Page 3 of Show Me How
The panic setsin after I take my first step down the aisle.
My father keeps a strong hold on my arm, keeping me locked beside him. It’s like he can sense what I want to do and isn’t going to allow it. I dart my eyes through the rows of people, searching for even one familiar face amongst them, but there isn’t one. Not a single person who I could hope to free me from this prison cell I’m about to be locked into.
My palm shakes at my side, fear tasting sour in my mouth. Chadwick is at the end of the aisle, his posture perfect and face chiselled to perfection. It’s hot in here, and I can’t help but stare through the windows behind him. The mountain ranges andtheir promise of freedom tease me and beckon me closer, their call hitting deep in my chest.
I’ve always wanted freedom. To run away and cleanse my soul of the poison fed to me every day of my life. But I’ve never chased it. This is all I’ve ever known. My life has been planned out for me since I was a child, and I’ve been stuck here, too afraid to leave. All I’ve ever known are expensive homes, designer bags, and lacklustre conversation with those who couldn’t care less about me.
I’ve let too many years slip by. Chadwick won’t ever let me go. The moment I say I do, I’ll be trapped forever in this endless cycle, yet somehow, with even fewer choices.
My father removes my arm from around his, and I wobble onto the altar on a pair of heels I didn’t have time to break in. Sweat drips down my spine as I look at Chadwick, my mind racing. He reaches for my hands, but I keep them at my sides. The prick of my ID and bank cards in my bra reminds me that I’m running out of time if I want to do this.
I’m frozen, panic becoming the only feeling in my body.
I glance at the mountains, and they scream for me to run.
“Millicent,” my father hisses beneath his breath.
Chadwick chuckles tightly, eyeing the rows of attendees. He tries to play this off, but I’m already stumbling backward. My mother’s voice rips through the air, and I grip the gauzy material of my dress in both hands and start to run.
“Millicent!”
I shake my head, stumbling slightly on the thin heels as I pick up speed. No one chases me. They wouldn’t risk the way that would look. Still, I keep running. Without looking back, I dive out of the venue doors and gasp in the crisp October air.
Behind me, I swear I can hear the mountains clapping for me. A breeze licks my back, and I kick off my shoes before snagging them from the pavement.
My car is still parked at the front of the ski lodge parking lot, and I quickly get into the driver’s seat. I’ve never left the doors unlocked before. Not until today. It’s like I knew before I even went inside that I’d be here, doing this.
I find the spare key where I hid it in the console and turn the car on. The engine roars, and I roll down every window before peeling out of the parking lot.
The highway I turn onto is unfamiliar, and that’s why I decide to keep going. I need to go somewhere new. Somewhere I’ve never heard of before and where my family won’t be able to find me.
I’ll keep driving until I find the place that calls to me the way the mountains do, wherever that is.
2
SHADE
The buzzfrom the tattoo machine travels up my arm as I start on the final patch of skin I’ve been working on shading for the last three hours. Besides a couple of short breaks, the guy slung over the back of the chair has been pretty fucking solid for me today.
I resist the urge to stretch my fingers out until I need to wipe the ink away from his skin. Back pieces aren’t always as smooth to maneuver as today’s has been, and I owe that all to my client. Sitting in that position can be a pain in the ass, and he hasn’t complained about it.
“We’re just about done,” I tell him, rolling my stool to the left.
My elbow rests beside his spine as I lean in and press the needle back into his skin. Moving in small sweeping motions, I bring the teal to the shark’s fin, watching as the sketch turns into a piece of art. This is my favourite part of the job. The journey of turning an idea into something beautiful.
My client, a beefy dude in his early forties named Owen, nods and asks, “You got a mirror for me to take a look?”
Across the shop, I hear a low laugh come from the only other artist I’ll ever work with. My closest friend is a tidal wave of a woman who gives me a run for my money every day here. She’salmost as talented as I am with a tattoo machine, and that’s why she’s here, sketching up a design for a client at her station.
“You got something to say, Bryce?” I call, using my paper towel to dab away the extra blue ink.
“Nope.”
“Did I say something funny?” Owen asks.
I shake my head, even though I know he can’t see me. “I don’t take breaks to show incomplete work.”
“Right. You mentioned that.”
