The Anatomical Shape of a Heart(22)

“You feel like eating?” Jack asked.

“Not sure if I want to tempt fate.” I really wasn’t sure, and there were no menus anywhere in sight, but that didn’t stop Jack. He ordered “Moorish tea service with extra dates” and an additional pot of some kind of Japanese-sounding tea. I set my red bag down and took off my jacket while he shrugged out of his. Beneath it, he wore a heathery plaid shirt with short sleeves rolled up several inches above his elbow. And if I’d thought his hands were beautiful, his arms were stunning. Nothing but muscle. Not beefy varsity football player mass, but lean and ropey. And covering that muscle was brightly colored ink that started right above his elbows and disappeared under his shirtsleeves.

The handful of tattoos I’d spotted on seniors in my school were boring or dumb—fake tribal crap and band logos. Or hand-me-down flash art they’d picked from grimy sheets in tattoo shops ten minutes before they got inked. But just below Jack’s sleeves, a graceful vermilion fishtail swam in a sea of teal water on one arm, and a richly textured Japanese-style flower wrapped around the other. They looked like paintings come to life, vibrant and detailed and beautiful.

Do not stare.…

He was listening to Star call out a question about the order, so I gestured toward the door across the hall and darted inside the ladies’ room to wash my hands and rinse my mouth out again. After wishing I’d brought along lip gloss, I took a deep breath and rejoined him. He was standing, waiting for me, and seemed to be relieved when I came back, like he expected me to bolt or something. Too late for that.

We sat cross-legged on the floor cushions and leaned back on pillows against the wall. For a few moments, it was awkward and silent. In my defense, I was out of my element, but I wasn’t sure what his excuse was—or why he was wiping his hands on his jeans. He seemed too cocky to be nervous. But one of us had to say something, so I took the short straw.

“This is crazy,” I said, looking out over the lounge through the gauzy curtain. “Sort of puts most coffeehouses to shame.”

“Right? I love it here. The Zen Center has better matcha, but I’m there all the time, so it’s not as special.”

I had no idea what matcha was, but I’d heard of the Zen Center. “What do you do there? I mean, I’m guessing you don’t sing hymns and listen to sermons.”

He shook his head. “I usually go to a weekly zazen session—that’s seated meditation.”

“The breathing thing.”

“Well, it’s more than just that, but yes. And they offer a lot of classes, so sometimes I sign up for ones that interest me. Oh, and I volunteer at the City Center Bookstore a couple of days a week.”

“Volunteer? As in no paycheck?”

He shrugged. “I don’t mind. It was worse during school, because I had to work Saturday mornings. But for the summer, I’m only there a few hours in the afternoon on Wednesdays and Fridays. I usually work with my friend Andy. We’re doing a graphic novel together. He’s the artist. I write and do the lettering.”

“Cool. You do it all by hand?”

“Mostly, though some of the captions I do digitally, but I design all the fonts.”

Ooh. Now all the Golden Apple graffiti words made more sense. I guess he saw the realization on my face, because he gave me a sheepish smile.

“It’s what I do,” he said. “Just words. I’m good at layout and design, but unlike you, I’m total shit at drawing people.”

He had an art thing. I had an art thing. I smiled, ridiculously happy about this.

“Did you design your tattoos?”

He ran his hand over the fish, pulling his sleeve up for a better view. The bright ink covered every inch of his biceps and stopped just above his shoulder. Half sleeves. Not a haphazard amalgamation of little tattoos inked one at a time, but an entire painting. “No. A local tattoo artist.”

“It’s stunning work.” And had probably cost him a small fortune. Not to mention that he wasn’t eighteen yet, so it wasn’t exactly legal. “A koi?”

“Siamese fighting fish,” he said with a shy smile. “That’s a fancy name for a betta. I love fish. Oh, and that’s a Buddhist prayer wheel turning the water. And here on the other arm is a lotus design.”

He twisted to show me, and I leaned closer to smell him—I mean, to get a better look—okay, and to smell him, because holy cow. His scent and body and the pink lotus blooming in a spring-green spray of stalks were all … intoxicating.

“It’s so beautiful,” I murmured. I heard his breathing change and suddenly realized I’d been leaning over him a little too long. I awkwardly withdrew and felt my cheeks heating.

“I’m terrible at design,” I said quickly, fumbling to focus on anything but how embarrassed I was. “And I’m not creative—I mean, not in a cool way. I used to paint, but color overwhelms me now. Maybe my tastes have changed over the last couple of years—I don’t know. It’s easier when I leave emotion out of it and just focus on line and shadow. I like things to be…” I use my hands to make a box shape on the table.

“Structured?”

“Yeah. I guess I’m a color-inside-the-lines girl. Worse, really—I’d rather shade inside the lines with a nice, light 4H pencil. Something dark like a 5B or 6B? That’s me going nuts.”