Paper Hearts

19

The wedding was getting closer and closer, which did nothing to improve the moods of anyone involved. Luke and I were finalizing everything—plane tickets, discounted carry-on luggage, the works. Mom now called on a daily basis and demanded to speak to Luke, who took the call and never failed to end it—miraculously—within five minutes of saying "hello". Mom had fallen head-over-heels for him, which was good, because it made for one less complication.

Dad stayed out of all the crazy planning most of the time, occasionally chiming in to make a comment or suggestion. He'd only met Luke over the phone, like Mom, and talked with him briefly about sports and scores and whatnot. Luke seemed to pass the test, so I didn't need to worry about that, which was a relief given the many other things that required immense amounts of worry.

"How about we take some time off from this, Victoria?" Luke asked me at the ice cream shop one day, taking a bite from my cup as I swatted his hand. "There's a party going on tonight—"

"No, thanks," I said immediately, knowing that parties meant the attendance of Rachael Whims and Elle Dunst and the rest of Grayson High, all of which seemed to hate me at the time. "You can go; I'm good."

"Come on," he pressed, persistent. "Honestly, these daily ice-cream-outings are cleaning out my bank account. Parties have free food, and guaranteed fun."

He smiled at me teasingly, but I wasn't in the mood.

"No, thanks," I repeated, firmly. "It's—it just doesn't sound like a good idea. I have to finalize our tickets."

"No, you don't. You did that weeks ago." He said, catching my bluff. There was a pause, and then,

"Look, you don't have to come, but I would really appreciate it if you did. Honestly."

"I might," I said finally, beginning to cave in, "But begging isn't going to get you anywhere."

"It has before," he said, with a laugh, and I shook my head.

"Shut up, Callaway."

"That's the Victoria I know." He answered, his tone jovial, and I caught a glimpse of the ink across his wrist.

"Oh, I forgot to ask you!" I said, pressing a hand to my forehead. "What tattoo did you get? I never saw it after we went to the parlor."

Brows raised, he stretched out his arm, palm facing up, so that I could see.

This tattoo was different from the other—it was just as simple, but somehow, far more interesting. It was a single ridge, a crest that travelled from the bottom of his wrist and curved upwards, into an almost wave-like pattern, until going back down and falling into a straight line once more.

"Is it an ocean wave?" I asked, and he grinned.

"Look at you," he said. "Already a tattoo connoisseur."

"What does it mean?" I asked, knowing that there had to be some special insight to the wave.

"My dad used to take me surfing when I was little," he answered. "We'd drive down to Galveston and get out into the ocean and I he would get me onto a board and tell me to ride the wave. No other advice. Just those three words. So, obviously, I felt like an idiot—falling on my face over and over again while he would surf like an Olympic athlete. Whenever I would ask him to teach me, to help me, he would just keep saying 'ride the wave'. It was incredibly frustrating."

"I can imagine," I said, brows knit.

Luke nodded, continuing with,

"Well, one day, when I was about fifteen, I got out there and fell one too many times. I was so fed up with getting nothing from my dad, getting no help, and always failing. So I took my board out as deep as I could get it, and I swore to God that I was going to get the next one, or else I'd die trying. I was your typical bull-headed, rebellious fifteen-year-old, and I wasn't going to let my dad beat me.