pace, feeling a sudden urge to rest my head on his shoulder just to feel closer to him. “I really want to hold your hand right now, but I also don’t want to get frostbite and have my fingers fall off.”
“Would it make you feel better if I told you nobody has ever gotten frostbite in fifty-degree weather before?” Vas asks.
“I’m not taking any chances. But just know that if it was safe, I’d hold your hand,” I say with a shrug.
Vas rolls his eyes, takes my hand in his, and tucks our hands into his jacket pocket. “Better?” His green eyes twinkle. A twinkle meant only for me.
I’m practically beaming. “Yes. Much.”
We continue down the main street, crossing a small park with a white gazebo decorated in lights and surrounded in bright pink hydrangeas. Bells and chimes sing each time a door is opened, and people trickle out into the street with their eco-friendly cotton shopping bags. Up ahead I can see the bell tower, the sky behind it a pale violet.
“This place looks like a postcard,” I say, almost impatient with the way time stills here. Isn’t anyone in a hurry? Doesn’t the quiet make them anxious?
Right now, it’s making me jittery.
Vas starts to reply, but I don’t hear him because I’ve spotted something across the street—a brick building with a long white sign, and etched in bold letters: THE TATTOO PARLOR.
I must’ve stopped walking, because suddenly Vas is tugging at my hand, his brow raised quizzically.
“What is it?” he asks, following my gaze across the road. “Wow. They really don’t like to leave anything up to interpretation with these names, do they?”
“It’s a village thing, probably,” I say, pulling him across the road in a hurry.
The window display is full of framed pieces of artwork—art that I imagine has been inked onto someone’s body at some point in time. They range from cartoonish vampires to elaborate stories woven together with various symbols. Behind the art display is a scarlet red curtain, concealing the rest of the shop like it’s a circus tent.
And my heart is thundering with so much intense, raw happiness that I don’t think. I just let my feelings speak for me.
“I should get a tattoo,” I say brightly.
Vas laughs. “Well, a place called The Tattoo Parlor can surely help you with that.”
“I’m serious.” I hold my arm out, motioning to the skin near my wrist. “I could get something here. Or maybe on my forearm. Something I could look at easily, when I want to be reminded.”
“Reminded of what?” Vas tilts his head, the curiosity going serious behind his eyes.
I lift my shoulders like the answer is simple. “That I’m happy.”
I can see Vas trying to speak again, but I’m already reaching for the doorknob.
“What are you doing?” his voice clips from behind me, making me jump.
“Getting a tattoo?” I frown.
Vas’s face shifts into all the many shades of confusion. Startled. Amused. Concerned. He’s looking at me like I’ve said something that makes no sense at all. “Wait, you mean right now?”
I look back at him like he’s the one who makes no sense. “Yeah?” I pause, trying to understand why he looks so bewildered. “I mean, we’re right here.” I point at the sign. “At a literal tattoo parlor.”
“But”—he hesitates, drumming his fingers against his leg methodically—“are you sure? Do you not want to think about it? I’m not trying to tell you what to do by any means. It’s just… Well, does this not feel a bit sudden to you?”
What he means is “impulsive.”
Sometimes impulsive is like a bright red warning sign that I’m afraid to go near. But other times it’s bubblegum pink and cotton candy blue and bursting with confetti and fireworks and the nostalgic music they play when you step foot into Disneyland.
Sometimes impulsive feels like magic.
It feels good.
“You have a tattoo,” I say, as if this small fact should explain everything I’m thinking. Like having a tattoo himself should mean that he knows precisely what I’m feeling.
“I know, but it’s something I thought about. It’s something I knew I wanted. And you have a right to make your own decisions, but maybe sleeping on a decision like this could be good? You know—give the idea time to marinate?” Vas lifts his shoulders. “Tattoos are kind of a forever decision. Are you sure you want to make a forever decision in all of seven point five seconds?”
“I’ve thought about a tattoo before,” I argue. “Besides, spontaneity is a good