Rattled, стр. 3

He can’t and will never be able to because he’s a guy.

And now I’m about to let him do my tattoo. If I didn’t need to have it done today, I’d walk. Screw him and his dreams. This isn’t about what he needs but what I need, and if he fucks it up, I’ll never forgive him.

“So, first off, where do you want your art?”

I blink up at him. I may have been planning this for the past few years, but I haven’t decided on a location or exactly what I want it to look like. That’s another reason I came here. The Reeds always know what the customer needs even if they’re unsure of what they want.

“Someplace where nobody will see it.”

He lifts a dark eyebrow and his cobalt eyes study me. He’s cut his hair since school. Black and short. So short that I can practically see his scalp, but his chin is bearded and neatly trimmed, and those blue eyes are watching me. Waiting.

“It’s too personal. It’s for me, and only me,” I insist. “I don’t want to have to explain to anyone who may ask, because it’s my memory and my heartache.”

Alex nods. “Okay, I get that.”

“But I want to be able to see it,” I blurt out. “So not on my ass or anything like that.”

“We’ll figure it out,” he says and leads me over to a table, placing the manila envelope between us. “Is the artwork in there?”

“Kind of,” I answer, and dump the contents on the table. I pick up the cream-colored embossed document and my heart tightens. “This is her birth certificate.” It isn’t the official one that’s filed with the county office, but a keepsake with my baby’s height, weight, date, time, footprints, and handprints. “I was thinking of having her footprint.” I lay it flat on the table so Alex can see it, but I’m reluctant to hand it over. This guy made my life hell and I’m still waiting for him to give me more shit.

“You’re tracing the hand, though,” Alex points out.

I smile. He’s right. My index finger is smoothing over the small palm, like I always do when I look at the certificate. “I can still feel it, sometimes.”

He leans back and studies me, but I don’t see any of the old recriminations as I had in the past. Is he genuinely interested? Has he grown a heart in the past five years, since I last saw him?

“How?” he asks.

“When they laid her on me, right after she was born, Brandy’s hand was right here.” I point to a place between my left boob and breast bone. “Her hand, over my heart.” I can feel my smile growing bigger with the memories of the most awesome experience in my life, and one of the saddest. “Her little arms were crossed, and as one palm rested on my chest, the other hand was turned out, and I remember studying the little lines on her hands and fingers. So perfect.”

“Show me.”

I try and demonstrate, but my hands are five times the size my daughter’s hands were at her birth. I glance up and Alex is watching me, and unlike when we were in high school, the deep blue of his eyes is filled with empathy. Maybe he has grown up.

I begin to relax. “She was curled up against me, her little feet pressing against me right here.” I point to my ribcage, just below my right boob.

“I’m surprised they let you hold her,” Alex finally says after clearing his throat.

“Mrs. Robak didn’t want me to,” I tell him. “She said it would be harder in the end, but I had to hold her at least once.” Mrs. Robak was in charge of Baxter Academy when I was there, and I think she still is.

He nods and grabs a sketch pad and starts drawing.

“I know that Brandy was only a few minutes old, but I needed to explain. I needed to tell her about her father and the reason I couldn’t keep her.”

His jaw tightens and my stomach knots. If he’s going to lecture me again about giving up my baby, I will walk. I can’t deal with his self-righteous opinions right now, and I sure as hell don’t give a damn if it ruins his chances for landing a spot on the show.

“Tell me about the father. You never mentioned him in school.”

“It’s not like you and I ever talked,” I remind him.

Alex winces and his face turns red. Good, he should be embarrassed for the way he treated me.

He sets his pencil aside and looks up. “Tell me your story, Kelsey.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s important.” He settles into a chair and stares at me, and waits for me to start.