Never Never

  "What's with the beads?" she asks. "Why would anyone spend money on such tacky jewelry?"

  "It's part of the Mardi Gras tradition," I tell her. "I read about it when I was researching Bourbon Street. It started as a celebration for the last Tuesday before Lent, but I guess it's turned into a year-round thing." I pull her against my side and point down to the sidewalk in front of her. She sidesteps around what looks like puke.

  "I'm hungry," she says.

  I laugh. "Stepping over vomit made you hungry?"

  "No, vomit made me think of food and food made my stomach growl. Feed me." She points to a restaurant up the street. The sign is flashing in red neon. "Let's go there."

  She steps ahead of me, still gripping my hand. I glance down at my phone and follow her lead. I have three missed calls. One from "Coach," one from my brother, and one from "Mom."

  It's the first time I've thought about my mother. I wonder what she's like. I wonder why I haven't met her yet.

  My whole body crashes into the back of Charlie's after she stops short to let a vehicle pass. Her hand flies up to the back of her head where my chin smashed against it. "Ouch," she says, rubbing her head.

  I rub my chin and watch from behind her as she pushes her hair forward, over her shoulder. My eyes fall to the tip of what appears to be a tattoo peeking out from the back of her shirt.

  She begins walking again, but I grab her shoulder. "Wait," I tell her. My fingers trail to the collar of her shirt and I pull it down a couple of inches. Right below the nape of her neck is a small silhouette of trees in black ink. I run my fingers over their outline. "You have a tattoo."

  Her hand flies to the spot I'm touching. "What?!" she shrieks. She spins around and looks up at me. "I do not."

  "You do." I turn her back around and pull the shirt down again. "Here," I say as I trace the trees again. This time I notice as chills break out on her neck. I follow the line of tiny bumps with my eyes, running over her shoulder and hiding beneath her shirt. I look back at the tattoo again, because her fingers are now attempting to feel what I'm feeling. I take two of them and press them against her skin. "A silhouette of trees," I tell her. "Right here."

  "Trees?" she says, cocking her head to the side. "Why would I have trees?" She turns around. "I want to see it. Take a picture with your phone."

  I pull her shirt down enough so that she can see the entire tattoo, even though it's no more than three inches wide. I brush her hair over her shoulder again, not for the sake of the picture, but because I've really been wanting to do that. I also reposition her hand so that it's coming across the front of her body, draping over her shoulder.

  "Silas," she grumbles. "Just take the damn picture. This isn't art class."

  I grin and wonder if I'm always like this--if I refuse to take a simple picture, knowing it only takes a little bit more effort to make it exceptional. I bring the phone up and snap the picture, then look at the screen, admiring how good the tattoo looks on her. She spins around and takes the phone from my hands.

  She looks down at the picture and gasps. "Oh my God."

  "It's a very nice tattoo," I tell her. She hands me back my phone and rolls her eyes, walking again in the direction of the restaurant.

  She can roll her eyes all she wants. It doesn't change how she reacted to my fingers trailing across the back of her neck.

  I watch her walk toward the restaurant, and realize that I have her figured out already. The more she likes me, the more closed off she becomes. The more sarcasm she inflicts on me. Vulnerability makes her feel weak, so she's pretending to be tougher than she really is. I think the old Silas knew this about her, too. Which is why he loved her, because apparently he liked the game they played.

  Apparently I do too, because once again, I'm following her.

  We walk through the door of the restaurant and Charlie says, "Two people, booth please," before the hostess even has a chance to ask. At least she said please.

  "Right this way," the woman says.

  The restaurant is quiet and dark, a stark contrast to the noise and neon lights of Bourbon Street. We both breathe a collective sigh of relief once we're seated. The waitress hands us our menus and takes our drink order. Every now and then, Charlie lifts a hand to the back of her neck as if she can feel the outline of the tattoo.

  "What do you think it means?" she says, still staring at the menu in front of her.

  I shrug. "I don't know. Maybe you liked forests?" I glance up at her. "These fairy tales you talked about. Did they all take place in forests? Maybe the man who needs to break your spell with a kiss is a strapping lumberjack, living in the woods."

  Her eyes meet mine and I can tell my jokes are aggravating her. Or maybe she's aggravated because she thinks I'm funny. "Stop making fun of me," she says. "We woke up without our memories at the exact same time, Silas. Nothing is more absurd than that. Even fairy tales with lumberjacks."

  I smile innocently and look down at my hand. "I have callouses," I tell her, lifting my hand and pointing at the rough skin of my palm. "I could be your lumberjack."

  She rolls her eyes again, but laughs this time. "You probably have callouses from jerking off too much."

  I hold up my right hand. "But they're on both hands, not just my left."

  "Ambidextrous," she deadpans.

  We both grin as our drinks are placed in front of us. "Ready to order?" the waitress asks.

  Charlie quickly scans the menu and says, "I hate that we can't remember what we like." She looks up at the waitress. "I'll take a grilled cheese," she says. "It's safe."

  "Burger and fries, no mayo," I tell her. We hand her back our menus and I refocus on Charlie. "You aren't eighteen yet. How could you get a tattoo?"

  "Bourbon Street doesn't seem to be a stickler for the rules," she says. "I probably have a fake ID hidden somewhere."

  I open the search engine on my phone. "I'll try to figure out what it means. I've gotten pretty good at this Google thing." I spend the next few minutes searching every possible meaning of trees and forests and clusters of trees. Just when I think I'm on to something, she pulls my phone away and sets it on the table.

  "Get up," she says as she stands. "We're going to the bathroom." She grabs my hand and pulls me out of the booth.

  "Together?"

  She nods. "Yep."

  I look at the back of her head as she walks away from me, then back at the empty booth. What the...

  "Come on," she says over her shoulder.

  I follow her to the hallway that leads to the restrooms. She pushes open the women's and peeks inside, then pulls her head out. "It's a single stall. It's empty," she says, holding the door open for me.

  I pause and look at the men's restroom, which looks perfectly fine, so I don't know why she's--

  "Silas!" She grabs my arm and pulls me inside the restroom. Once we're inside, I half expect her to wrap her arms around my neck and kiss me because...why else would we be in here together?

  "Take off your shirt."

  I look down at my shirt.

  I look back up at her. "Are we...are we about to make out? Because I didn't picture it going down like this."

  She groans and reaches forward, pulling at the hem of my shirt. I help her pull it over my head when she says, "I want to see if you have any tattoos, dumbass."

  I deflate.

  I feel like an eighteen-year-old who's just been blue-balled. I guess I kind of am...

  She turns me around and, when I face the mirror, she gasps. Her eyes are fixated on my back. My muscles tense beneath her touch as her fingertips meet my right shoulder blade. She traces a circle, spanning a radius of several inches. I squeeze my eyes shut and try to control my pulse. I suddenly feel drunker than everyone on Bourbon Street combined. I'm gripping the counter in front of me because her fingers...my skin.

  "Jesus," I groan, dropping my head between my shoulders. Focus, Silas.

  "What's wrong?" she asks, pausing her inspection of my tattoo. "It doesn't hurt
does it?"

  I release a laugh, because her hands on me are the opposite of pain. "No, Charlie. It doesn't hurt."

  My eyes meet hers in the mirror and she stares at me for several seconds. When what she's doing to me finally registers, she glances away and pulls her hand from my back. Her cheeks flush.

  "Put your shirt on and go wait for our food," she demands. "I have to pee."

  I release my grip on the counter and inhale deeply as I pull my shirt back over my head. On my walk back to our table, I realize I never even asked her what the tattoo was.

  "A strand of pearls," she says as she slides into the booth. "Black pearls. It's about six inches in diameter."

  "Pearls?"

  She nods.

  "Like a...necklace?"

  She nods again and takes a sip of her drink. "You have a tattoo of a woman's necklace on your back, Silas." She's smiling now. "Very lumberjack-esque."

  She's enjoying this. "Yeah, well. You have trees on your back. Not much to brag about. You'll probably get termites."

  She laughs out loud and it makes me laugh, too. She moves the straw around in her drink and looks down at her glass. "Knowing me...," she pauses. "Knowing Charlie, she wouldn't have gotten a tattoo unless it really meant something to her. It had to be something she knew she would never grow tired of. Never stop loving."

  Two familiar words stick out in her sentence. "Never never," I whisper.

  She looks up at me, recognizing the phrase we repeated to each other in the video. She tilts her head to the side. "You think it had something to do with you? With Silas?" She shakes her head, silently disagreeing with my suggestion, but I begin scrolling through my phone. "Charlie wouldn't be that stupid," she adds. "She wouldn't ink something into her skin that was related to a guy. Besides, what would trees have to do with you?"

  I find exactly what I'm looking for and, as much as I'm trying to keep a straight face, I can't stop the smile. I know it's a smug smile and I probably should not be looking at her like this, but I can't help it. I hand her the phone and she looks down at the screen and reads out loud.

  "From a Greek name meaning forests or woods." She looks up at me. "So it's the meaning of a name?"

  I nod. Still smug. "Scroll up."

  She scrolls up the screen with a swipe of her finger and her lips part with a gasp. "Derived from the Greek term--Silas." Her mouth clamps shut and her jaw hardens. She hands me back the phone and closes her eyes. Her head moves slowly back and forth. "She got a tattoo of the meaning of your name?"

  As expected, she's pretending to be disappointed in herself.

  As expected, I feel triumphant.

  "You got a tattoo," I tell her, pointing my finger in her direction. "It's on you. Your skin. My name." I can't stop with the stupid smile plastered across my face. She rolls her eyes again, just as our food is laid in front of us.

  I push mine aside and search the meaning for the name Charlie. I don't pull anything up that could mean pearls. After a few minutes, she finally sighs and says, "Try Margaret. My middle name."

  I search the name Margaret and read the results out loud.

  "Margaret, from the Greek term meaning pearl."

  I set my phone down. I don't know why it seems like I've just won a bet, but I feel victorious.

  "It's a good thing you're giving me a new name," she says, matter of fact.

  A new name my ass.

  I pull my plate in front of me and pick up a french fry. I point it at her and wink. "We're branded. You and me. We are so in love, Charlie. You feeling it yet? Do I make your heart go pitter patter?"

  "These aren't our tattoos," she says.

  I shake my head. "Branded," I repeat. I raise my index finger as if I'm gesturing over her shoulder. "Right there. Permanently. Forever."

  "God," she groans. "Shut up and eat your damn burger."

  I eat it. I eat the entire thing with a shit-eating grin.

  "What now?" I ask, leaning back in my seat. She's barely touched her food and I'm pretty sure I just broke a record with how fast I ate mine.

  She looks up at me and I can see by the trepidation in her expression that she already knows what she wants to do next, she just doesn't want to bring it up.

  "What is it?"

  Her eyes narrow. "I don't want you to make a smart-ass comment in response to what I'm about to suggest."

  "No, Charlie," I say immediately. "We aren't eloping tonight. The tattoos are enough commitment for now."

  She doesn't roll her eyes at my joke this time. She sighs, defeated, and leans back in her seat.

  I hate her reaction. I like it a whole lot more when she rolls her eyes at me.

  I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine, rubbing my thumb over hers. "I'm sorry," I say. "Sarcasm just makes this whole thing feel a little less frightening." I remove my hand from hers. "What did you want to say? I'm listening. Promise. Lumberjack's honor."

  She laughs with a small roll of her eyes and I'm relieved. She glances up at me and shifts in her seat, then begins playing with her straw again. "We passed a few...tarot shops. I think maybe we should get a reading."

  I don't even start at her comment. I just nod and pull my wallet out of my pocket. I lay enough money on the table to cover our bill and then I stand up. "I agree," I tell her, reaching out for her hand.

  I actually don't agree, but I feel bad. These last two days have been exhausting and I know she's tired. The least I can do is make this easier for her, despite knowing this hocus pocus bullshit isn't going to enlighten us in any way.

  We pass a few tarot shops during our search, but Charlie shakes her head each time I point one out. I'm not sure what she's looking for, but I actually like walking the streets with her, so I'm not complaining. She's holding my hand, and sometimes I put my arm around her and pull her against me when the paths become too narrow. I don't know if she's noticed, but I've been leading us through a lot of these narrow paths unnecessarily. Any time I see a big crowd, I aim for it. After all, she's still my back-up plan.

  After about half an hour longer of walking, it looks like we're reaching the end of the French quarter. The crowds are dwindling, giving me fewer excuses to pull her to me. Some of the shops we're passing have already closed. We make it to St. Philip Street when she pauses in front of an art gallery window.

  I stand next to her and stare at the displays illuminated inside the building. There are plastic body parts suspended from the ceiling, and giant, metal sea life clinging to the walls. The main display, which is directly in front of us, just happens to be a small corpse--wearing a strand of pearls.

  She taps her finger against the glass, pointing at the corpse. "Look," she says. "It's me." She laughs and moves her attention to somewhere else inside the store.

  I'm not looking at the corpse anymore. I'm not looking inside the store anymore.

  I'm looking at her.

  The lights from inside the gallery are illuminating her skin, giving her a glow that really does make her look like an angel. I want to run my hand across her back and feel for actual wings.

  Her eyes move from one object to another as she studies everything beyond the window. She's looking at each piece with bewilderment. I make a mental note to bring her back here when they're actually open. I can't imagine what she'd look like actually being able to touch one of the pieces.

  She stares into the window a few minutes longer and I continue to stare at her, only now I've taken two steps and I'm standing directly behind her. I want to see her tattoo again, now that I know what it means. I wrap my hand around her hair and brush it forward, over her shoulder. I half expect her to reach behind her and slap my hand away, but instead, she sucks in a quick rush of air and looks down at her feet.

  I smile, remembering what it felt like when she ran her fingers over my tattoo. I don't know if I make her feel the same, but she's standing still, allowing my fingers to slip inside the collar of her shirt again.

  I swallow what feels like three e
ntire heartbeats. I wonder if she's always had this effect on me.

  I pull her shirt down, revealing her tattoo. A pang shoots through my stomach, because I hate that we don't have this memory. I want to remember the discussion we had when we decided to make such a permanent decision. I want to remember who brought the idea up first. I want to remember what she looked like as the needle pierced her skin for the first time. I want to remember how we felt when it was over.

  I run my thumb over the silhouette of trees while curving the rest of my hand over her shoulder--over skin covered in chills again. She tilts her head to the side and the tiniest of whimpers escapes her throat.

  I squeeze my eyes shut. "Charlie?" My voice is like sandpaper. I clear my throat to smooth it out. "I changed my mind," I say quietly. "I don't want to give you a new name. I kind of love your old one now."

  I wait.

  I wait for her snarky response. For her laughter.

  I wait for her to push my hand away from the nape of her neck.

  I get no reaction from her. Nothing. Which means I get everything.

  I keep my hand on her back as I slowly step around her. I'm standing between her and the window now, but she keeps her eyes focused on the ground. She doesn't look up at me, because I know she doesn't like to feel weak. And right now, I'm making her weak. I bring my free hand to her chin and graze my fingers up her jaw, tilting her face to mine.

  When we lock eyes, I feel like I'm meeting a brand new side of her. A side of her without resolve. A vulnerable side. A side that's allowing herself to feel something. I want to grin and ask her how it feels to be in love, but I know teasing her in this moment would piss her off and she'd walk away and I can't let that happen. Not right now. Not when I finally get to catalog an actual memory with all the numerous fantasies I've had about her mouth.

  Her tongue slides across her bottom lip, causing jealousy to flutter through me, because I really wanted to be the one to do that to her lip.

  In fact...I think I will.

  I begin to dip my head, just as she presses her hands against my forearms. "Look," she says, pointing at the building next door. The flickering light has stolen her attention and I want to curse the universe for the simple fact that a light bulb just interfered with what was about to become my absolute favorite of very few memories.