by Dawn Metcalf
“Did you check out that Dare to Tread book I told you about?” Stef asked. “It’s got a lot of great places that are off the beaten path.”
Joy slammed down her knife and glared at her brother, falling right back into that pit of fear that always burned at the bottom of her stomach: that little-kid hurt of finding out only after the fact that she was the last to know everything.
“Wait a minute. How long has Stef known about this?” she asked.
“We had to schedule things around Stef’s arrival,” Dad soothed. “We wanted him to be home for you before we took off.”
Joy slapped down her napkin. “What? Now I need a babysitter?” she asked. “I’m seventeen years old and have been practically on my own for years!”
“Oh, for Pete’s sakes, Joy—” Dad began.
Stef reached for more potatoes. “I’m not babysitting you, so you can quit acting like a baby.”
“I’m not!”
“You are.”
Dad sighed at Shelley. “Did I mention peace and quiet? Less than twenty-four hours and it’s like they’re nine and twelve all over again.” He speared a cube of feta cheese, then pointed it at each of them. “But here’s the difference—I can legally leave the two of you behind as semiresponsible semiadults without the authorities breathing down my neck. So don’t make me regret taking this time for myself and don’t make me think twice, or so help me, I’ll find a way to ground both of you for the rest of the summer. Do I make myself clear?”
Joy and Stef both chewed in their seats.
“Say, ‘Yes, Dad,’” he commanded.
“Yes, Dad,” they said.
“Good. And be sure to call your mother at least once a week. Now pass the chicken.”
Stef lifted the plate obligingly. “You started it,” he fake-coughed into his elbow.
A smirk pulled on Joy’s lips. She tried fighting it and failed. She wiped her lips.
“Did not,” she whispered behind her napkin.
“Did, too.”
“Dork.”
“Dweeb.”
“Lord help me,” Dad muttered, fighting his own grin as he sawed with his knife.
Shelley breathed a little easier and patted his arm. “I just love a man who takes charge.”
Her dad blushed as he took a bite.
* * *
Nine o’clock. Dad and Shelley had gone to her apartment to finish packing for their trip, Stef was meeting some friends at the movies, and Joy sat alone in the condo. Surfing the web, listening to music, Joy toodled around waiting for the numbers on the clock to read one-zero-zero-zero.
The wall of her room unfurled, and Ink stepped through.
Joy’s heart thumped as she removed her headphones and clicked off-line.
“Hey,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting you ’til ten.”
Ink slipped his razor past the wallet chain at his hip.
“I couldn’t wait,” he said.
“You ‘couldn’t’?”
Ink shook his head solemnly. One dimpled smirk. “No.”
Two steps and his arms came around her. She curled into his chest. He held her close and stroked her hair, breathing a sound of relief. Joy rocked in his arms, content. He was getting better at hugs. She wondered which of the thirty-six versions this one was.
“I am sorry,” he said past her ear. “About before. I am still...”
“Shh,” she said, squeezing him tighter. “It’s okay.”
“It is not,” he whispered into the crook of her shoulder. She could feel his breath there, warm and gentle and sweet. “But it will be.”
“Yes,” Joy said, touching his face so that she could see him. “And you’re here.”
Ink chuckled despite himself. “Oh, I am very, very here.” He lifted her hand from his cheek, cupping the back of her fingers in his. He inspected each of her fingertips: pink and perfect. A mischievous spark lit his fathomless eyes, and his eyebrows formed a question.
Joy’s heart pounded. This was their game, invented at her kitchen table the first time they’d created his hands based on hers, tracing life lines and heart lines and the intricacies of each other’s skin as they slowly started to become one another’s—hers, his, theirs. She remembered that moment and he saw the memory spark. He smiled wider.
Joy slowly lifted his left hand in hers.
He will be learning about everything, watching you. Joy remembered Inq’s words as she cradled the back of his hand, feeling his eyes on her as she brushed the side of her cheek with his knuckles, feeling the whisper of his skin on hers. He slowly did the same, sliding the back of her fingers against his cheek, smiling back at her. Joy brought his hand to her lips, opened her mouth and breathed slowly into his palm. His fingers twitched. His breath caught in surprise. She glanced up at him through his fingertips, a slow smile on her lips.
He brought her hand gently to his mouth and copied her, breath for breath, exhaling slowly into the cup of her palm. She could feel the warmth pool there and run rivers down her back.
Joy shivered. Ink smiled.
Joy brought his hand closer, tilting it back. Watching him watching her as she touched her lips to the soft inside of his wrist. His whole arm flinched. The sensation skittered over his features. Hot pink fireflies danced in his eyes.
“Can you feel this?” she asked, the words tickling his skin.
“Yes,” he said. He bent his head forward and bent her wrist back. His lips touched the exact same place—the delicate, exposed skin of her wrist. Joy felt his breath hover there, warm and sweet.
“Can you?” he said. “Feel this?”
“Oh yes,” she murmured and slipped her lips along the edge of his palm. She felt him do likewise. Her breath hitched in her throat. She closed her eyes even though she knew Ink still stared, watching her with impish eyes, learning, hungry, eager for more.
She kissed his skin, her tongue barely touching the barest spot on his wrist. He tasted of water. He tasted like rain.
Joy thought she might melt when she felt him do the same.
Warmth slid down her arm and her elbow twitched, a rippling she felt along the edge of her limbs. Her fingers threaded between his, tightening, drawing him closer, moving his entire arm by the wrist. Sliding her bottom lip over the slick spot of her kiss, she felt Ink’s arm stretch, tighten, pull her closer, heard him shudder on the exhale. Joy scraped her bottom teeth over the dip in his palm.
He grabbed her fingers tightly, a groan slipping from his lips. She felt an answering sound somewhere deep in her throat. Joy rolled her head back as she felt his teeth graze her palm. A nip. A bite.
“Ow!”
Ink dropped her hand instantly. He looked worried, flushed.
“Are you hurt?” he asked.
Joy rubbed her wrist. “No,” she said with a chuckle. “You bit me.”
“And that was wrong.”
Joy tried not to laugh too hard. “It was...more than I expected.”
Ink cocked his head to one side. “You bit me first.”
He sat on the edge of her bed, and Joy sat next to him. He took her hand back tenderly and traced his thumb over the spot, soothing it with circular strokes. Joy felt the tensions—both good and bad—pass. Glancing at each other, they both started laughing, transforming two awkward, separate people into “us, together.”
“I am sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be,” she said. “I’m not.”
“I am learning.”
“You are learning.”
A dimple reappeared. “Some things are eagerly taught.”
Joy felt the heat of the blush on her cheeks. Was she supposed to feel wrong for wanting? For showing? Asking? Knowing? Well...she didn’t. So there.
Ink drew his thumb
along the “7” in her palm. “I like what I have learned,” he said. “I like learning with you.”
Joy grinned. “I’ll bet.” She caught his fingers, giving his knuckles a quick kiss. His eyes crinkled in the corners. A second dimple appeared. Joy couldn’t help laughing as her heart skipped a beat. His moods were so honest and wondrous and new. He didn’t make her feel bad for feeling the same.
He rested their hands on his knee, a tangible tangle of Joy and Ink.
“I wanted to see you before I confront the Council,” he said. “I am requesting proof of the Edict and an investigation of the elemental blade. Graus Claude has arranged an audience using his ‘considerable pull,’ which I can only imagine means that he will be asking me for some sort of favor later on that will undoubtedly be steeped in mystery and intrigue as the Bailiwick has a finger in every pie.” Ink rubbed their joined hands against his knee, making his wallet chain jingle. He stared at their fingers. Joy squeezed. He squeezed back. “But I do not want to go. I do not want to leave you.”
“I know.”
“You are safe in your home. The wards...”
Joy smiled again. “I know.”
His eyes lifted, his voice, sincere. “I will be back soon.”
Joy nodded, unblinking. “I’m sure it will only take a moment.”
Ink smiled. “If that.”
He stood, the wallet chain slithering off his hip. Joy untangled her fingers and tugged the edge of his sleeve. She slid her palm over his chest and placed a kiss on his cheek that made him turn and look deeply into her eyes. He kissed her, not quite gently, not quite shyly, a moment that stretched and yielded under their lips. Their mouths lingered, his breath and hers mixed.
“Be well, Joy Malone,” he whispered.
His hand slipped into his back pocket and removed the razor, drawing it swiftly sideways and down. Slicing a hole in the universe, Ink peeled away a flap of nothing at all. He stepped back and disappeared, leaving the tingle of his words still sparking on her lips.
* * *
Antoine’s. Lunch shift.
Joy sniffed her sleeve as she folded napkins around flatware, thankful that Monica had promised to help wash the car that afternoon, something to keep her mind off Ink. Stef had agreed to help, too, on the condition that Joy help him lug Dad’s storage boxes out of his room and into the basement and they’d reward themselves with pizza and gelato all around. It promised to be quite the party once she could get out of here.
“Specials list will be up in five!” someone called from the back.
Joy hurried through her last five sets, knowing she needed enough time to write down the new menu items before they threw open the doors. She dropped the last napkin onto her pile and crowded next to the other servers, furiously scribbling the details of the salade Niçoise and the ingredients in the soup of the day. Food allergies were a server’s worst nightmare.
“Good morning,” Neil said over Joy’s shoulder.
“Good afternoon,” Joy said with a quick smile. “Dine here often?”
Neil laughed. “Listen, about yesterday...”
“No big.” Joy shrugged. “I have a boyfriend.”
“As well as a lovely Bic pen,” Neil said, smoothing away the ripples of an awkward conversation before it started. “Pens are so twentieth century, don’t you think? Observe.” He snapped a photo of the specials board and waggled his smartphone. “Come! Join us in the modern age—half the time at twice the price.”
“That’s brilliant!” Joy said and ran to her purse. Grabbing her phone, she swiped the screen only to feel a large hairline crack under her thumb. A triangular piece of the casing was missing. She could see the silver and green of microchips. “No...” she moaned. “No no no no!” She pressed buttons, tried resetting, nothing. The face stayed blank. It must have broken when she and Ink... Joy blushed at the memory of knocking everything off her bed stand. She remembered hearing something break...
“Argh,” she muttered. Dad and Shelley were leaving in a few hours! No way Dad was going to get her a new phone, and the idea of going two weeks without one was too horrible a fate. Dad might welcome a vacation from technology, but that would be more like a nightmare for Joy. She briefly wondered if she’d bought extra insurance. She’d have to stop by the store later and ask. Joy shuddered at the idea of having to buy a replacement—one more thing she’d have to save up for, not including a glamour for Ink.
Tossing the useless hunk of plastic back into her purse, Joy hurried back to the specials board, whipping out her pen.
“Forgot your phone?” Neil asked.
“I wish,” Joy said, scribbling words like ahi tuna and anchovies and smearing the blue ink. “It’s broken.”
Neil whistled through his teeth. “Sorry. That sucks.”
Joy grumbled and scribbled down the last details as Neil tucked away his cell. He lingered by the board.
“Can I ask you something?” he said.
Joy double-checked the prices. It was a mistake she’d like to make only once this summer. “Yeah, sure.”
“That friend of yours, the one who stopped by the other day? Miss Ice-water-hold-the-glass?”
Suspicion prickled up Joy’s arms. “Yeah?”
“Is she seeing someone?”
Joy laughed. “Um...no. I mean, yes. She’s seeing someone...” Joy thought about the Cabana Boys—Luiz, Tuan, Antony, Enrique, Ilhami and Nikolai, as well as the indomitable Kurt—all hard bodies and exotic faces. Joy was afraid Neil didn’t quite fit the bill. “Um...several someones, in fact.”
Neil raised his eyebrows. “Really?” he said, patting his stiff spikes of hair. He went back to texting and shook his head. “Man,” he whispered under his breath. “That is so hot.”
* * *
Goodbye, Shelley! Goodbye, Dad! Hello title transfer! And now for a hot date with a sponge...
Joy scrubbed the last crusty bits from the windshield. She wasn’t sure if it had been bird poop or squashed bugs from the road, but she planned on throwing the rag in the garbage and soaking her hands in bleach.
“I’m washing it right now,” Joy said into the house phone tucked by her ear. “There are Cheeto stains on the ceiling, Mom. The ceiling!” She sighed in disgust. “Your son is the messiest driver who ever lived.”
“Is he there?” her mom said. “I told him to call as soon as he got there.”
“He went out to get Turtle Wax,” Joy said and wiped her bangs out of her eyes. “Why does anyone need to wax turtles? Their shells are already so shiny.”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” her mom said. “You never had any interest in pets.”
“Does an iPad count as a pet?”
“Har-har. Just tell him to call me later, okay?” she said. “I have to go meet Doug at the gallery. I love you, I’m glad you have a car, I’m proud of you, please remember to eat something that does not have a foil wrapper and—oh, by the way—I love you. Did I mention that already?”
Joy squeezed the rag in her hand. “I love you, too, Mom.”
“Bye, Joy. Hugs to Stef.”
Joy hung up and slipped the phone into the glove compartment to keep it dry. Soapy water ran by her feet and into the gutters, trickling over her toes. She still felt damp after using the hose—Monica and Gordon’s offer to help was much appreciated but also far soggier than she’d anticipated—but they’d agreed that the outside of the car had been a lot easier to clean than the inside. Stef’s car was a free gift in a very smelly wrapper.
They’d attacked the Kia with sharp-smelling fluids and thick, bubbly suds, using rags and old toothbrushes and toothpicks along the seams. They’d played “spray tag” across the backyard, yelling and ducking, before Stef bequeathed the hose to Gordon and ran to the C&P to get more wax. Monica was scrubbing the rear bumper, soaped to the el
bows. Gordon aimed a tight spray near the back wheels.
“Hey!” Monica’s voice spiked from behind the trunk. “If you spray my feet one more time, I swear I’m going to come over there and force-feed you this sponge!”
Gordon fixed Joy with comically wide eyes, then sprayed again. Monica shrieked.
Gordon winked as Joy laughed. “Oops.”
Monica less-than-gracefully stumbled to her feet, her orange tank top soaked over a flower-patterned bra. She threw the sudsy sponge at her boyfriend, which Gordon dodged easily. He sprayed her again in self-defense, laughing and backing up, but not fast enough to avoid getting tackled into the yard. Bits of freshly mowed grass clung to their bodies as they rolled over the hose, fighting for the nozzle and getting drenched. They yelled and squealed as Joy wiped down the side mirrors. She ignored them until she got a cold splash across her back.
“Hey!” she shouted and whipped around. Monica waved a sorry and went back to wrestling her beau.
“Ah, young love,” Stef said, approaching with fresh rags and a plastic bag. “Or, in this case, a mating ritual courting massive allergies.”
Joy picked at her pruney fingers. “Mom called while you were gone. Call her back. There! My deed is done.” She pointed at the bag. “Found the car wax?”
“Yep. Stored cleverly between the rat poison and boxes of cornflakes. Don’t confuse the two.” Stef held up the small red tin. “Okay, so—first we have to rinse all this off, towel it dry and do an even coat of this stuff. Wait an hour—then wipe it off. Not too hard.”
“Says you,” Joy quipped. “My arms are killing me.”
“Oh, please. I’ve seen you flip twenty times in succession to the operetta from The Fifth Element,” Stef said. “Your wimpy arms can take it.”
“Yeah, well, it’s been a while.” She sniffed. “I’m out of practice.”
Stef crossed his arms in his I’m-coaching-you way. It was so familiar, it made Joy’s stomach lurch with performance butterflies; her body psyched up for a Level Nine routine. For a split second, she was back on the mats with a panel of judges, a crowd in the backdrop and her family near the bench. She could feel the air-conditioning, smell the chalk dust and sweat. It was as if she’d been plunged back years at a glance: her brother’s coaching from the sideline.
