Page 10 of Off the Beaten Path

“Curiosity.”

“I hear it kills,” he says, and then he’s silent for so long that I think he’s not going to answer. “Which tattoo are you talking about? I have lots.”

I finally allow myself to look at him, noticing the way his cheeks and nose are tinged pink in the cold, how it looks so delicate on him, a juxtaposition that sends a bolt of awareness through me. “All of them. Do they go all the way up your arm? You’re always wearing flannels.”

“They go up and onto my chest.”

My tongue darts out to wet my dry, chapped lips, and I think his gaze tracks the movement. “Interesting.”

“Why?” he asks, the suspicious tone returning to his voice.

“You should show them off more. Women like tattoos.”

He rolls his eyes. “I’m not trying to get a woman.”

“You had a woman at your house two weeks ago.” I told his mom about it after he yelled at me for being too loud after neighborhood quiet hours on New Year’s Eve.

“She was a housekeeper,” he says, throwing his free hand up in the air like he’s already had this discussion more times than his patience allows. His gaze narrows on me, like he’s finally putting together how his mom found out about his visitor. “How do you even know that?”

I shrug easily. “I saw her through the windows. I can see straight into your living room from my bathroom.”

He holds my stare for a long minute, and then his lips curl in a slow smile I’ve never seen before. Frankly, it’s disorienting. “I know.”

My breath feels halted in my lungs under the weight of that smirk, so when I speak, my voice comes out thin and raspy. “How do you know that?”

“Because I can see straight into your bathroom from my living room.” He pauses, letting the words sink in. “You should really start closing the blinds when you shower.”

Whatever trance that grin had me in snaps like a broken rubber band. I stare at him, jaw open. “You’re kidding.”

He grins wider. “Do you not understand how windows work, Wren?”

I push up off the hood of my car, rounding toward the door. “I’m leaving.”

“It’s too bad my bathroom faces Mrs. Sputniski’s house, or you’d know just where those tattoos stop,” he hollers as I slide into the driver’s seat.

“Goodbye, Holden,” I say, slamming my door closed and backing out of my little haven that now feels tainted. He’s still smirking when I turn onto the main road, and I can feel it lingering in the back of my mind like an earworm.

That night, I make sure to shut the blinds in my bathroom.

Saturdaynightsarereservedfor family dinners. For as long as I can remember, we’ve gathered around my mom’s scarred wooden dining table. Mom worked a lot when we were kids, raising Finley and me on her own, but she always took Saturday nights off. That was our time, carved in stone.

Music is playing when I let myself in the front door. Frank Sinatra, which means Mom is making some kind of pasta. She likes to listen to music reflecting whatever she’s cooking—says it puts her in the mood.

It’s something my best friend, Grey, has found charming since he started coming around in high school, and by that time, it was so ingrained in me that I no longer noticed. At first, I thought he was making fun of me, but then I went to his house and saw that my happy-go-lucky best friend lived in a silent, beige cookie-cutter home and spent most nights eating a microwave dinner in his bedroom. It gave me a new appreciation for my loud, sometimes obnoxious upbringing, even if I do need a couple of hours to decompress after the noise and stimulation of a family gathering.

From the foyer, I can hear Grey and Finley arguing. My mom’s laughter at their antics rings out, and June’s high-pitched giggle follows a moment later. I’ve missed my daughter today. Saturdays are typically reserved for the two of us, since she stays the night with my mom after family dinner, but Finley begged for a girls’ day with her, which is how I ended up at the overlook. With Wren.

I’m still not entirely sure what happened there. One moment she was driving me crazy, and the next, I was admitting that I have, on occasion, seen into her bathroom. Never on purpose, and I’ve never lingered, but she really needs to close the blinds.

Shaking myself from the way my thoughts are headed, I make my way into the kitchen.

“Daddy!” June yells, launching herself at me. “Aunt Finley put pink in my hair.”

It’s then that I notice the strip of pink hidden in June’s wild, knotted curls. My head snaps up to look at Finley.

She waves me off from where she’s sitting at the counter, seltzer in hand. “It’s not permanent.”

I level her with a flat glare. “From here on out, consult me before making changes to my daughter’s appearance.”

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