Trouble (Dogwood Lane #3)(44)

“He sounds nice.”

“He was a cool guy.”

It’s my turn to gaze across the grass as I wonder what my life would’ve turned out like had he not passed away when he did. He was my rock, my shield when things were bad, my guidepost for how I wanted to live my life. I loved going to his house. There was a feeling I’d get as soon as I walked in the door. It might’ve just been a slight buzz from the cigar smoke, if that’s possible, but it was the only place I could really let my guard down. I didn’t have to watch my back or brace for the possibility of a fight breaking out.

I wonder if he’d be proud of me. If he’d look at how I’ve turned out and think I didn’t do too badly.

I hope so.

Avery shifts her weight, running her fingers through her hair. The motion flips my attention back to her.

“Was the fish your first tattoo?” she asks.

“Nah.” I hold my arm out again and rotate it back and forth. “The skull was my first one. Got it when I was sixteen, in Daniel Layman’s garage.”

She makes a face. “Um, was that safe?”

“Probably not. But you have to start somewhere, right? And my mom wouldn’t sign off for me yet, said it was a step closer to becoming my father.” I watch as she bends down and picks up a broken acorn. “What’s your mom like?”

“My mom was a bit of a . . . What did you call me the other day? A fun-sucker?” She laughs, throwing the acorn across the field. “My mom was the ultimate fun-sucker.”

I join in her laughter. Our voices mix together in the easiest way. I like the sound of it. It does something in my chest that I’d rather not explore.

“The star was my first legal tattoo,” I say before I can freak myself out with deep thinking. “Then the rose. The red dye is fading now.” I run a finger over the ink. “I got this one for my mom.”

“That’s really sweet,” she says, grinning softly.

“Yeah, well, it’s probably sweeter than she actually was.” I kick a rock as we walk again. I think about my mom and how hard it must’ve been for her to be married to Dad. “Maybe that’s not fair.”

“What’s not fair?”

I stop walking. “My mom had a lot of shit to deal with. My dad wasn’t around much, and when he was, it was complete chaos. People in and out of the house. Drugs. He’d get pissed and just whack you across the face.” I cringe, the sting of his hand fresh against my cheek. “It was a hell of a life.”

“Penn,” she says with a gulp, “I’m so sorry.”

She looks at me with wide eyes that are full of concern. I stare at her, absorbing the fact that I just shared that . . . and that she cares. Both are so out of the ordinary that it takes a full few seconds for me to accept reality.

“I never would’ve thought you had that experience,” she says softly. “You’re so . . . kind. It’s hard to imagine someone like you coming out so . . . good . . . after going through all that.”

“I can’t say it didn’t have an effect on me. I’m sure it did. I’m sure a lot of my fuckups are because of how I grew up.”

She places a hand on my arm. Her eyes shine in a way that makes it feel like we’re the only two people in the world. “Anyone would be affected by that. Hell, I’ve had years of therapy because of my parents, and they weren’t physically abusive.”

“Everyone has shit to deal with, right?”

“I guess so.”

We start to walk again. Crickets chirp beside us as the air begins to cool. There’s a steadiness, a peace, even, that descends around the two of us as we venture farther from the house.

“Tell me something,” she says. “Whatever you want. Tell me about another tattoo.”

“Well,” I say, searching my arm for something to show her, “this one I got on vacation when I was eighteen. I don’t know why I thought a sea turtle was a grand idea, but there you have it.” I run my hand over my skin, skipping over the pair of dice on my forearm, and land on the cross. “This one is to remind me that God is always watching.”

“I like that.”

“Me too.”

She tucks her chin and stays a step ahead of me as we wander through the grass. It feels good to do this with another person, to talk about things with someone who just might give a damn. And with someone who doesn’t expect a joke to be cracked.

“Do you have any tattoos?” I ask.

“Um . . . yeah.” She looks at me in an almost panic before ripping her eyes away just as quickly. “I got one to rebel against my mother, actually. Like you.”

She searches my eyes—for what, I’m not quite sure. I let her see what she wants to see because I have nothing to hide. I wait for her to say something, to tell me what she was looking for, but she doesn’t.

We stop in the middle of the field. The final rays of the sun shine down on us almost like a spotlight. I want to reach out and touch her, to feel her skin against me. But I’m afraid that if I do, she’ll look at me like she did today when we kissed.

That’s never happened to me before. Usually, if a girl initiates a kiss, she’s all in. Or at least in for a good make-out session, and she certainly doesn’t pull away like she’s just done some tragic thing. It was like a punch in the stomach, and not for the reasons I imagined it would be. I figured my ego would be a little sore. Fuck my ego. I was worried something was wrong with her and it was my fault.