Page 96 of Find My Way Down to You

I look down. Cary’s threaded our fingers together. He gives a small encouraging squeeze.

I tell myself what I’m about to do is for London. Cary is my only link to Aides. My way back to him. Being coy hasn’t worked before. Neither has being demanding.

It’s time I try something else. The truth.

I don’twantto talk about this. But I need to.

“Someone close to me died,” I confess, still looking down. My sneaker scuffs the floor. “He meant a lot to me. I would show him all my songs. Sometimes, I’d sing them too.”

Cary’s mouth goes a little higher. “You sing?”

Fire swarms through my cheeks. “Badly.”

“That sounds like a lie.”

“You don’t have to believe it for it to be true.”

A mom and daughter pass us. The little girl has braided pigtails and a gap-toothed grin that rivals her mom’s.

Cary’s featherlight touch on the inside of my forearm draws my eyes. His index finger traces my tattoo. He follows the lines of every petal until a shiver ripples under my skin.

“Daffodils are my favorite,” I say.

“This is a narcissus.”

“I’m a what?”

He laughs quietly while outlining the thin stem. “No, thefloweris a narcissus.”

I blink at him, lost.

Another memory catches me in a sticky web: the day I got the tattoo. It was right after graduation. I was desperate to feelsomethingother than the constant ache in my chest. The waves tugging me under.

Max came with me. We flipped through a thick book of designs. I found this flower on the last page. A random sketch by the tattoo artist. I can’t explain it, but…the flower called to me.

A whisperedI will help you.

It was silly then. Silly now. But I knew.

In the leather chair, I listened to the needle’s incessant buzz. Savored its sharp bite against my skin. For a few hours, I was distracted by a different kind of pain.

“It is sacred,” Cary tells me.

I almost guffaw. His serious expression halts me. “To you,” I say, gently pulling my arm away.

The docent is reciting the final lines of her speech. The tour is wrapping up.

“Did you stop writing when he died?” Cary asks.

“Before,” I say.

“Why?”

I exhale. “We were supposed to go to college together. I was gonna study music. One day, he told me to study journalism instead. Music wasn’t something I should build a future around.”

“And you listened?”

“He wasn’t wrong.” My fingers drag through my curls. “It’s just that—I was sixteen. And not a very good planner. I’mstillnot very good. I listened because he always had the right solution. He knew what was best for me.”