness settled in his gut, dousing the fire that ignited when he was planning the watercolour tattoo. Who the fuck did he think he was kidding?

He got out of the van, needing to move, to get out of his own head. He paced the footpath, smoking and searching for something else to think about when Nicole burst out of the house. Her face was bunched up, her eyes rimmed red. He flicked his cigarette onto the asphalt and stomped it. “You okay? He in there?”

“No!”

There was an odd ring to her voice. She doubled over and he realised she was laughing. Deep belly laughter. “What’s going on?”

---