Miles From Kara by Melissa West

pleading hands. All
please tell me he’s real.
You’re telling me you’d break the poor kid’s heart? You’d out Santa?”
    Colt burst out laughing. “All right then. You got me. I’d lie my bloody ass off.”
    I smiled and suddenly the mood felt lighter, the space between us easier to stay in. I eyed his arms. “Tell me more about your tattoos. It looks like they’re telling a story. And why do you have that one”—I reached across the sofa and touched the red leaf on his left forearm that was duplicated on his right biceps—“twice?”
    â€œMy mum was born in Canada. The maple leaf is their national emblem, so it’s for her. This one”—he pointed to the one on his forearm—“is red for her life. The other is black for her death.”
    My eyes drifted up to his, but I didn’t say that I was sorry. Not for this. I knew the tattoos were his way of coping with her death. They were special to him. The only way he could deal with losing her. My insides longed to pull him to me, to show him that he wasn’t alone. Not now.
    But I couldn’t. I could still feel the warmth on my fingertip from touching the leaf. Everything in me ached to reach out and touch him again. If I felt his body against mine, his hair on my neck, his breath on my face, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to stop myself from taking it further.
    I cleared my throat and focused back on his arms. “And what about that one?” I asked, pointing at the line of scripture just below the maple leaf on his right biceps.
    â€œProverbs 28:18. My mother was a missionary. She was good—pure in every way. That verse is about integrity.”
    I thought of the irony of what he was saying. “But Christianity teaches forgiveness.”
    â€œIndeed.”
    â€œYet, you’re unable to forgive your dad?”
    His jaw ticked. “I try to be a good person, Kara. For my mum, for my family back home. But there’s only so much I can do. Some things are in the other person’s hands. My dad has never once said he’s sorry for what he did. He’s never talked to me about it at all. Instead, he acts as though everything is normal, when nothing about our relationship is normal. He is not a good person.”
    I glanced down at my hands. “Yeah, I know what you mean.”
    Colt started to say something, then shook his beer. “I’m out. Want another?”
    Three? I’d nursed the second one, so I wasn’t feeling it just yet, and I’d already said and done more than I would have if I were fully sober. I should stop. I should let my buzz wear off and go sleep in Ethan’s room. But instead, I kicked off my sandals and pulled my legs crisscross on the sofa. “All right, I’ll have another,” I said, mimicking his accent.
    He grinned. “Very funny. You know you have an accent, too.”
    â€œYeah, but mine’s not nearly as sexy.” As soon as the words slipped from my mouth, my eyes went wide and I covered my mouth, my face burning. “I . . .” There was nothing I could say to take it back.
    His grin switched to a smirk and he cocked his hip against the kitchen counter, crossing his arms so his biceps bulged against the tightness of his T-shirt. “You think I sound sexy, huh? What else do you think of me?” He started toward me, a slow strut that made my insides ignite. His dirty blond hair fell over his eyes as he studied me. His jaw was covered in fine stubble, and I found myself wishing I could run my fingers across it. I flushed.
    â€œNothing.”
    â€œAll right. How about I tell you what I think of you?” I started to argue, but he continued before I could get a word out. “I think you’re smart, though you doubt yourself. I think you’re kind, though you’re hard on yourself. I think you’re funny and your laugh draws attention no matter where you