Page 34 of What If It Was Us
“Can you just shut up, actually?” I covered my cheeks with my hands. I hated him. “We’re working on the bathroom today. Make yourself useful and start cleaning the tub.” I threw the rust remover into his hands, and a wand brush directly at his chest.
He laughed at me again. I swear the guy got off on getting me flustered. I picked some songs for a playlist, starting with Royel Otis’s cover of “Linger” before handing my phone to Jackson. “She Calls Me Back” by Noah Kahan started to play, and I rolled my eyes at the smirk Jackson gave me. He was so irritating.
***
I scrubbed the toilet for almost an hour while Jackson worked on the tub. The stains were awful, and my back was starting to ache. I had probably sprayed rust remover fifty times, and we were both so focused we hadn’t talked. “Heat Waves” by Glass Animals was just finishing the last verse when I paused my scrubbing to watch Jackson. He was on his knees in the tub while he scrubbed around the drain.
There was sweat on his hairline, and I watched as it trickled down the side of his temple and dripped into the tub. His lips were parted as he focused on the task, his biceps straining as he scrubbed back and forth. I started to picture myself under him, his body moving back and forth in the same way, our bodies connected, him looking into my eyes with that same concentration. A shiver ran through me. I was probably just getting high from all the fumes in this small bathroom.
I tried to get a view of the tattoos on his arm instead to refocus my attention away from the dirty thoughts. “So, what are all the tattoos?”
He looked up at me and sat on the edge of the tub, setting down the brush. I closed the toilet seat and sat on it as he held out his arm.
“Well, you know Delvecchio.” He ran a finger across his last name, written in black ink across his right forearm. I went with him when he got it on his eighteenth birthday.
He bent his arm to point at the back of his bicep. “A cannoli, obviously, for Jules.” I laughed. While I could only take one bite of cannoli, Julie could easily eat ten in one sitting. He moved to the inside of his bicep, where the outline of Italy sat. “This one was for Mom and Dad, because of our heritage.”
There was a drumstick, too, and next to it, a broken wine bottle. I stared at him, waiting for him to explain the broken bottle.
He ran a thumb over the wine bottle. “This is to remind me of the mistakes I’ve made while drinking.”
I chewed on the inside of my lip. I had been there for plenty of those mistakes. He cleared his throat and flipped his arm to show the inside of his forearm. “And, of course, a piece of pizza.”
I laughed when I saw it, shaking my head. “No way.”
He looked up at me with that ridiculously cute smile, a question in his eye.And, of course, a piece of pizza.He said it so easily, like Ishouldknow why.
It couldn’t be, though. Right? It couldn’t be because of me. That would be crazy to assume. So instead of questioning him, I said something else.
“I actually have a tattoo that looks just like it.”
“Nuh-uh,” Jackson said, his mouth hanging open. “You said you would never get a tattoo.”
I laughed and shrugged. “My twenty-first birthday. I was feeling silly.”
Jackson laughed at me. “Show me.”
I shook my head. “I don’t want to. It’s not good.”
Jackson let out another laugh, “So you don’t just have a tattoo, but you have abadtattoo.” His eyes started to roam my body. I was wearing denim cut-offs and a short-sleeve Columbia T-shirt, but he wouldn’t be able to see it, no matter how hard he looked.
“Seriously, it’s awful. I went to some sketchy shop and the guy did a terrible job. The lines are wonky, and it scarred my skin, so the ink is raised—it never set,” I said as I crossed my arms.
“That all just makes me want to see it more! Come on, how bad can a slice of pizza be?” Jackson asked.
“You’d be surprised,” I mumbled. The poor quality of the tattoo wasn’t the only reason I didn’t want to show him. It was also because we both had the same tattoo—for most likely the same reason.
He returned his gaze to mine, and those big brown eyes pulled me in. They were like drops of chocolate that I couldn’t say no to. I rolled my eyes and finally stood up, lifting my shirt to show him the left side of my ribs.
He leaned forward from his spot on the side of the tub, his face level with my rib cage to inspect the botched outline of black ink. I watched him as he lifted his right hand to place on my side, rubbing the raisedink with his thumb. The tip of his finger briefly passed over the band of my bra, and I shut my eyes.
His hand felt so good—warm and tentative across my sweaty skin. I let myself enjoy it for a moment, imagining him pressing his lips to the spot, dragging them down my side, and stopping at my waistband. Unbuttoning my shorts, and . . .
I was definitely high off the fumes in the bathroom. My eyes shot open and I smacked his hand away in a flash. “No touching,” I said before leaving the bathroom and slamming the door shut with him inside. I ran outside to get some air.
I was down the block before I stopped running. I was breathing heavily, and I pulled my hair up into a ponytail. How could one small touch do so much to me? I didn’t need this. I shouldn’t want this. He’s engaged for christ’s sake!
The memory of running down this street ten years ago flashed through my mind, and I had to put a hand to my chest and breathe deeply to avoid the panic attack I could feel rising up. It was too much—the coincidental matching tattoos paired with the thought of the last time I was here was fucking with my head. I had to get it together.
