"You too." He slides his hand over my ass, pressing my dress into my skin. "What do you call this?"
"A cute outfit."
"And this?" He traces the outline of my thong over my dress.
"Being prepared."
He laughs. "All right. My point. Fuck, what are we even talking about?"
"Your scene."
He nods. "We probably hit the same party once or twice. We'd go out to the valley if we heard the girls were hot."
I shake my head. "I went to three parties all of high school."
"Still."
It's a strange thought, high school Iris and high school Walker meeting. I wouldn't have paid him any attention back then. Even if he was ink free. I didn't go through a bad boy phase. I always liked nice guys. Clean-cut, Captain America types.
On the surface, we'd be a classic good girl bad boy pairing.
But he's a responsible business owner.
And I…
Well, I'm not that old Iris anymore.
The last customer finishes his order and moves aside. I step forward. Turn my back on my true love coffee to order my old favorite. Grapefruit green tea. Half sweet.
Walker orders a lemon black tea. With only twenty-five percent sweetness.
That explains a lot—there's no way he mainlines sugar looking the way he does.
Though twenty-five percent of the sugar in a bubble tea is still a fuckton of sugar.
He leads me to a metal table outside.
I sit in the clear plastic chair. It's that same chair in every single trendy coffee or tea shop. Only it's clear instead of white.
He leans in close. His eyes find mine. They promise to blow my mind.
And to make my stomach flutter.
And to make me feel safe and warm and—
"Fuck." Walker leans back. Pulls his cell from his jeans. "I have to take this."
I shake my head. "No game." But my voice doesn't quite come across as teasing. Frustration is spreading over his expression.
"I know." His voice doesn't hit teasing either.
I motion to the counter. "I'll get the drinks."
He nods. Moves around the corner.
This particular strip mall—the micro-neighborhood Little Osaka is basically three strip malls and a short row of stores—is dead quiet. There are a bunch of empty offices and the restaurant taking up most of the space is an all the drama happens inside place.
I move into the store. The conversations are a quiet buzz. Two teenagers grab beige drinks from the counter. Milk teas. A guy grabs a light pink drink. Something strawberry, I guess.
The barista, tearista, bobarista? sets two massive teas at the counter. He calls my name.
I grab the drinks and straws. Go back to the table. Stab the plastic covering of my beverage with a giant straw and take a long sip.
It brings me back immediately. The way Lily smiled as she gushed over my homecoming dress. The frown when she didn't get into NYU. Her consoling me when I tried to dye my hair blond and ended up with bright orange locks.
She was my best friend all through college. And through the first year or so of everything. Until she realized how bad it was.
She gave me a choice. She confronted me. But I refused to get help. To choose her.
"Hey." Walker slides into his seat. He forces his lips into a smile, but frustration is still written all over his face.
"Everything okay?"
"Okay enough."
I push his drink toward him. "You were right. This place is good."
"You don't look happy."
"You either." I take a long sip. It tastes like love. Like a love I'm desperate to deserve again.
"Yeah." He stabs the plastic with his straw. Brings the drink to his lips. Takes a long sip.
This is getting to be an alarming trend.
What's wrong?
Nothing. Frown. Grunt.
I'm doing the same thing.
I'm going to be a psychologist and I can't talk about my feelings.
It's sad. Really, it is.
I want to be able to do this.
And I want to know him. The parts that hurt. The guy behind the breezy smile.
I play with my straw. "Your sister?"
"Yeah." His eyes go to the shiny silver table.
"What's the situation there?"
He looks to me and raises a brow. "The situation?"
"I don't need details." In theory. "You… you look upset. There's something there."
"Yeah." He leans back. Runs his hand through his hair. "I don't usually talk about it."
"You don't have to. But I… is there anything I can do?"
"I doubt it."
"My sister and I… we stopped talking a few years ago. We didn't really grow apart. We were close. Until we weren't."
"You got into a fight?"
"Yeah. A huge one. She asked me to make a choice, and I didn't make the one she wanted."
He tilts his head to one side. "That's vague."
"And the details about your sister being a thorn in your side?"
"Fair enough."
"That was almost two years ago, that Lily stopped talking to me. It was sudden. She was always that type of person. She did what she wanted. How she wanted. When she wanted it."
"What did she want from you?"
"To…" How do I explain this without explaining it? I have to tell someone about my past eventually. Maybe even Walker. But not yet. I'm not ready to cross that bridge. "To change my life."
"Convert to Scientology?"
"No. She was right. Trust me." I bring my drink to my lips and take another long sip. It still tastes like love, but the sweetness is gone. It's over-steeped, astringent, bitter.
"You ever reach out to her?"
"Not yet. I'm trying to give her space. I stalk her on Instagram, but otherwise I'm not around."
"You stalk your sister?"
"I don't follow her around. Though I could. She's way too free with her location."
"Who isn't these days?"
"You."
"You still follow me?"
"I told you. I love your work." Really, his tattoos are amazing. "You still haven't told me how you got into it."
"Ryan. You saw him. Looks a lot like Dean only with a permanent scowl?"
I nod. That sounds vaguely familiar.
"He was already working at a shop. He got Brendon a job there. Dean got jealous. He wanted to do ink too. When I saw his first piece—everyone starts by doing a tattoo on themselves."
"What did he do?"
"A spade."
"What did you do?"
"A star." He stands, places his foot on his chair, and pulls up his jeans. There's a tiny star under his ankle.
I laugh. "It's so cute."
"I know." He shakes his head. "It's awful. I need to fix it."
"You can't. It's sweet. It's perfect."
"Yeah. It feels like a part of my history. Like a scar almost. Sure, it's ugly—"
"Take it back."
He shakes his head. "It's terrible."
It's lopsided and blurry. But the imperfection only makes me love it more.