Chasing River

Seize the day.

If I wasn’t convinced before, that sweet old man surely helped sway me.

I’ll take the bait.

I’ll chase you, River.

I’m pretty desperate.

That’s the only way I can explain why I’m standing in front of this funky canary-yellow door—edged with chunky white columns and a half-moon window above, an aged brass lion’s-head knocker just begging to be used at eye level. I know I have the right place because the hand-painted sign above the door of this stone house on a narrow side street in northern Dublin says so. Still, it doesn’t look like any tattoo parlor I’ve ever passed by.

With my purse squeezed tight between my arm and my rib cage, I push through the door and step into a reception area, cramped with paisley wing chairs to my left and a counter to my right. The lack of windows only adds to the dingy atmosphere. Even the lights from a multitude of tracks above seem to get swallowed up, creating dark corners wherever I look.

Low murmurs and that irritating buzz of a tattoo machine carry from a narrow hallway lined with sconces made to look like candles. “Hello?” I call out, distracting my own awkwardness by focusing on the colorful canvases decorating the exposed stone walls. Some are of artfully displayed tattoos. Others look like graffiti you find on the sides of buildings—a kaleidoscope of bubbly lines and chaotic images.

Alex did say that this was Ivy’s cousin’s shop. I guess they have more in common than just tattoos.

I hear the shuffle of feet along the sand-colored wood floors—the only modern element of this place besides the lighting, from what I can see. At least it’s clean.

A guy with short jet-black hair styled in spikes appears, tattoos crawling up the back of his neck. “Sorry about that. Can I help you?” He reminds me of Ivy in that he’s obviously a mixture of Asian and something else, his eyes bigger and rounder, his lips fuller, his nose more prominent.

I catch myself staring at him and blurt out, “I’m here to see Ivy.”

He clicks the computer mouse a few times, checking the screen with a frown. “What time was your appointment?” He sounds American, but with hints of an Irish twang, suggesting he’s been here a while.

“Oh, I’m not here for a tattoo.” I’ve never had any desire to get one. I don’t understand anyone who does. Another way in which Ivy and I are glaringly different. “I just wanted to stop in and say hi. I went to school with her, back in Oregon.” That feels like a lie, even though it’s not. I did go to school with her, but I’m making it sound like we were friends. Something we’ve never been.

He scratches the back of his head in thought. “Well . . . she’ll be working on this guy for another couple hours.”

“Hours?” I check my watch. It’s close to five p.m. already. “Could you just tell her that Amber Welles is here?”

He shrugs and then nods, disappearing back down the hall. I take that time to flip through a binder sitting open on a claw-footed side table, full of pictures of tattoos on body parts, the skin pink and puffy. A hint of nerves touches me. Will dropping my name make Ivy more or less likely to come out here?

A few minutes later, the needle stops buzzing. Clunky footfalls sound in the hallway. I look up in time to see Ivy round the corner, surprise touching her almond-shaped black eyes before she hides it behind the cool mask of indifference that she wears so well. I haven’t seen her since last summer, but there’s been no miraculous transformation. Her long, arrow-straight raven hair has blue streaks running through it instead of pink. The full sleeve of ink up her slender right arm obviously hasn’t disappeared. It’s been added to, if anything. She’s wearing a classic Ivy outfit—Doc Martens, black jeans, a tank top with a flannel shirt tied around her waist——only the boots reach up to her knees, the jeans are more like leggings, and the tank top is made of black lace and has Diva written across it in sequins. That’s definitely something new.

“Alex told me you were in Dublin.” She crosses her arms over her chest, as if hiding the fact that she’s wearing something with a hint of femininity for once.

“Yeah, she gave me the name of this place, in case I wanted to come by.” My gaze roams over it. “It’s . . . not what I expected.”

She just stares at me, as if waiting for me to get on with why I’m here and then leave. I can’t tell if it’s just Ivy being Ivy, or if, even after all these years, she still holds a grudge.

“So . . .” I busy my hands by flipping a page in the tattoo binder. “How come you’re allowed to work in Ireland?”

“Why do you want to know? You gonna report me, Little Miss Sheriff?”

I roll my eyes at that.

She sighs and her tone changes to something less aggressive, but no more friendly. “I was born in Spain, so I can work anywhere in the EU.”

“Really?” My eyes drift over her again. Maybe that explains her exotic face. I’ve never quite been able to place it. She definitely has Chinese—or some kind of Asian—in her, but her skin is darker, her hair thicker, her eyes bigger and rounder. I always thought she’d be so pretty if she actually made an effort to look normal. “I didn’t know that.”

“How would you?”

I shrug. “You’re right. I wouldn’t.”

She frowns slightly, stepping forward. “What happened to your lip? And your arm?” She almost sounds concerned.

“Oh.” Shit. “It’s a long, boring story.” The last thing I need is Ivy telling Alex about this. I pull my cardigan on as I stand. “Listen, I was wondering what you were doing tonight.”

A second wave of surprise flashes across her face but she quickly covers it up. “Just working. I should be done by eight.” A pause, then a doubtful, “Why?”

“Why don’t we meet up somewhere after? I thought we could hang out. Get to know each other, seeing as you’re such good friends with Alex.”

She twists her mouth, as if debating her next words. “I guess, if you wanted to, you could come—”

“How about Delaney’s,” I blurt out, cutting her off.

“Delaney’s?” She frowns. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” I smile. “Meet me there at, say, nine?”

Another long moment and then she finally nods, easing a card from her back pocket with two fingers. “Here’s my number, just in case you need to get hold of me.”

I flip it within my fingers. Ivy Lee, Artist. “You actually have a business card?”

“I can read, too,” she mutters dryly and then disappears back down the hall.

Okay. So Ivy Lee is going to be my wing-woman. As far as bad ideas go, this could be as disastrous as running through that park the day of the pipe bomb.

Even so . . . A giddy grin finds its way to my mouth.

I’m going to see River again.

ELEVEN

River

“How’s it been?” I slap Rowen’s shoulder as I edge past him along the narrow bar corridor. Collin’s in the middle of an upbeat jig that has the people cheering along.

“How do you think it’s been?” Rowen swipes at his brow with his bicep while he pours. “This is my second shirt today. Why haven’t we retrofitted this place with air conditioning yet?”