Page 84 of There Are No Saints

“Those are Eclipse,” Mara says. “They’re the best.”

My back burns. I bet her ribs are burning too.

I like that we’re feeling the same pain at the same time.

I like that I marked her, and she marked me.

We’re bound together now, her art on my skin and mine on hers.

“Would you let me tattoo you again?” I ask her.

She looks up at me. In the pale early light, I see there is blue in her eyes after all. Blue like a gull’s wing, like a bruise, like Roman silver with a little lead in it.

“Yes,” she says.

“Why?”

“Because the tattoo you gave me is beautiful. And because . . .” she bites the edge of her lip, her eyes dropping down to our feet, treading the pavement in sync. “Because I like when you pay attention to me. I like when you put your hands on me. The other night at the show . . . I felt like you were pushing me away. That hurt me.”

She looks up at me again, her gaze naked, uncovered. Painfully vulnerable.

My natural reaction is to recoil from her.

I despise weakness.

Neediness, too.

But this is what I’ve been trying to get from Mara all this time. She has the hardest shell I’ve ever seen—I want to peel off her armor. I want her naked. I want to know who she is, all the way down.

So I answer her honestly, even though that too is very unlike me. Though I’m only saying what she already knows, it feels dangerous . . . walking a thin wire across an unknown abyss.

“Iwaspushing you away,” I admit.

“Why?”

“Because I didn’t have control.”

“Over what?”

“Over how much I wanted you.”

Mara looks at me, searching my face.

Other people look at your expression to make sure it matches what they already want to believe. Mara never believes. She always checks.

“What do you see right now?” I ask her.

“I see you,” she says. “I’m just wondering . . .”

“What?”

“If it’s another mask.”

My face goes cold and still.

“And if it is?”

“Then you use the best one on me.”

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