I don’t comment, too irritated by her carelessness as we continue walking back to the hotel. Cars pass us by, and our feet scuff against the pavement. Otherwise, it’s quiet.
“I bet you hate animals, don’t you?” she mentions when we reach the crosswalk leading to our hotel.
I hesitate, surprised by her comment. “I don’t hate them.”
“You looked like you hated that one, and he was nothing but a big ol’ sweetheart.”
“I’m sure he was very nice.” I press my hand against her lower back. “But it wasn’t very wise to pet him. You don’t know the dog. He could have bitten you.”
“I asked the owner’s permission first,” she argues.
“And I’m sure he would have told you it was fine, even if it wasn’t the case.”
Her eyes thin. “You’ve never owned a dog, have you?”
“No, I haven’t.”
“Why am I not surprised?” she asks herself, then adds, “You’re missing out.”
“Oh, I am?”
With a nod, she looks both ways and steps onto the crosswalk. “Yeah, majorly. Dogs are the best.”
“You don’t have a dog,” I remind her.
“I used to.”
“Used to?” I hesitate. “What happened?”
“It’s complicated.” She shrugs one of her petite shoulders. “My dad got me one when I was a kid, but since my parents were divorced and my mom hates dogs, Pixie would stay with him. I only saw her when I visited. When my dad disappeared, my aunt started taking care of her before Pixie found her soulmate—aka my aunt’s husband—and they’ve lived happily ever after ever since.”
“Pixie,” I murmur. My tone softens as I realize why I recognize the name along with its significance. “The tattoo.”
Rubbing her thumb against the inside of her opposite wrist where Pixie’s name is inked, Mia’s eyes soften. “Yeah. It’s for my dog.”
“She’s still alive, I take it?”
Mia nods. “Yeah. She’s getting older, though. And let me tell ya, I’m going to be a wreck when she finally goes.” She gives me a pathetic smile, and her eyes cloud at the thought alone. “The girl’s been through everything with me.”
This is the first time I’ve seen emotion from her. Real emotion. Without holding herself back. Without laughing it off or changing the topic. She loves the dog more than almost anything. I can see it. Feel it.
“Is she a big dog? Little dog?” I prod, more curious than I would like to admit.
“Big. Massive,” she clarifies with another smile. This one is happier. Less tainted. “I got her at a shelter, so they don’t technically know what breed she is, but there’s definitely some Husky in there, and maybe some German Shepherd or Mastiff. I’m not sure. She’s awesome, though. Super smart. Super active. And with the personality of a human.”
“Sounds like you love her.”
“I do. I love all dogs. But Pix?” Mia clutches at her chest. “The girl owns my heart.”
“Why haven’t you adopted another one since Pixie lives with your uncle?”
“Honestly?” She shrugs. “I dunno. I’ve never been a master at making wise decisions, especially big ones.”
“You don’t think you could handle it?”
“I mean, I could. I love dogs.”
“Then why not adopt another one?”
She hesitates and peers up at the hotel in front of us. The cool air has turned her cheeks a soft shade of pink as she tucks her long silvery blond hair behind her ear. “I dunno? I guess if I’ve learned anything from my life, it’s plans never work out, so why keep making them, ya know?” The strap of her black camera bag slips, and she tugs it back into place, looping her thumb beneath it as if lost in thought. “It’s easier if I go with the flow and see where it leads. Besides,”—she blinks and looks at me again—“I’m traveling with the team now. It’s not like I can hire a dogsitter whenever I go out of town, right?”
“I guess not,” I mutter. I’m not entirely convinced as I open the hotel door for her. “Can I see it? The tattoo?”
We step inside, and warmth envelops us almost instantly. She leads me to the side and ensures we’re out of the way. Lifting her hand, she shows me the inside of her wrist. My fingers graze the inked skin, copying the familiar font. It’s her handwriting. I’m almost positive it is. Goosebumps break out along her arms as she glances up at me, unsure what to say. I don’t blame her. She’s scared and has more barriers surrounding her than the Pentagon. We never really talk about anything personal. Even our sexual encounters have been nothing but some solid fucking. But this? It feels more intimate somehow. And she doesn’t know what to do about it.
“Do you have any tattoos?” she asks, then realizes she already knows the answer. She’s seen me naked, and no, I do not have any tattoos.
My mouth lifts into a ghost of a smile as I stare down at her and explain. “Never found anything that meant enough. Is the Pixie tattoo your favorite?”
“I have a lot of tattoos, so I’m not sure.” She looks down at the ink swirling along her arm, and I realize I am still holding her wrist. Still tracing the letters. Still memorizing the feel of her soft, warm skin.
Her tongue darts out from between her lips, moistening them. She murmurs, “This one is from a drunk night with Shorty.” She points to a sloppy hockey stick. “This one”––her fingers graze a bouquet of daisies, and I peer closer, noticing a smiley face hidden between the petals––“is from my favorite tattoo artist’s apprentice who had no idea what he was doing. Milo covered it for me with the daisies.”
I brush my thumb along her forearm and examine each and every mark on her skin, pausing when I notice a small row of numbers along the inside of her bicep. I don’t ask what it symbolizes. I already know. It’s the day her father died.
“Do you still talk to him?” she asks. Her tone is quiet. Unsure. “Troy?”
The name makes me pause. “No.” I shake my head. “Not after I found out what he did.”
She nods.
“I really am sorry, Mia.”
“Don’t be,” she rushes out. “My dad might not have deserved to die, but it was still his decision to mess with shitty people. He should’ve known not to trust his gut after falling into drugs and being in and out of rehab. That’s on him.”
“You don’t think he was capable of making wise decisions simply because he fucked up in the past?”
“I think each of us is born with both moral and work ethic compasses, but only some work as well as others. Look at you, for example.” Her blue eyes meet mine, and she smiles, yet it doesn’t erase the sadness in her gaze. “Sure, you were born with money, but you didn’t simply spend it until it was gone. You multiplied it. You trusted your gut. Became a professor. Bought a hockey team. Your instincts are spot on, even when they’ve seemed absolutely insane from the outside looking in.” This time, the amusement soaks up a bit of her sadness and eases the ache in my chest. “Some call it luck. And it’s probably a factor,” she clarifies. “But it’s also innately you. Your decisions brought you here. Yours. Not your father’s. Not Troy’s or any other asshole you’ve met. Your decisions. And my dad’s?” Her shoulder lifts. “Sometimes, I wonder if it even mattered that Troy was involved with killing him. Maybe he would’ve wound up in the same place regardless.”