If she still wants anything to do with me.
I swallow hard. Try to find a place to start. Say the first thing that comes to mind. "Thanks." I pick up the mug. "For the coffee."
"Of course." She picks up her mug. Holds it up to toast. "To intense."
"To intense." I tap my cup against hers. Bring it to my lips. The warmth of the coffee is soothing. And the taste is familiar. Intense, yeah. Rich, nutty, and bitter too. "I don't remember the first tattoo I saw. But I remember the feeling. Of seeing this mark on someone's skin. This art, there, forever. It was scary. And thrilling. I was still a kid. A year felt like forever. An actual eternity—"
"Or at least as long as you have skin."
"Morbid."
Her laugh is soft. "You know what I mean."
Yeah, I do. "It's with you." My fingers go to the ink on my forearm. My first. "Your entire life. Whatever happens after… that ink is still there, on your body. What else lasts that long?"
"Love?"
"Maybe." My shoulders tense. "The idea stuck with me for a long time. At first, it was a fascination. With the idea of forever. Then the ink itself. The art of tattooing."
She traces the line.
Fuck, that feels good. Too good. "When my parents announced they were finally splitting… I was pissed. Angry. Self-righteous. How could they lie to me? Tell me they loved each other, that they would be together forever, that our family was forever? And now they were changing it. Tearing it apart. And it's not like it was mutual. It was another ultimatum from Dad. After a bunch hadn't worked."
Her eyes fix on me.
"I'm not sure I got it then. How bad it was. How often Mom was using." My fingers curl into the ceramic. There's something soothing about the warmth. The smoothness. "At the time, I thought he was a merciless asshole. She was trying. Why was he so hard on her? Why was he telling her she needed to be better? Why couldn't he love her the way she was?"
"It's a fair question."
"Maybe. I don't know. Maybe she was always like that. Maybe he should have known better… accepted her, flaws and all."
"Was she?" Luna asks. "Always using?"
"I don't know. When we were kids, she was always around. I don't remember a lot. But I remember that sense of love. Patience. Warm days at the park. On the beach. A trip to fucking Disneyland."
"You hated it?"
"Yeah." I run a hand through my hair. "Already brooding and difficult. Even as a kid."
"Even when you thought both your parents loved you?"
"I know they love me. It's more… If I can trust Mom to stick around. To be there. To be coherent. To be the fucking parent." My chest tenses. "I'm not sure when it started. At first, it was quiet afternoons. I'd get home from school and she'd be fuzzy. Like she wasn't there."
"High?"
"Yeah. But I didn't realize at the time. She just seemed… calm. But too calm."
"Yeah."
"Then… it was all night. All day. And she started missing shit. Forgetting to pick me up from school. To get groceries. To make dinner."
Luna takes a long sip. Folds her hands around her mug. "You picked up the slack. I remember that."
"For a while, that was enough. It was hard, but it felt good. Taking care of Mom and Daisy. Making sure they were okay. I didn't think about how I was obscuring the truth. I was just—"
"You stepped up, Oliver. You don't need to feel guilty for that."
"Maybe." My head is a mess. This shit is too tangled. There are years of it. "I did my best. I just… I'm like my dad. My best isn't good enough."
Her lips curl into a frown.
"That was when I really got obsessed with art. It was the only time I had space for myself. You know?"
"Yeah." She nods. "Other times… what everyone else needs is in the way."
"Exactly. It was like an affair."
"Have you had an affair?"
"I'm sure I've been with married women. No. It's not the odds. I remember a few. Hell, I remember this one woman… she was older. She was at a bar. Upset about something her husband did. She straight up told me. 'I'm married and I need one night to get back at my husband. Will you help me?'"
"And you did?"
"Yeah. She was gorgeous. And she had this sense about her… like you, actually."
"I'm like a married woman looking for a revenge fuck?"
"She knew what she wanted. But she was more shy about it. Like she wasn't used to anyone giving a fuck about her desires. I was already loaded when she asked. But then… I was always a little fuzzy. I've been drinking morning to night for a long time."
"Bourbon in your coffee?" she asks.
"That obvious?"
She shakes her head. "I only caught you doing it a few times. I always figured… it was the weekend or vacation or whatever. A special occasion. But part of me wondered."
"Now you know." I tap my chest. "Oliver Flynn. Dirty pervert, stubborn artist, alcoholic fuckup."
Her brow furrows. "Ollie…"
"Wait until I've told you to argue."
"Told me?"
"What happened… that got me into this stupid fucking program."
"It's helping, isn't it?" she asks.
"Yeah. But… fuck, if I have to drink one more shitty cup of drip." I shake my head. "I hate that place."
"Where you go for your classes?"
"It's antiseptic. Like a hospital wing. Like some place people go to die. The air is too still. The walls are too bare. Everything is this ugly shade of beige. No color. No life. No brightness."
"There must be other places," she says.
"Yeah. I just… I don't know. It's still hard. Sitting here. Trying to talk about this. Trying to face it. I still want a fucking drink. Something sweet and rich and strong enough to dull the ache."
Concern fills her eyes.
"I haven't, but… Dad thinks I'm trying to white-knuckle it. Maybe I was. But you… you've got me all fucked up."
"Is that a compliment?"
"I meant what I said the other night, Luna. You're this beautiful splash of color in an ocean of grey. You're so bright and alive and you don't look at me like I'm a fuckup or a lost cause or a ticking clock. Daisy and Dad… I know they love me. I know they want the best. But the way they look at me—"
"Yeah." She nods. "She does mean well. She just worries. But…"
"Yeah."
"I've done that too." She reaches out. Places her hand on my wrist. "I'm sorry."
I shake my head. "Don't be. You were right. You are right. I am an alcoholic fuckup. I just… I'm trying. But it's really fucking hard."
"It must be."
"Fuck, I lost track of my story."
Her smile is soft. "You were in high school, right? When things got really bad with your mom?"
I nod. "Yeah. It took a year, maybe, for Dad to really catch on. To really see it. Then there was another year of fighting. And trying. Or pretending to try. Ultimatums. Lies. Secrets." My throat tightens. "You were around. You saw some of it."