I shake my head. “Branded,” I repeat. I raise my index finger as if I’m gesturing over her shoulder. “Right there. Permanently. Forever.”

“God,” she groans. “Shut up and eat your damn burger.”

I eat it. I eat the entire thing with a shit-eating grin.

“What now?” I ask, leaning back in my seat. She’s barely touched her food and I’m pretty sure I just broke a record with how fast I ate mine.

She looks up at me and I can see by the trepidation in her expression that she already knows what she wants to do next, she just doesn’t want to bring it up.

“What is it?”

Her eyes narrow. “I don’t want you to make a smart-ass comment in response to what I’m about to suggest.”

“No, Charlie,” I say immediately. “We aren’t eloping tonight. The tattoos are enough commitment for now.”

She doesn’t roll her eyes at my joke this time. She sighs, defeated, and leans back in her seat.

I hate her reaction. I like it a whole lot more when she rolls her eyes at me.

I reach across the table and cover her hand with mine, rubbing my thumb over hers. “I’m sorry,” I say. “Sarcasm just makes this whole thing feel a little less frightening.” I remove my hand from hers. “What did you want to say? I’m listening. Promise. Lumberjack’s honor.”

She laughs with a small roll of her eyes and I’m relieved. She glances up at me and shifts in her seat, then begins playing with her straw again. “We passed a few…tarot shops. I think maybe we should get a reading.”

I don’t even start at her comment. I just nod and pull my wallet out of my pocket. I lay enough money on the table to cover our bill and then I stand up. “I agree,” I tell her, reaching out for her hand.

I actually don’t agree, but I feel bad. These last two days have been exhausting and I know she’s tired. The least I can do is make this easier for her, despite knowing this hocus pocus bullshit isn’t going to enlighten us in any way.

We pass a few tarot shops during our search, but Charlie shakes her head each time I point one out. I’m not sure what she’s looking for, but I actually like walking the streets with her, so I’m not complaining. She’s holding my hand, and sometimes I put my arm around her and pull her against me when the paths become too narrow. I don’t know if she’s noticed, but I’ve been leading us through a lot of these narrow paths unnecessarily. Any time I see a big crowd, I aim for it. After all, she’s still my back-up plan.

After about half an hour longer of walking, it looks like we’re reaching the end of the French quarter. The crowds are dwindling, giving me fewer excuses to pull her to me. Some of the shops we’re passing have already closed. We make it to St. Philip Street when she pauses in front of an art gallery window.

I stand next to her and stare at the displays illuminated inside the building. There are plastic body parts suspended from the ceiling, and giant, metal sea life clinging to the walls. The main display, which is directly in front of us, just happens to be a small corpse—wearing a strand of pearls.

She taps her finger against the glass, pointing at the corpse. “Look,” she says. “It’s me.” She laughs and moves her attention to somewhere else inside the store.

I’m not looking at the corpse anymore. I’m not looking inside the store anymore.

I’m looking at her.

The lights from inside the gallery are illuminating her skin, giving her a glow that really does make her look like an angel. I want to run my hand across her back and feel for actual wings.

Her eyes move from one object to another as she studies everything beyond the window. She’s looking at each piece with bewilderment. I make a mental note to bring her back here when they’re actually open. I can’t imagine what she’d look like actually being able to touch one of the pieces.

She stares into the window a few minutes longer and I continue to stare at her, only now I’ve taken two steps and I’m standing directly behind her. I want to see her tattoo again, now that I know what it means. I wrap my hand around her hair and brush it forward, over her shoulder. I half expect her to reach behind her and slap my hand away, but instead, she sucks in a quick rush of air and looks down at her feet.

I smile, remembering what it felt like when she ran her fingers over my tattoo. I don’t know if I make her feel the same, but she’s standing still, allowing my fingers to slip inside the collar of her shirt again.

I swallow what feels like three entire heartbeats. I wonder if she’s always had this effect on me.

I pull her shirt down, revealing her tattoo. A pang shoots through my stomach, because I hate that we don’t have this memory. I want to remember the discussion we had when we decided to make such a permanent decision. I want to remember who brought the idea up first. I want to remember what she looked like as the needle pierced her skin for the first time. I want to remember how we felt when it was over.

I run my thumb over the silhouette of trees while curving the rest of my hand over her shoulder—over skin covered in chills again. She tilts her head to the side and the tiniest of whimpers escapes her throat.

I squeeze my eyes shut. “Charlie?” My voice is like sandpaper. I clear my throat to smooth it out. “I changed my mind,” I say quietly. “I don’t want to give you a new name. I kind of love your old one now.”

I wait.

I wait for her snarky response. For her laughter.