Never Never (Never Never #1)(32)

We start walking toward the street musician who is playing something slow and mournful.

“Sounds like the breaking of the curse is mostly up to the guy,” Silas says. “He needs to mean something to her.”

“Yeah…” My voice drops off as we stop to listen. I wish I knew the song he was playing. It sounds like something I’ve heard, but I have no name for it.

“There’s a girl,” I say softly. “I want to talk to her…I think maybe she knows something. A few people have referred to her as The Shrimp.”

Silas’s eyebrows draw together. “What do you mean? Who is she?”

“I don’t know. She’s in a couple of my classes. It’s just a feeling.”

We stand among a group of onlookers, and Silas reaches for my hand. For the first time, I don’t pull away from him. I let his warm fingers intertwine with mine. With his free hand, he takes a picture of the violinist, then he looks down at me. “So I can remember the first time I held your hand.”

We’ve walked two blocks and she hasn’t let go of my hand yet. I don’t know if it’s because she likes holding it, or if it’s because Bourbon Street is…well...

“Oh, God,” she says, turning toward me. She fists my shirt in her hand and presses her forehead against my arm. “That guy just flashed me,” she says, laughing into the sleeve of my shirt. “Silas, I just saw my first penis!”

I laugh as I continue steering her through the inebriated crowd of Bourbon Street. After walking a ways, she peeks up again. We’re now approaching an even larger group of belligerent men, all without shirts. In the place of shirts are mounds of beads draped around their necks. They’re all laughing and screaming at the people perched on the balconies above us. She squeezes my hand tighter until we’ve successfully navigated through them. She relaxes and puts more space between us.

“What’s with the beads?” she asks. “Why would anyone spend money on such tacky jewelry?”

“It’s part of the Mardi Gras tradition,” I tell her. “I read about it when I was researching Bourbon Street. It started as a celebration for the last Tuesday before Lent, but I guess it’s turned into a year-round thing.” I pull her against my side and point down to the sidewalk in front of her. She sidesteps around what looks like puke.

“I’m hungry,” she says.

I laugh. “Stepping over vomit made you hungry?”

“No, vomit made me think of food and food made my stomach growl. Feed me.” She points to a restaurant up the street. The sign is flashing in red neon. “Let’s go there.”

She steps ahead of me, still gripping my hand. I glance down at my phone and follow her lead. I have three missed calls. One from “Coach,” one from my brother, and one from “Mom.”

It’s the first time I’ve thought about my mother. I wonder what she’s like. I wonder why I haven’t met her yet.

My whole body crashes into the back of Charlie’s after she stops short to let a vehicle pass. Her hand flies up to the back of her head where my chin smashed against it. “Ouch,” she says, rubbing her head.

I rub my chin and watch from behind her as she pushes her hair forward, over her shoulder. My eyes fall to the tip of what appears to be a tattoo peeking out from the back of her shirt.

She begins walking again, but I grab her shoulder. “Wait,” I tell her. My fingers trail to the collar of her shirt and I pull it down a couple of inches. Right below the nape of her neck is a small silhouette of trees in black ink. I run my fingers over their outline. “You have a tattoo.”

Her hand flies to the spot I’m touching. “What?!” she shrieks. She spins around and looks up at me. “I do not.”

“You do.” I turn her back around and pull the shirt down again. “Here,” I say as I trace the trees again. This time I notice as chills break out on her neck. I follow the line of tiny bumps with my eyes, running over her shoulder and hiding beneath her shirt. I look back at the tattoo again, because her fingers are now attempting to feel what I’m feeling. I take two of them and press them against her skin. “A silhouette of trees,” I tell her. “Right here.”

“Trees?” she says, cocking her head to the side. “Why would I have trees?” She turns around. “I want to see it. Take a picture with your phone.”

I pull her shirt down enough so that she can see the entire tattoo, even though it’s no more than three inches wide. I brush her hair over her shoulder again, not for the sake of the picture, but because I’ve really been wanting to do that. I also reposition her hand so that it’s coming across the front of her body, draping over her shoulder.

“Silas,” she grumbles. “Just take the damn picture. This isn’t art class.”

I grin and wonder if I’m always like this—if I refuse to take a simple picture, knowing it only takes a little bit more effort to make it exceptional. I bring the phone up and snap the picture, then look at the screen, admiring how good the tattoo looks on her. She spins around and takes the phone from my hands.

She looks down at the picture and gasps. “Oh my God.”

“It’s a very nice tattoo,” I tell her. She hands me back my phone and rolls her eyes, walking again in the direction of the restaurant.