Page 92 of Yours Truly

Sucking cool fresh air in through my nose, I exhale, blinking at the red lettering painted on the window across from Ink Time. Goode’s Diner. I smile at the diner, knowing that my favorite place in Bluebell is now just steps away from where I work. That I can go there anytime and get my hometown comfort food and see Lucy whenever I want. Twisting, I peer into the busy and bustling tattoo shop, full of friends that are there to celebrate me.

A year ago I was chasing after a dream I wasn’t sure I could catch, grappling with the idea of giving up Bluebell for a cityscape, thinking it may be the only way to become a tattoo artist.

And now I’m here.

In the town I know and love, across from my favorite place, a building full of the people I love just feet away, the man I love at the helm of this massive celebration.

I don’t know if I deserve it, but tonight, it feels like I have it all. And I’ve never been happier or more grateful.

One last lungful of fresh country air and I’m spinning at the curb, ready to head back inside and finish the last hour of the party. As much fun as I’m having, the nearer the end of the night becomes, the more eager I am for this to be over.

So I can go home with Trace and thank him for everything. Jesus, my pussy clenches at the promise.

Two paces from the front door, my arm outstretched, I stop in my tracks.

Through the glass, my eyes lock to the very back corner of the shop. People move about the space, temporarily blocking me from what I know I saw. My heart in my throat, I stay there, on the sidewalk, my eyes burning from how hard I’m staring.

With a shaky breath rattling my chest, I rub my eyes, needing to be sure of what I’m seeing.

I drag a closed fist up my sternum, desperately trying to knead life back into my chest. But my breath is caught, suspended somewhere inside me, keeping my throat tight and my mouth dry.

Here of all places, after inviting everyone I know and love, he’s doing this here.

“Oh my god,” I murmur, catching the words with my hand as I bring it to my face, cupping it there, hiding the shock. My eyes are wide and as much as it would serve me to look away, I can’t take my eyes off of them.

My brain taunts me, going back to those three questionable days where Trace told me he was unwell, then told me he was planning this very party. God I’m so stupid. How could I honestly think a chastity cage and some back talk was going to fix him? Did I seriously think I could heal his broken heart, and cure him of years of struggle?

My body sways as I blink, gaze still fixed on them. Fire stings the backs of my eyes, and I stammer around on the sidewalk a minute before gripping the wall.

And then I torture myself and watch as a former tattoo client—one of the first clients he had at Ink Time—slides her fingers through his hair, which I guess at some point he put in a knot, and rocks to her toes, pressing her lips to his.

His arms are around her, but I can’t see his hands, they’re blocked by the partition the two of them are standing behind.

She isn’t thanking him for the tattoo. Their mouths open and even from back here, on the other side of the glass, I see the pink of their tongues thrashing together as the overhead light shines against his nose ring.

Finally, after watching for what feels like an eternity, I turn, my hand still covering my mouth.

A visceral shudder racks my core, making me cry out and gag all at once. “You fucking idiot!” I scream, the dam broken, tears streaking my cheeks. I don’t know if I’m talking to him or myself, or maybe both of us.

But the knife in my boot burns against my flesh, calling for me, begging to deliver retribution. Reaching down, I pull it out and stalk down the sidewalk about ten feet, right to where Trace’s stupid car is parked, shiny, fancy and fucking pretentious.

With my knife firm in my fist, I slip between the parked cars and stare through the windshield, to the white leather seats. How could he? Why would he? And at my party, too. Did he want to hurt someone the way that he hurts? I don’t understand why he would do this.

“I don’t understand,” I murmur, the first strike of the butt of my knife coming down on the driver’s side of the windshield. The glass spiderwebs into a million beautiful shatters, but I don’t hear it. All I hear is my heart in my ears, and the way he proudly announced me as his girlfriend.

“No!” I scream, my neck filled with strain as I scream, over and over, that I have no clue why he would do this, why he would hurt me this way. Another hard strike of the knife’s handle, this time against the driver’s side window, the glass crumbling with the blow, falling to the buttery leather seat. I reach in, pulling the sharp blade through the soft leather, screaming, “No, no, no!”

Sweat coats my back. There’s a hush of voices. I’m no longer slashing his seats but now, tipping the blade of the knife to his car, I make a full circle around it, careful not to bump any of the surrounding cars. “Why did you do that?” I hear myself ask as the knife tears away a new layer of paint. “Why are you ruining everything?” I ask, rearing back, stabbing the knife into the tire, a fresh wave of tears hitting as air rushes out of his tire, into the night.

Making my way to the headlight, I crouch, rearing back again as I crush the butt of the knife against it. It doesn’t shatter, but I only want to hit it harder, so I rear back and hit it again.

And again.

And I cream the plastic light over and over, my knife slipping in my palm as my wild sobs echo through downtown Bluebell.

“Holy shit,” I hear a voice, a moment after the door dings open a few feet away. I don’t recognize the voice so I don’t turn. Instead, I rear back and pop the other headlight, smiling through tears as it flies off the car, tumbling through the street.

“Ivy,” Juniper’s voice wavers, slicing through the chaos. I rear back, slightly aware of a vibration running up my forearm, starting in my wrist.

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