by Cole Gibsen
Her eyes drop to her arm and the tattoo hidden beneath her sleeve. “Right. The tattoo.” I might be wrong, but I think I hear a touch of disappointment in her voice.
“Tattoo?” Chris asks. “What tattoo?”
I ignore him. “Anyway, I can finish it tonight if you can make it in.” The sooner I get it done, the sooner I can get her out of my head.
“Yeah, okay.” Ash nods and a strand of her hair tumbles forward, hiding her face.
It takes nearly all of my willpower not to reach forward and tuck it behind her ear.
Chris stands so suddenly, the feet of his chair scrape against the concrete. “What fucking tattoo?” he shouts.
Ash shrinks against the chair.
My body tenses and I lift my chin. “Easy, buddy.”
“Don’t call me buddy, you piece of white trash.” His nostrils flare and he whirls on Ash. “What the hell are you thinking getting another tattoo? Do you want to end up looking like this trailer park loser? What will people think?”
I slowly ease myself in front of Ash, pressing my fist against my palm, cracking my knuckles. My arms actually ache with the desire to hit him, but with Harper in the car, I can’t risk it. “They’d think she’s her own person, not an object for some asshole to sign his name on.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” Chris asks.
Ash stands and moves to my side. “It means we’re over, Chris.”
His face softens. “You don’t mean that. You’re upset. You’re not thinking clearly.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “For the first time ever, I think I’m starting to figure things out.” She thrusts the puppy into my arms. Startled, I hold his wagging body close to my chest. “Watch Hank for me,” she tells me. “I’m going inside to get a to-go box. I am eating my fucking lunch—just not here.” She turns to Chris. “When I get back, a green fucking sweater better be right there.” She points to his vacated chair. “And you better not be.”
Before either of us can reply, she turns on her heel and marches toward the restaurant.
“That’s not the Ashlyn I know,” Chris mutters between clenched teeth. “Whoever the fuck that is, you can keep her.”
I can’t fight off the grin pulling at my lips. “Something tells me I’m getting the better deal.”
Chapter Thirteen
Ashlyn
With my green sweater slung over my shoulder and Hank cradled in my arms, I get out of my car, but I’m in no hurry to go inside my apartment and deal with the mess sure to be waiting for me.
Instead, I sit down in a shady grassy area just outside the main apartment doors and unhook Hank’s leash. He bounds around me, hopping and rolling in the grass. The sight of the tumbling puppy brings a smile to my face—no one deserves to be leashed all the time.
Despite his new freedom, Hank never strays more than a few feet from where I sit. He finds a stick and lays beside me to chew on it. While he’s occupied, I open my to-go box and finish my sandwich. The bread’s a little soggy, but it sure beats the instant mac and cheese I’d planned on eating.
As I open the bag of chips, my mind drifts to my earlier encounter with Lane and the way my breath caught in my throat at the sight of his muscles rippling beneath his T-shirt as he approached my table—muscles I’d traced with my fingertips only the night before.
A shiver courses down my body, and I quickly grab the pickle spear out of the box and tear into it. I hate that even the memory of Lane can raise my body temperature. It’s so stupid. Of all the guys to get under my skin, why is it the one I know is the least good for me? Like Emily said, I should leave him alone—which I plan on doing the second my tattoo is finished.
I gather my trash, stand, and brush the grass from my jeans. If I hurry and get the apartment cleaned, I might have time to go to the coffee shop to get some writing done before I have to meet Lane. Because that’s what I need to do—focus on the things I want, like getting my poetry published, and not the things that are so obviously bad for me, like Lane.
I call Hank over with a pat on my leg. Once I’ve gathered him in my arms, I open the main door to the apartment. If I want to write today, there’s no delaying the inevitable.
Hank squirms when I enter the long hallway, as if he doesn’t want to be here anymore than I do.
“Don’t worry,” I tell him. “We’re not staying long.” Our apartment is one of the last ones down the hall. As we draw closer to the door, I notice an overweight bald man crouched outside doing something to the knob with a power tool.
“Hey!” I quicken my pace to a jog. I’ve already been robbed once. I don’t need it happening again. “Stop! What are you doing?”
The guy turns to face me and it’s then I notice the nametag sewn on the front of his blue shirt. He has a grease-stained tool belt strapped to his hips. “I’m replacing the locks.” His eyes narrow on the puppy in my arms. “You know there’re no dogs allowed in the building.”
I ignore him, as dread swells inside my stomach. “Why are you changing the locks? Did someone break in?”
“Naw.” He lines the drill up with the screws. “It’s policy to change the locks after an eviction.”
I nearly laugh in relief as I place my hand on the doorknob, blocking him. “We haven’t been evicted. You must have the wrong apartment.”
The guy huffs and pulls a square of paper from his pocket. He unfolds it and his eyes scan the page before he holds it out for me to see. “Nope. Apartment 32A. Says so right here.” He thrusts it close to my face. It smells like cigarettes. “Says you were given your notice thirty days ago.”
No. That can’t be right. I feel as if the floor has disappeared from under me, and I’m suddenly plummeting through the earth. Hank whimpers and I tighten my hold to keep him from slipping through my arms. “I never saw an eviction notice,” I say.
The guy flips the sheet over. “Says here it was delivered to a Selena Garcia. She hasn’t paid rent in three months.”
My knees wobble and I lean against the wall before they can give out. “B-but that can’t be right. I’ve given her rent money for the last two months!”
“That may be,” the guy says, folding the paper and cramming it back inside his pocket, “but she hasn’t been paying it.”
This can’t be happening to me. Not again. My eyes burn hot with fresh tears. I set Hank down and press my palms against my eyes to keep the tears from falling. A sob wells inside my throat and I struggle to swallow it down. “What am I supposed to do now?” I mumble.
The maintenance guy must hear me, because his face softens. “Look, I’m not really supposed to do this, but I can give you thirty minutes to grab whatever stuff you can, okay?”
It’s not a solution, but at least it’s something. I bring my arms to my side and manage a weak smile. “Thanks.”
The man brings the screw gun to the doorknob. After several metallic screeches, the knob falls off the door. It lands next to the fallen screws. He fiddles with the inner workings of the lock and, a second later, the door opens.
He gestures me forward. “I’ll wait out here.”
I nod, grateful for the privacy should I suffer another breakdown. I step inside the small kitchen and, as expected, it’s a mess. Hank follows at my heels, rising up on his hind feet to sniff at the empty beer bottles and fast food wrappers lining the counters. Only this time, the dirty dishes are absent from the sink. I open several cabinets to find all the dishes missing, as well as the food—even the instant mac, Cheerios, and ramen noodles belonging to me.
I step around the corner into the living room. The couches and television are missing, liquor bottles and ashtrays are scattered across the floor in their place. It’s apparent Selena knew this was coming, but having spent my rent money on God knows what, she didn’t have the decency to let me know.
I turn away from the living room and walk to my room. I press my hand against the door and it swings inward. There’s a gash in the doorframe where the lock was kicked throu
gh. The dresser and mattress, the only furniture in the room, are gone. This doesn’t bother me, as they weren’t mine to begin with. What does is the fact my clothes look like they’ve been dumped from the drawer into a pile on the floor.
The edge of my notebook sticks out from beneath a pair of my jeans. This time I’m not worried about my tip money being stolen, as I’ve learned to keep it hidden in my car. I realize, though, this means I won’t ever get back the full amount taken from me—which leaves me a long way from having enough money to get my own place.
Once again, I’m homeless.
The realization falls heavy on my shoulders, and I sink to my knees on the thin carpet. Still, I will myself to hold back the tears. I can’t break down, not here, not when I have so little time to get the rest of my things out. The breakdown will have to wait. I don’t have a bag, so I gather as many of my clothes as I can hold and carry them out to my car.
The maintenance man is outside smoking a cigarette as I throw my clothes into the trunk. He frowns, watching me. “Do you, uh, need any help?” he asks.
“That’s okay,” I say as I walk back to the apartment for another load. I want to hold onto what little pride I have left, and there’s no dignified way to let a strange man grab fistfuls of your underwear.
Hank’s belongings are already in my car, so it only takes me a couple trips to carry out the rest of my clothes, my notebooks, the few toiletries I have in the bathroom, and my pillow and blanket. When I’m finished, I shut the back passenger door to my Jetta and stare at my car. This is it. My entire life is reduced to the contents of a trunk and backseat. I’m completely packed, but literally have nowhere to go.
The tears that I’ve been fighting for the last half hour finally break free. I want to punch something, to let loose the scream swelling inside my chest. This isn’t how my life is supposed to go. Once I escaped the hold of my stepdad, things were supposed to get better, but here I am, with a puppy, a pile of clothes, no food, and nowhere to live.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and stare at the screen. Both Chris and my mom offered me a place to stay, but I know in reality they’re offering me a choice between two cages. For a brief second, I consider calling Emily, but her apartment is too small for more than one person, and it’s not like our friendship is on the level where I can ask to crash on her couch for—God, I have no idea how long it’s going to take me to find a new place.
I pick up Hank and climb inside the car. After placing him on the passenger seat, I stick the key in the ignition, but don’t turn it. I know I can’t stay here—but where can I go? I have my tattoo appointment this evening, so I can’t drive around town all day and waste gas. I wrack my brain for a solution, but nothing comes to mind.
I pull a wad of napkins from my glove box and wipe the tear streaks from my eyes. God, I can’t even remember the last time I went a whole day without crying and I hate it. I hate that tears have become as much a part of my daily routine as brushing my teeth. The only thing that’s changed is the reason why I cry. First it was because I was a treated like a prisoner inside my own home and, when I finally broke free, I cried because I no longer had a home.
Pathetic, my stepdad’s voice whispers inside my head. With a gasp, I pull the napkins from my face. I meet my own eyes in the review mirror. I am not pathetic, nor am I defeated. I dig my nails into the tear-soaked napkin and rip it into strips. I’ve survived worse, and I’ll survive this.
Hank whines at me from the passenger seat.
I toss the ribbons of napkin into the side door compartment, reach over, and pet Hank’s head. “I’m scared, too,” I tell him. “Just give me a little time, okay? I’m sure we can figure this out.”
I turn the key in the ignition and pull out of the parking spot. When I reach the edge of the lot, I flick on my blinker and make a left toward Lane’s tattoo studio. My appointment isn’t for several hours, but I’m pretty sure there’s a park nearby where I can let Hank run around while I figure out my next move.
My fingers are tight on the wheel and my gaze locked on the road as I drive. I refuse to look in the review mirror. I promise myself I won’t look back.
I won’t ever look back.
Chapter Fourteen
Lane
Harper sits in my tattoo chair, humming another one of her damned boy band songs while I finish up another Sharpie-drawn tattoo on her forearm. Only this time, because I’m working, the song doesn’t make me want to grind my teeth. That’s why I love drawing so much, be it with a needle or pen—I can lose myself in the slope of lines and wash of color. Nothing can touch me there, not boy band music, fourth-grade science projects, or thoughts of making out with mentally unstable girls.
The memory of Ash’s lips, hot on my skin, flashes through my mind and the pen slips. “Goddamn it,” I murmur.
“Uh-oh, Dad.” Harper grins. “That’s five dollars for the swear jar.”
In an attempt to watch my language around Harper, I instituted a swear jar policy several months ago. If things keep going the way they are, we’re going to have enough money for our Disney vacation by the end of the year.
The front door jingles, and every muscle in my body goes rigid. I say a silent prayer Ashlyn isn’t early. I refuse to let my hormones betray me like they did last night. Which is why I need to get my shit together before I face her again. Thank God, after tonight she’ll be out of my life, and out of my head, forever.
“Where’s my favorite niece?” my sister calls before pushing the curtain aside.
“Aunt Em!” Harper jumps out of the chair and wraps her arms around Emily’s waist as I cap the Sharpie in my hand.
“Who’s ready for a sleepover?” Emily asks. “I have popcorn, candy, and tons of movies. We can stay up all night.”
I grunt. “If all night is ten o’clock.”
Emily makes a face. “Just because your dad doesn’t know how to have fun, he thinks no one else should, either.”
I swallow my response—that it’s kind of hard to have fun when you’re a parent at sixteen—because I don’t want Harper to think I blame her. Instead, I silently glare at my sister until she eventually looks away.
“Where are your things?” she asks Harper.
My daughter is bouncing on her toes. “I’ll go get them.” She brushes past the curtain to where I tucked her overnight bag beneath the counter.
Once she’s out of sight, Em turns to me with an impish grin. “According to Mom, you’ve been working late quite a bit this week. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you have a hot date.”
I roll my eyes as I turn to shove the Sharpies back inside their container. “But you do know better, don’t you? I don’t date.”
The smile melts off her face. “Geez, Lane. How long are you going to make yourself suffer for a mistake you made as a kid?”
Anger flashes through me, and I whirl on her. “First of all, that was the best mistake I ever made. I am the father of a fucking amazing kid. Second, I’m not punishing myself. I’m protecting her. Harper’s mother was a psycho bitch in a world full of psycho bitches. Why on earth would I risk subjecting my daughter to another woman like that? Why would I invite someone into our lives only to have her walk out on us? How could I do that to Harper again?”
Emily sighs and flops into the chair abandoned by Harper. “Yes, there may be plenty of psychos in the sea, but there are also good, decent women, too. You’re doing Harper no favors by putting off your own happiness.”
“Don’t you get it?” The markers rattle as I slam the box against the counter. Nothing pisses me off like when my sister becomes a know-it-all. “When you become a parent the only thing that matters is your kid’s safety and happiness. Relationships bring risk, and I won’t do anything to hurt my daughter if I can avoid it. If protecting Harper means I’m going to be a hermit for the rest of my life, I’ll do it—I’ll do anything for her.”
Again I think about the night with Ashlyn when I almost lost control, and a hot wave of
shame washes over me. I won’t allow myself to be weak again.
Harper pushes the curtain aside, her backpack slung over her shoulder. There’s a strange expression on her face, which makes me wonder if she heard what I was talking about.
I turn away. I don’t want to discuss my dating life with my daughter any more than I do with my sister.
The vinyl chair creaks behind me as Emily slides off. “Ready to go, girlfriend?”
“Yeah,” Harper answers. Behind me, the sounds of her footsteps approach. Seconds later, her small arms slide around my neck. “I love you, Daddy,” she whispers in my ear.
As if by magic, the knots wound into my muscles slowly unwind. “Love you, too, babe.”
Her arms slip from my neck. “I don’t want you to be lonely anymore. One of these days I’ll have to go to college and then I won’t be able to take care of you. Then you’ll be all by yourself.”
The shock of her words freezes me in place. Seconds later, when the air returns to my lungs and I can finally move, I turn to see that she’s already left, leaving me exactly as she said she would: completely by myself.
A half hour later, the door chimes. I push the curtain aside and walk to the front of the shop. Ashlyn stands in the foyer, her long hair in a loose braid that tumbles over her shoulder. The haunted look is back in her eyes and it tugs at me. Immediately my body tenses with an ache to go to her, to touch her, and pull her against me.
I ball my hands into fists and shove them into my pockets. Fucking pheromones, or hormones, or whatever the hell it is that draws me to her. I’m stronger than that—I have to be.
She’s holding the leash of the puppy she had at the restaurant. His nose is to the floor and he’s circling her ankles as he sniffs. She bites her lip and motions to the dog. “I’m sorry. Is this okay? I didn’t know what else to do with him.”
A sort of nervous tension hangs in the air between us. But it’s not strong enough to keep either of us, or both of us, from crossing over. Just looking at her, smelling her damn apple perfume, makes my fingers itch to reach for her.
