Page 12 of Strelitzias in Spring

Serena unfolds her body and hangs her head, dejection evident from her posture and defeated expression. Guilt unfurls in my stomach; I’m not changing my mind about the tattoo, but I do feel bad that she’s upset. Clearing my throat, I mumble, “For what it’s worth, it was a cool idea. Maybe in a couple of years, when you’re a little more sure, you can get it.”

Her head snaps up, heat blazing from her golden irises. If I thought my words would ease some of her disappointment and turn it into acceptance, I was wrong. Instead, annoyance seems to have settled. Twisting her lips in a scowl, she shoots out, “Thanks,” though her expression reads she’s not the least bit thankful for my comment.

Continuing to walk toward the door, Serena stops when she’s right in front of me, and my focus settles on her. She doesn’t meet my eyes as I stare down at her; her gaze is trained on the scabs on my left hand.

“What happened?” She reaches out as though she’s about to touch my skin before dropping her arm back down to her side.

“Had a fight last weekend.” One of the final ones of my career, thank fuck. “Listen, I think you should—” My words are cut off by the sudden pressure of her mouth against mine. I’m too shocked to do anything but stand there for long seconds before I step back, leaning my body against the door frame.

She’s over a foot shorter than me, so she either jumped up and levitated to capture my lips, or I was leaning down closer to her than I realized.

Fucking hell.

“Oh my God. I’m so sorry,” Serena rushes out, stepping back until she’s pressed against the wall opposite me. I take in her face: mortification, shame, and panic are stamped all over her features, and instead of laying into her for kissing a man she barely knows in his fucking business, in an open doorway where any of my clients could see, I just shrug.

Like it’s no big fucking deal.

“It’s fine. But you need to leave. Now.” My tone is harsher than I intended, but the mixture of shock and arousal pisses me off.

“Of course. I’m sorry. I don’t know why I did that,” she murmurs, pushing off the wall and walking out of my station. I follow her retreating form, telling myself that it’s to make sure she leaves the building, and slam into her when she stops short. Whirling around, she pleads, “Please do not tell Celeste about this. She doesn’t even know I’m here, and I don’t want her to question me. Please?”

I nod sharply. The last thing I want is for my nosy-ass cousin to interrogate me, so there’s no way in hell I’m opening my mouth. “I won’t say anything.”

She releases a breath, her shoulders dropping in relief. “Thank you. And I’m sorry, again.” Waving her off, I stay rooted in place as she scurries across the shop like a scared squirrel, shaking my head until her trench coat-clad form is bundled in her beat-up car and driving away.

“What was that about?” Aubrey asks, walking up to me and handing me a mug of tea with lemon. Unlike my cousin, whose body is made up of sixty percent sugary coffee, I can’t stand the stuff and drink English Breakfast tea for my caffeine fix.

Shaking my head, I sip the hot liquid before muttering, “You don’t want to fucking know.”

6

Serena

Of all the imbecilic, idiotic, foolish things I have ever done, sex with Devin included, kissing Wolf in full view of his tattoo shop after he refused to consider taking me on as a client is at the top of the list.

My lips tremble at the memory of his mouth on mine. It was a chaste, juvenile kiss, nothing that screamed sensual or experienced. God, he must think I’m such a moron for throwing myself at him like a desperate schoolgirl with a crush.

Slamming my hand against my steering wheel, I wince at the sound of my horn going off and the middle finger I receive from the car in front of me. Nothing is working out the way I planned. At first, when I arrived at the studio for my pottery class, I was relaxed and hopeful. The methodical practice of molding the clay, coupled with the feel of the silky earthenware between my fingers, was euphoric, and I enjoyed diving back into a hobby long abandoned. That euphoria was eradicated by nerves and butterflies the moment I caught sight of Wolf and Aubrey standing at the window at Ink and Needle, watching me with amused expressions. I have no idea why I grabbed an umbrella; it’s a sunny, balmy, thirty-degree day with no chance of precipitation.

No, that’s a lie. I do know why I grabbed the umbrella: it was an added layer of protection against the unnerving stares of the tattoo shop owner and his trusted receptionist.

Pressing down on the gas pedal, I push my old car from forty to forty-five, inching toward the actual speed limit and the highest speed I’ll permit my car to travel. Not because I’m afraid of driving but because I’m afraid my car is going to combust if I push her too hard.

It seems to be a theme in my life: taking things slowly until I rush forward and situations blow up in my face. Devin, Dylan, Wolf, and the tattoo. It’s like I willingly and knowingly put myself in a position to be either embarrassed or disappointed. And I’m sick of it.

I am so fucking sick of it.

I feel anger start to build in my gut, traveling up until my heart is racing and thoughts and emotions are wrapped around my throat, suffocating me. My mind travels back thirty minutes to the tattoo shop and Wolf’s dual denial. Admittedly, I shouldn’t have kissed him; it was impulsive and just stupid. My anger isn’t directed toward his physical repulsion; no, it’s aimed at the arrogant way he turned me away as a client, as though I didn’t know what I wanted tattooed on my body. As though I wasn’t aware tattoos are painful and virtually irreversible. My social skills may be lacking, but my analytical abilities and deductive reasoning are firmly in place, and they’re both telling me that Wolf is an asshole.

A hot, well-built, tall, and imposing asshole, but an asshole nonetheless.

I mentally slap myself for not being more assertive in my consultation and not projecting authority and certainty regarding the design and the size. I have no idea why I said, “I think,” or why I dissolved into a mumbling idiot the moment my wants were challenged and questioned. I don’tthinkI want butterflies to decorate my back, an illustration of the freedom I’m trying so hard to find. IknowI want them; I want the pain of the needle, the mental clarity that comes with decisiveness. I need it. And if Wolf’s not going to give it to me, someone else will.

My mind moves from Wolf’s imposing form and gruff personality to the vitriol spewed by Dylan and Devin, and my anger continues to rise. Not for the first time in the weeks following their verbal assault, my heart aches. These two boys, whom I used to regard as two of my closest friends, have not only disappointed me but discarded me as though I’m damaged goods, useless and used. My dad has continued with his tirades, his accusations that I intentionally hurt my “sister.” It’s bullshit.

I release a laugh, not able to help the bubble of giggles that break from my throat. Four months ago, I barely ever uttered a curse word or even thought of one in my internal contemplations. Ava and Celeste, and their inventive language and insults, have irrevocably changed that, changedme. Though I know that I’ll never be as close to them as they are to each other—I’m the late addition third wheel—their friendship has shown me just how kind people can be. How people, other than my mom, can care for me and support me even when I mess up or become so full of self-doubt and shyness.

Losing myself in the monotony of driving, stopping, driving, I can’t help but think,next semester is going to be different. I am going to be different.

---