He won’t tell me what the tattoo means. He’s getting the word poetic across his left wrist, written inside a music staff. I don’t know why he won’t tell me the meaning behind it, but at least it’s not my name. I mean, I like the guy. A lot. But permanently inking a girl’s name into your skin is a pretty alpha-male thing to do this early on in a relationship. Especially on the wrist. And why did I just refer to this as a relationship?
Oh, God. What if that’s why he’s getting a tattoo? What if he’s trying to come off as more of a tough guy? I should probably warn him that he’s doing it wrong.
I clear my throat to get his attention. “Um. I hate to say this Ben, but a wrist tattoo of the word poetic isn’t very alpha-male. It’s quite the opposite, actually. You sure you don’t want to go with a skull? Some barbed wire? Something bloody, maybe?”
His lip curls up into a crooked grin. “Don’t worry, Fallon. I’m not doing this to impress girls.”
I don’t know why I love that answer as much as I do. The tattoo artist walks back into the room and points at Ben’s wrist where he drew the outline of the tattoo a few minutes earlier. “If you like the placement, we’ll get started.”
The tattoo is sketched in ink from one side of his wrist to the other. He nods and tells the guy he’s ready. Ben motions to me. “Can she sit in my lap and distract me?”
The guy shrugs, pulling Ben’s arm in front of him, but he says nothing. As soon as the thought begins to cross my mind that this guy is probably wondering what Ben is doing with someone who looks like I do, Ben interrupts my bout of insecurity. “Come here,” he says, patting his leg. “Distract me.”
I do what he says, but the only way I can sit on his lap is if I straddle him. At least I’m in jeans, but I still feel awkward that I’m sitting like this in the middle of a tattoo parlor. Ben’s hand comes to rest on my waist and he squeezes. I can hear the buzz of the needle and the slight difference in the sound once it presses into his skin. He doesn’t even make a face other than giving me a tiny smile. I do what I can to distract him, so I continue the small talk we shared on the beach.
“What’s your favorite color?”
“Malachite green.”
I make a face. “That’s a very specific green, but okay.”
“It’s what color your eyes are. Also happens to be my favorite mineral.”
“You have a favorite mineral?”
“Do now.”
I look down to avoid him seeing my embarrassed smile straight on. I feel his hand squeeze my waist again. I’m guessing the needle is distracting him more than I am, so I throw out another question.
“What’s your favorite food?”
“Pad Thai,” he says. “Yours?”
“Sushi. They’re almost the same thing.”
“Not even close,” he says.
“They’re both Asian food. What’s your favorite movie?”
“These questions are boring. Try harder.”
I drop my head back and look up at the ceiling while I think. “Okay, who was your first girlfriend?” I ask, bringing my eyes back to him.
“Brynn Fellows. I was thirteen.”
“I thought you said her name was Abitha.”
He grins. “You have a good memory.”
I raise a serious brow. “It’s not that I have a good memory, Ben. I’m just insanely jealous and unstable when it comes to your past loves.”
He laughs. “Abitha was the first girl I kissed. Not my first girlfriend. I was fifteen, dated her for a year.”
“Why’d you break up?”
“We were sixteen.” He says that like it’s a valid reason. He can see the question in my expression so he says, “That’s what you do when you’re dating at sixteen. You break up. What about you? Who was your first boyfriend?”
“Real or fake?”
“Either,” he says.
“You.” I watch his eyes closely to see if there’s pity in them, but it looks more like pride. “How many people have you slept with?”
He tightens his mouth. “Not answering that.”
“More than ten?”
“Nope.”
“Less than one?”
“Nope.”
“More than five?”
“I don’t kiss and tell.”
I laugh. “Yes you do. In five years, you’ll be telling the whole world about us in your book.”
“Four years,” he clarifies.