Audre & Bash Are Just Friends(12)

She couldn’t tell from his tone if he was making fun of her therapy fee, or if he actually wanted her services. Just in case, she said, “It’s forty-five. But I’m off the clock.”

“Good, I don’t have the best track record with therapists. No offense.”

“None taken. Though,” she said under her breath, “it explains a lot.”

He tilted his head. “You said what?”

“Oh nothing,” she said. “You were new at Hillcrest Prep this year, right? A senior?”

“Yeah, I just moved to Brooklyn in Feb. I graduated today.”

“I see. You were the talk of my friend Reshma’s party earlier today.”

“Reshma.” He frowned a little, looking away. “Do I know a Reshma? Oh wait, she’s @mtreshma on IG, right? Yeah, she’s cool as hell. Her accent goes hard.” He paused. “Was I at her party?”

Bash asked this with the privilege of someone whose presence was so in demand that his social calendar was a blur. Like he was juggling too many girls, parties, and people to remember names. But before she could formulate a response—or properly pinpoint why exactly this guy was getting under her skin—Witchy Tote breezed over to them.

Casually, she stepped between them and linked arms with Bash. Up close, Audre saw that her nose was sprinkled with freckles and she had a cute gap between her front teeth. “Remember what I told you, okay?”

He nodded. And then smiled at Witchy Tote, just as easily as he’d smiled at Audre. Then she squeezed Bash’s shoulder, wiggled her fingers at Audre, and left.

Audre stared after her, mouth open. Was she marking her territory? Did Witchy Tote think she and Bash were flirting or something? Suddenly, Audre was so done with this conversation.

Hands on her hips, she took a step closer to Bash. “Do you realize that this afternoon I sat in the bathroom for an hour comforting a girl who was in tears over you?”

“Tears?” Bash’s brows pinched together. He looked confused by this information. “Over me? Nah, man, couldn’t be me. What girl?”

“You know who.”

“I don’t, though.”

“Oh, I think you do.”

“I don’t make girls, or anybody, cry.”

Audre chuckled wryly. “Oh, Bash. If you believe it, I believe it. Go forth and break hearts. Just do me a favor, okay? Be gentle. Because I’m the one who has to rehabilitate the girls of Greater Park Slope after you’re done with them.”

Bash took a step back from her, raising his palms up in surrender. For the first time, she noticed his outfit. A clearly thrifted Sunkist T-shirt, loose old-man pants, and a thousand rings. He’d really gone running in that?

Bash blinked several times, seemingly baffled. “I… you really must be thinking of some other dude.”

She was dying to bring up the pregnancy scare but held back. She was nosy—but not tacky. “You’re not seeing anyone?”

“I mean, I dabble. But generally? I keep things chill. And I don’t believe in being mean.” He paused and thought about this for a moment, fingering his thin, silver necklace. “Meanness is too easy. People think being mean makes them seem edgy or unique. Kindness is more radical.”

Was this guy for real?

“Mm-hmm,” said Audre, nodding in the direction of Witchy Tote, almost out of sight now. As if on cue, the girl looked over her shoulder at them. Bash waved at her and then crossed his (sinewy, sculpted) arms over his chest. For the first time, Audre noticed the intricate, black-and-white sleeve tattoo swirling over his arm. The ink was breathtaking. Distracted, Audre tore her eyes away from his arms and peered up at his face.

Also distracting.

“You got it all wrong about her,” Bash was saying. “That’s Clio. And, umm, we were just vibing on some design shit. I’m drawing her a tattoo.”

Audre noticed that Bash had given her an explanation—without questioning why he owed her one. She had that effect on people. Something about her energy was disarming; she made people want to spill everything. “You’re a tattoo artist?”

Bash’s eyes followed Audre’s gaze to the sleeve tattoo on his arm. “Yeah, I tattooed and designed this myself.”

“Don’t you need to be eighteen to get a license?” Audre knew this, because her sixth-grade art teacher was a tattoo artist. As a kid, she was obsessed with painting and collage, but she’d given it up before high school. She couldn’t help but be impressed by Bash’s work. His shading, dimension, and detail were so intricate.

If she were honest, she was a little bit jealous. Why had she given up art, anyway?

“I’ll be eighteen soon.”

“It’s nice work. You’re talented.”

“You interested? I start at seventy-five dollars. That’s hella cheap, considering my experience.”

No one in Brooklyn said “hella.” In fact, his voice didn’t sound New York–y at all. His words were slow, drawn out. Laid-back. He took his time. If she knew her accents, Bash Henry was definitely from the West Coast. He sounded like every boy she knew in California.

Dadifornia. Audre’s throat clenched up.

“No, thank you,” she managed to croak out. “No, tattoos aren’t for me. I don’t like needles. And, anyway, how do you commit to one? They last forever.”