“His father worshipped the ground Finn walked on, said Finn was the best thing he'd ever had a hand in creating. So when the Riverside project fell into Finn's lap, I knew it would be something he'd walk away from because that's Finn. If a girl became too much work, he'd break up with her. He could have been a great athlete but didn't care enough to work at it. He didn't want to have the hassle of running a big company like his father's, so he did small flips, short term ventures that required some risk, some work, and netted some reward."
"That's not why he went into flipping." I objected. "And he's a lot different now."
"Oh, he is?" She looked at me appraisingly. "And you know this how?"
"Because he told me." I stopped. "No, he showed me. He's finishing this project of his father's, even though he hates it, because he loved his dad and didn't want to see his reputation suffer. He…he told me I came first for him, no matter what. He fights for what he thinks is important."
"And so you’re important?"
"Yes."
She fell silent, and the words we'd shared hung between us like a giant cloud.
"And what about Finn? Isn’t he important? Doesn’t he deserve to have someone fight for him too?" she said and climbed on her horse and left me.
What had I done to fight for Finn? Nothing. I'd loved him, but in my insecurities, what had I done to show him that I thought he was important?
Even breaking up with him was an act of selfishness. It wasn't about preserving Ivy and the baby as a unit but making sure I wouldn’t get hurt ever again. I’d eschewed long-term relationships. Chose guys like Hugh who were emotionally unavailable.
Didn’t I nurse my unrequited crush on Finn because I knew I’d never have him?
Could there be anything more safe that unrequited love?
Mrs. O'Malley was right. Tucker was right.
The only thing that was preventing me from being with Finn was myself.
27
WINTER
"I can't believe you're doing this," Tucker muttered as he wiped excess ink off my shoulder. "We've always subtly made fun of people—particularly under the age of, say, forty— getting names tattooed, and here you are, putting some chump's name on one of the most visible places on your body."
He bent over and applied the needle to my skin again. He'd been working on it for over an hour so I was getting used to the pain, but it reminded me why it had been so long between the tattoo I got when I first started working and now.
"Would you shut up and finish it?"
"Please tell me after this you'll get some other more interesting art? It's an embarrassment to the shop that you don't have anything else."
"At least I didn't ask for Chinese symbols."
"That's like saying, ‘At least I didn't eat garbage this morning.’"
"I should have asked Omar," I complained.
"Some guys think a tattoo like this tips a girl into the she might be good in bed, but she's too crazy for me bin."
"Thanks for your words of confidence. They’re really making me feel better."
"You're welcome," he said almost cheerfully. "Because I'm such a goddamn brilliant artist, I'll be able to change the lettering into something else. I guarantee the next guy you date isn't going to want to see another man's name staring at him when the two of you are going at it."
"I'm doing what you told me to do—putting myself first."
"How is getting Finn's name on your body putting yourself first?"
"I'm doing something I want. I'm not sacrificing myself for Ivy or even Finn or bowing down to your dictates on what makes a good tattoo. Not rushing home because my sister is getting out of prison and needs me to babysit her, or she'll start using again. Not even for Finn. This tattoo is for me."
Tucker grunted, wiped ink and then applied the last swirl. "You wouldn't last a minute in the courtroom."
I sat up, holding the towel to my chest, and motioned for Tucker to turn around. "Neither did you," I retorted.
He stiffened but then laughed. "Touché, Miss Winter, touché."
The bell tinkled, and Gig yelled back, "New commission consultation for you, Winter-who-gets-her-boyfriend's-name-tattooed-on-her-shoulder."
Calling Gig a five year old was an insult to five year olds everywhere. It was a good thing I didn’t wear bras, I thought, as I pulled my Atra tank over my head. The shoulder tattoo would require going braless while it healed.
I went back to work, and each time I moved my arm or reached for a pencil or helped Gig pick up around the shop, I felt the pain of the tattoo. It was a good pain. It reminded me why I'd gotten it and what it meant.