Page 29 of Under My Skin

Chapter Twenty-Nine

LUCY

The street in front of Copper Ridge Tattoo Co. isn’t nearly as busy tonight compared to Friday and Saturday. The shop is dark, and it’s almost eerie how quietly it sits after seeing it so full of life the past two days.

Simon finished packing up his room before me, so I told him he could head home. I’m the one who rarely gets the chance to visit with Mom and Dad since he lives here anyway. I wish I could say today’s visit gave me more closure about their separation, but I might be more confused than ever.

Lunch as a family felt almost identical to how it always has.

There was no squabbling, no snide remarks, no resentment.

Just two parents having lunch with their adult children even though they’re about to go their separate ways.

Dad still made terrible jokes, and Mom still shook her head in that affectionate way every time he’d say something ridiculous.

Simon didn’t seem weirded out by any of it, but it all felt fake.

It has to be fake, right? If they really felt so fondly toward one another, they wouldn’t be doing this.

Pushing away the thought, I step down the short alleyway that leads to the back of the shop.

If it wasn’t for Everett’s bike parked here, I’d think the place was empty.

At least the door is unlocked like he said it would be.

“Everett?” I call out to the dark shop floor.

Shuffling comes from above, and I look up to find a faint glow coming from the top of the stairs. “Hey, are you up there?”

“Yeah.” Everett’s gruff voice comes from somewhere up above. “Sorry, I should have left the light on. Come on up.”

Holding the railing, I make my way up the wooden stairs. It isn’t too late, maybe a little after eight, but between the dark shop and the quiet street, it feels closer to midnight. “You said you wanted to run a few things by me?”

As soon as I get to the top of the stairs, I take in the scene in front of me.

One standing lamp in the corner of what will one day be the living room is the only source of light.

Not much has happened over the weekend with construction, but all the drywall is done, and there’s a large patch that’s been painted.

In this lighting, it looks almost black, but I know it’s the dark blue I suggested.

On the floor in front of the wall is brown paper protecting the floor, a small can of sample paint, and a brush. Everett kneels on the floor a few feet away, picking up different papers scattered across the floor, and stacking them back into a shoe box.

“I painted it this morning,” he says without looking up. “Before we went to your parents’ house.”

“Is that where you went so early? To pick up paint?”

Still not looking up from what he’s doing, he shrugs. “I’m always up early.”

Something’s off about him. The calm, easy demeanor that has felt like a beacon for my own chaotic mind is nowhere in sight.

In its place is a frazzled version of Everett.

His dark hair is a little more tousled, his eyes tired, and there’s a six-pack on the floor next to him with one bottle already taken out and open.

“Did everything go okay at your mom’s house?” I might not know much about what he did with the rest of his day, but he wasn’t like this while we were in my room this morning.

Once all the papers and cards are securely back in the box with the lid on it, he sits back against the wall, his elbows resting on his knees. “Yeah.” Reaching for an unopened bottle, he holds it by the neck, offering it in my direction.

“Thanks,” I say as I sit across from him and reach for the beer.

Before I can pull my hand away, his fingers overlap mine, holding the bottle in place.

The warmth of his calloused hand sends a wave of heat through my entire body, but I stay completely still.

With his free hand, he reaches for a bottle opener and pops the top.

It isn’t until he lets go of my fingers around the glass, that I remember how to speak.

“How’s your mom?” I ask hesitantly. It somehow feels like the wrong thing and the only thing to ask.

He picks up the bottle next to him and takes a sip. When he’s done, he doesn’t set it down again. Instead, he lets it hang in the balance of his fingers as he casually rests his elbows on his bent knees. “Good. Fine.” Rubbing his free hand over his face, he adds, “Better now, I think.”

I thumb the label of the beer and nod. “And you?” I glance up to check his reaction.

He holds my stare with the bottle resting at his lips like he was about to take another sip but stopped. “I’ve been better,” he finally says before tossing back the rest of the beer.

My lips settle into a frown, but I don’t say anything. I wait, giving him the chance to elaborate if he wants to.

Eventually, he rubs a hand over his forehead. “I’m sorry. I might have forgotten I told you to come here.”

I blink. “Oh.” Sitting up straight, I say, “I can go if?—”

Everett’s eyes widen. “No, that’s not what I meant. I’m glad you’re here. I just wish you didn’t have to see me like this.” He looks around with bitter amusement. “Drinking alone in the dark.”

Reaching into the six pack, I take out another bottle, gently setting it in front of me.

Leaning forward, I reach across him for the bottle opener.

His breath catches, and it’s then that I realize how close we are.

My eyes flick up to meet his, but his are trained on my mouth.

As soon as he catches me staring, his focus jumps up to meet my gaze, and he swallows.

I apologize for invading his space and snatch the opener off the ground next to him. Then, sitting back on my heels, I open another one and hand it to him. “For the record, I don’t mind seeing you like this, and now you’re not drinking alone.”

I hold up my beer for him to tap with his own, and he does with a tight-lipped smile. “Thanks.”

He doesn’t take a sip right away. His thumb brushes over the mouth of the bottle as he stares down at it. “I need to go over there more. I should have been checking on things every week.” He shakes his head. “I can’t believe I let it get so bad.”

“You’ve been grieving, too,” I remind him, my voice soft.

“Yeah, but grief doesn’t give me a free pass for being a shitty son.

” He sets the bottle next to him without taking a sip and rubs his hands over his face.

“And then she’s sitting there telling me I’m a good person and how proud my dad would be.

” Lowering his hands, he scoffs. “He wouldn’t be proud. He’d be pissed.”

My head tilts, my frown deepening. “Why do you think that?”

He hesitates, and his eyes search my face like he just realized how much he’s sharing and isn’t sure if he wants to continue.

“Because I’m being selfish.” His eyes fall to my mouth again, but only for a second before he says, “Lately, it feels like everything I want comes at a cost to someone else.”

We lock eyes, and I get the feeling he isn’t referring to his mom’s house anymore.

“You’re just trying your best to heal. I don’t think that’s selfish, and it sounds like your mom doesn’t think you are either.

She told you that you’re a good person because you are, and maybe she knew you needed to hear it. ”

His eyebrows crease slightly like he isn’t sure if he wants to believe me, and it breaks my heart. I want to give him a hug, but it would be a little hard to do with both of us sitting on the ground, so instead, I lean forward with my hands on my knees and kiss him on the cheek.

As soon as my lips touch his skin, his hand reflexively wraps around my arm just above my elbow. At first, I think he does it to stop me, but he doesn’t push me away. He just holds my arm where it is.

Keeping my face close to his, I quietly say, “You’re a good person, Everett Meyers.” I kiss him again on the cheek and move to lean back on my heels.

He doesn’t let go of my arm. If anything, his grip slightly tightens, and his voice comes out rough and strained when he says, “Please, don’t stop.”

I freeze, unsure of what he means. Slowly leaning forward again, I press my lips to his other cheek, letting them linger before pressing them to the line of his jaw.

His thumb lightly brushes my arm, and that slight graze fuels me to press one final kiss to the side of his neck.

His breath catches, and his head falls back against the wall. When I do finally pull away from him, I slowly sit back on my heels, and he releases my arm, his fingers trailing across my skin as he does.

His eyes search mine, but before I have time to wonder if what just happened was okay, he reaches for the back of my head and crashes his lips against mine.

The kiss is hungry. It’s not slow or hesitant like he isn’t sure if this is what he wants.

It’s a kiss of a man who’s been starved.

His fingers curl into my hair, loosening my ponytail as he pulls me in deeper, and the sound that comes from my throat brings a wave of heat to my cheeks.

I’ve never been kissed like this. There’s never been so much want—so much need— behind a kiss I’ve shared with anyone else.

Kissing him back, I tease my tongue against his, and the groan it pulls from him has a heavy heat settling between my legs. He holds my face in both hands, claiming my mouth with his tongue, and pulling a desperate whimper from me .

With one more dizzying drag of his tongue over mine, he gently brushes my cheeks with his thumbs, his kisses turning soft and lingering. I melt, and when he finally pulls back, he keeps his hands gently cradling either side of my face.

I take him in, and he looks lighter than he did a few minutes ago. That playful brightness has returned to his eyes, and some of that comfortable warmth I’ve grown to love seems to have thawed the tension in his shoulders. “Feeling better?” I ask with a light laugh.

There’s a hint of pink in his cheeks as he scratches the side of his head. With a huff of laughter, he says, “Yeah. Much better, actually.”