Never Never (15 page)

“A strand of pearls,” she says as she slides into the booth. “Black pearls. It’s about six inches in diameter.”

“
Pearls?”

She nods.

“Like a…
necklace?”

She nods again and takes a sip of her drink. “You have a tattoo of a woman’s necklace on your back, Silas.” She’s smiling now. “Very lumberjack-esque.”

She’s enjoying this. “Yeah, well. You have trees on your back. Not much to brag about. You’ll probably get termites.”

She laughs out loud and it makes me laugh, too. She moves the straw around in her drink and looks down at her glass. “Knowing me…,” she pauses. “Knowing
Charlie,
she wouldn’t have gotten a tattoo unless it really meant something to her. It had to be something she knew she would
never
grow tired of.
Never
stop loving.”

Two familiar words stick out in her sentence. “Never never,” I whisper.

She looks up at me, recognizing the phrase we repeated to each other in the video. She tilts her head to the side. “You think it had something to do with you? With Silas?” She shakes her head, silently disagreeing with my suggestion, but I begin scrolling through my phone. “Charlie wouldn’t be that stupid,” she adds. “She wouldn’t ink something into her skin that was related to a guy. Besides, what would trees have to do with you?”

I find exactly what I’m looking for and, as much as I’m trying to keep a straight face, I can’t stop the smile. I know it’s a smug smile and I probably should not be looking at her like this, but I can’t help it. I hand her the phone and she looks down at the screen and reads out loud.

“From a Greek name meaning
forests
or
woods
.” She looks up at me. “So it’s the meaning of a name?”

I nod.
Still smug
. “Scroll up.”

She scrolls up the screen with a swipe of her finger and her lips part with a gasp. “Derived from the Greek term—Silas.” Her mouth clamps shut and her jaw hardens. She hands me back the phone and closes her eyes. Her head moves slowly back and forth. “She got a tattoo of the meaning of your
name
?”

As expected, she’s pretending to be disappointed in herself.

As expected, I feel triumphant.

“
You
got a tattoo,” I tell her, pointing my finger in her direction. “It’s on
you
.
Your
skin.
My
name.” I can’t stop with the stupid smile plastered across my face. She rolls her eyes again, just as our food is laid in front of us.

I push mine aside and search the meaning for the name Charlie. I don’t pull anything up that could mean pearls. After a few minutes, she finally sighs and says, “Try Margaret. My middle name.”

I search the name Margaret and read the results out loud.

“Margaret, from the Greek term meaning
pearl
.”

I set my phone down. I don’t know why it seems like I’ve just won a bet, but I feel victorious.

“It’s a good thing you’re giving me a new name,” she says, matter of fact.

A new name my ass.

I pull my plate in front of me and pick up a french fry. I point it at her and wink. “We’re branded. You and me. We are so in
love
, Charlie. You feeling it yet? Do I make your heart go pitter patter?”

“These aren’t
our
tattoos,” she says.

I shake my head. “Branded,” I repeat. I raise my index finger as if I’m gesturing over her shoulder. “Right there. Permanently. Forever.”

“
God
,” she groans. “Shut up and eat your damn burger.”

I eat it. I eat the entire thing with a shit-eating grin.

“What now?” I ask, leaning back in my seat. She’s barely touched her food and I’m pretty sure I just broke a record with how fast I ate mine.

She looks up at me and I can see by the trepidation in her expression that she already knows what she wants to do next, she just doesn’t want to bring it up.

“What is it?”

Her eyes narrow. “I don’t want you to make a smart-ass comment in response to what I’m about to suggest.”

“No, Charlie,” I say immediately. “We aren’t eloping tonight. The tattoos are enough commitment for now.”

She doesn’t roll her eyes at my joke this time. She sighs, defeated, and leans back in her seat.

I hate her reaction. I like it a whole lot more when she rolls her eyes at me.

I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine, rubbing my thumb over hers. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Sarcasm just makes this whole thing feel a little less frightening.” I remove my hand from hers. “What did you want to say? I’m listening. Promise. Lumberjack’s honor.”

She laughs with a small roll of her eyes and I’m relieved. She glances up at me and shifts in her seat, then begins playing with her straw again. “We passed a few…
tarot
shops. I think maybe we should get a reading.”

I don’t even start at her comment. I just nod and pull my wallet out of my pocket. I lay enough money on the table to cover our bill and then I stand up. “I agree,” I tell her, reaching out for her hand.

I actually
don’t
agree, but I feel bad. These last two days have been exhausting and I know she’s tired. The least I can do is make this easier for her, despite knowing this hocus pocus bullshit isn’t going to enlighten us in any way.

We pass a few tarot shops during our search, but Charlie shakes her head each time I point one out. I’m not sure what she’s looking for, but I actually like walking the streets with her, so I’m not complaining. She’s holding my hand, and sometimes I put my arm around her and pull her against me when the paths become too narrow. I don’t know if she’s noticed, but I’ve been leading us through a lot of these narrow paths unnecessarily. Any time I see a big crowd, I aim for it. After all, she’s still my back-up plan.

After about half an hour longer of walking, it looks like we’re reaching the end of the French quarter. The crowds are dwindling, giving me fewer excuses to pull her to me. Some of the shops we’re passing have already closed. We make it to St. Philip Street when she pauses in front of an art gallery window.

I stand next to her and stare at the displays illuminated inside the building. There are plastic body parts suspended from the ceiling, and giant, metal sea life clinging to the walls. The main display, which is directly in front of us, just happens to be a small corpse—wearing a strand of pearls.

She taps her finger against the glass, pointing at the corpse. “Look,” she says. “It’s me.” She laughs and moves her attention to somewhere else inside the store.

I’m not looking at the corpse anymore. I’m not looking inside the store anymore.

I’m looking at her.

The lights from inside the gallery are illuminating her skin, giving her a glow that really does make her look like an angel. I want to run my hand across her back and feel for actual wings.

Her eyes move from one object to another as she studies everything beyond the window. She’s looking at each piece with bewilderment. I make a mental note to bring her back here when they’re actually open. I can’t imagine what she’d look like actually being able to touch one of the pieces.

She stares into the window a few minutes longer and I continue to stare at her, only now I’ve taken two steps and I’m standing directly behind her. I want to see her tattoo again, now that I know what it means. I wrap my hand around her hair and brush it forward, over her shoulder. I half expect her to reach behind her and slap my hand away, but instead, she sucks in a quick rush of air and looks down at her feet.

I smile, remembering what it felt like when she ran her fingers over my tattoo. I don’t know if I make her feel the same, but she’s standing still, allowing my fingers to slip inside the collar of her shirt again.

I swallow what feels like three entire heartbeats. I wonder if she’s always had this effect on me.

I pull her shirt down, revealing her tattoo. A pang shoots through my stomach, because I hate that we don’t have this memory. I want to remember the discussion we had when we decided to make such a permanent decision. I want to remember who brought the idea up first. I want to remember what she looked like as the needle pierced her skin for the first time. I want to remember how we felt when it was over.

I run my thumb over the silhouette of trees while curving the rest of my hand over her shoulder—over skin covered in chills again. She tilts her head to the side and the tiniest of whimpers escapes her throat.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Charlie?” My voice is like sandpaper. I clear my throat to smooth it out. “I changed my mind,” I say quietly. “I don’t want to give you a new name. I kind of love your old one now.”

I wait.

I wait for her snarky response. For her laughter.

I wait for her to push my hand away from the nape of her neck.

I get no reaction from her. Nothing.
Which means I get everything.

I keep my hand on her back as I slowly step around her. I’m standing between her and the window now, but she keeps her eyes focused on the ground. She doesn’t look up at me, because I know she doesn’t like to feel weak. And right now, I’m making her weak. I bring my free hand to her chin and graze my fingers up her jaw, tilting her face to mine.

When we lock eyes, I feel like I’m meeting a brand new side of her. A side of her without resolve. A vulnerable side. A side that’s allowing herself to feel something. I want to grin and ask her how it feels to be in love, but I know teasing her in this moment would piss her off and she’d walk away and I can’t let that happen. Not right now. Not when I finally get to catalog an actual memory with all the numerous fantasies I’ve had about her mouth.

Her tongue slides across her bottom lip, causing jealousy to flutter through me, because I really wanted to be the one to do that to her lip.

In fact…I think I will.

I begin to dip my head, just as she presses her hands against my forearms. “Look,” she says, pointing at the building next door. The flickering light has stolen her attention and I want to curse the universe for the simple fact that a
light bulb
just interfered with what was about to become my absolute favorite of very few memories.

I follow her gaze to a sign that doesn’t look any different from all of the other Tarot signs we’ve passed. The only thing different about this one is it just completely ruined my moment. And
dammit,
it was a good moment. A
great
one. One I know Charlie was also feeling, and I don’t know how long it’ll take me to get back to that.

She’s walking in the direction of the shop now. I follow behind her like a lovesick puppy.

The building is unmarked and it makes me wonder what it was about the unreliable, asshole-lighting that drew her away from my mouth. The only words indicating this is even a store are the “No Cameras” signs plastered on every blackened window.

Charlie puts her hands on the door and pushes it open. I follow her inside and we’re soon standing in what looks like the center of a touristy voodoo gift shop. There’s a man standing behind a register and a few people browsing the aisles.

I try to take everything in as I follow Charlie through the store. She fingers everything, touching the stones, the bones, the jars of miniature voodoo dolls. We silently make our way down each aisle until we reach the back wall. Charlie stops short, grabs my hand and points at a picture on the wall. “That gate,” she says. “You took a picture of that gate. It’s the one hanging on my wall.”

“Can I help you?”

We both spin around and a large—
really large
—man with gauged ears and a lip ring is staring down at us.

I kind of want to apologize to him and leave as fast as we can, but Charlie has other plans. “Do you know what this gate is guarding? The one in the picture?” Charlie asks him, pointing over her shoulder. The man’s eyes lift to the picture frame. He shrugs.

“Must be new,” he says. “I’ve never noticed it before.” He looks at me, arching an eyebrow adorned with multiple piercings. One being a small…
bone?
Is that a bone sticking through his eyebrow
? “You two looking for anything in particular?”

I shake my head and begin to respond, but my words are cut off by someone else’s.

“They’re here to see me.” A hand reaches through a beaded curtain to our right. A woman steps out, and Charlie immediately sidles against me. I wrap my arm around her. I don’t know why she’s allowing this place to freak her out. She doesn’t seem like the type to believe in this sort of thing, but I’m not complaining. A frightened Charlie means a very lucky Silas.

“This way,” the woman says, motioning for us to follow her. I start to object, but then remind myself that places like this…they’re all about theatrics. It’s Halloween 365 days a year. She’s just playing a part. She’s no different than Charlie and me, pretending to be two people we aren’t.

Charlie glances up at me, silently asking for permission to follow her. I nod and we follow the woman through the curtain of—
I touch one of the beads and take a closer look
—plastic skulls.
Nice touch.

The room is small and every wall is covered with thick, velvet black curtains. There are candles lit around the room, flickers of light licking the walls, the floor, us. The woman takes a seat at a small table in the center of the room for us to sit in the two chairs across from her. I keep Charlie’s hand wrapped tightly in mine as we both sit.