She curls onto her side to face me—but she doesn’t relinquish my hand. “Famous? Do tell.”
“You’re a legend. Everyone watched you with Tiffany, knew you wanted to lash out at her, but you kept your cool and asked your questions in a calm, serial-killer kind of way, always rolling with the punches.”
“Well, I learned from the best. My father was a different man for different people. His way of ensuring everyone loved him, I guess, and gave him whatever he wanted. No one saw the monster lurking under his smile.” She traces her thumb over my palm. “You’re good at what you do, too. And vicious. You go for the kill shot every time, without hesitation. It’s poetry in motion.”
“Yeah, well, you do this cool wrist thing that turns your swords into a pair of scissors. Your every motion is fluid. I do it, and I look like a three-year-old trying to cut along the lines.”
“You never miss a shot,” she says. “Sometimes I have to readjust my aim.”
“You aren’t afraid of needles. I see one, and I start crying like a baby.”
“I’ve never seen you cry.”
“It’s on the inside.”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, your tattoos are awesome.”
I rub the one in the center of my chest. The heart I continually add to as my friends die. “Your tattoos far surpass awesome. I know you did the compass, but what about the others?”
“I did the ones I could reach. River did the rest.”
Dude. “I know who will be giving me my next one. Hint—her name starts with Milla and ends with Marks.”
“No way. The only other person I’ve ever tattooed is River, and only because he can fix everything I mess up.”
“Flaws are human,” I tell her. “I like flaws.”
Her smile returns, slow and bright. “I always liked to draw, and one day River decided he wanted a tattoo. He stole the equipment and had me practice on oranges. When he decided I was good enough, he asked me to cover some of his scars.”
Scars caused by their shit excuse for a dad. “Why Betrayal?”
She hesitates. “It’s a reminder that the cost of betrayal is far too high.”
Yes. Always. “Why the pink ribbon on your foot?”
An air of sadness overtakes her. “As a little girl, Caro and I... We...” Her chin trembles. “I loved to dance.”
Treading carefully, purposely keeping my tone light, I say, “You can talk to me about her. I’ll never use her against you.”
She stiffens, sighs. “I forget you saw her death. But it’s hard, you know. I want to honor her, but even saying her name fills me with guilt and regret. I didn’t protect her.”
“You were a child.”
“I could have told someone what was happening.”
“You were scared.”
“And that fear cost me dearly. When she died, a part of me died with her. The best part. Her part. She made me whole. Now I’m only half a human, if that makes any sense.”
“The guilt and regret belong to your father, sweet pea, not you.”
“Easy to say, harder to accept.”
I tighten my hold on her hand, letting her know I’m here, I’m not going anywhere.
“We wanted to be ballerinas, but we couldn’t afford lessons. And even if we could, we couldn’t have gone because, from the shoulders down, we were always covered in bruises. The pink ribbon reminds me of her, of our dream. To always hope for something better.”
I smooth the hair from her cheek. “No one ever noticed, stepped in and tried to help you?”
“We moved around a lot. Mom homeschooled us until she took off. And we wore long sleeves all year round, even during the hottest part of summer. No one ever asked why.”
I’m a no-good piece of shit. This girl has been to hell and back—multiple times—and I have only ever added to her problems.
“Why a compass?” I run my thumb over her wrist, surprised when her pulse jumps up to greet me. “To find your way?”
“Exactly.”
I trace my fingers over a beautifully detailed dove. “And this?”
“You’re familiar with Scripture, I’m guessing. You wear the Lord’s Prayer.”
“I am, and I do.” Before she died, Cole’s mom took us to church every Sunday. I saw—see—so much of myself in our lessons. Good versus evil. Dark versus light. Hope versus defeat. Forgiveness versus resentment. “The dove represents love, joy, kindness, patience and peace.”
“That’s right. I thought if I couldn’t have those things in real life, I could have them in my skin.” She scoots a little closer. “What about your parents?”
“I don’t know my biological parents. I was adopted as a kid, and my parents loved me, they just weren’t equipped to deal with someone like me. A little wild—”