Page 99 of Yours Truly

She turns to me, smiling. “Don’t worry about any of this. We’re just trying to figure out a permanent solution to this problem.”

I blink, unsure of what that means, but before I can overthink it, Trace is gathering my stuff in a bag and collecting me from the barstool. “C’mon, Firecracker, I want that hand looked at.”

He turns to Juniper. “Can I borrow your van?”

She looks to Sterling then back to Trace. “That should be fine, if we need to—sure, yeah, that’s fine.”

Juniper passes her keys to Trace, kisses my forehead and gives me a final, tight hug.

With the windows down and Trace’s hand securely on my inner thigh, I rest my head on his shoulder, soaking up the middle seat as he drives us into town to the hospital.

After forty minutes and some antiseptic, they turn us loose, and we head to Ink Time, parking next to his destroyed sports car.

I stop next to it, taking in the mess and destruction I created. Trace is opening the front door when he realizes I’m a few paces behind.

“I’m sorry I did this,” I whisper, staring at the crimson smear across the white hood.

He waffles his fingers through mine. “I’m not. Because as soon as I realized what happened, I looked at my car again and it hit me.”

“What did?”

He turns, pulling me into him, dropping his forehead to mine. “That you love me.”

“And I’m jealous,” I add playfully.

“That makes two of us.”

He seals his mouth to mine, kissing me like he has something to prove, but he doesn’t. Tonight was chaos, but I’ve never wanted him more, I’ve never been so sure of him than I am now.

“Now,” he says, “let’s go get you tattooed.”

Lying across his chair, the aftermath of a large party all around us in the form of crumpled napkins and partially drunk water bottles, Trace slides into his chair and snaps on his gloves.

“You ready?” he asks.

I nod. “I’m ready.”

He prepped the station on his own tonight, to keep me in the element of surprise, and when the machine starts, I find myself eager to know what he’s up to. But I don’t glance down. I keep my eyes on him.

He’s so beautiful to watch while he works.

The way his brows pull together as he outlines, how he’s able to chat casually while slipping the needle from the pen, switching them out. How every few minutes he pauses, leaning in to dust his lips against mine, reminding me without words that he loves me.

He chose my hip bone, right where I tattooed him weeks back.

“You really don’t think Derek can change? Or, you don’t care if he does?” I ask as he shades the mystery design, a needy heat moving through my groin. I love being tattooed, I love the slow burn of it, and I love being here with him.

He shakes his head. “You don’t sleep with, then marry, your brother’s girl. But in a way, I’m glad he did. I see now that it was the clearest most obvious way for him to tell me that I don’t matter, my wellness does not matter, and that there is no respect between us.” He shrugs, adjusting the pen before the needling starts up again. “What they did to me sent me in a tailspin, I won’t deny it. But I wouldn’t be here, with you, if it wasn’t for him and what he did.”

“You were fated to be with me, not her,” I whisper, believing it despite the fact that, with a crumpled bloody car outside, it sounds a bit crazy. But maybe I am. And if I am, I don’t care, because he loves me anyway.

“It’s true. And so, no, I don’t care if he changes.” His eyes meet and hold mine. “He’s dead to me.”

The pen shuts off and Trace puts it on the tray, grabbing a paper towel to wipe the design.

“Here,” he says, extending his hand to help me off the chair. Walking me to the floor-to-ceiling mirror, I lift my t-shirt up, and keep my leggings shoved down to my pubic bone as I step closer, narrowing my eyes at the reflection of my new tattoo.

Bringing my bandaged hand to my mouth, I gasp, shaking my head as tears of happiness spring to my eyes. “Oh my god, it’s so good,” I laugh, tipping my head to the side to get a better look of the crumpled and bloody little sports car on my hip bone.

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