I roll my eyes. “Well, when you say it like that. It was going to be a simple drive by.”
Her lips twitch like she wants to laugh. “But you didn’t just drive bye, you got out of your car.”
“Okayyy,” I draw out the word. “That’s enough Dominic talk for tonight. Let’s focus on you—tell me everything.”
She looks like she wants to press further but knows me well enough to let it go. After a brief hesitation, she gives in and starts telling me about her latest performance and the improv group she’s been working with. She’s been in Chicago for the past five years, fully immersed in the city’s stage and improv scene.
We don’t get to see each other as often these days, with her across the country, but I usually make it out to visit a couple of times a year. Her parents still live in Red Mountain so she’s always back in town for the holidays. It doesn’t matter how much time passes between visits or calls—it always feels like we pick up right where we left off.
Eventually we call it a night, it’s late for me and even laterfor her.
As I finally crawl into bed, my gaze lingers on my wrist. I trace the letters with my fingertip, Dominic’s question hauntingly replaying.Why did you keep it?It’s not like it’s ever done me any favors in the dating department. Most men aren’t exactly thrilled about being with a woman literally branded with another man’s name. Probably why I’ve been ghosted more times than I can count.
I sigh, letting my hand fall to my stomach as I stare at the ceiling. Maybe I should have gotten rid of it years ago. Covered it up. Removed the evidence that, at one point, I was so in love with a guy I got my first and only tattoo. But every time I tried, I couldn’t bring myself to do it.
If I’m honest with myself, I think part of me feels like getting rid of it would be like erasing us. I’ll never love anyone the way I loved him—so free, so brave. A long time ago, I was a girl who was fearless enough to love with her whole heart, and every time I look at Dominic’s name on my wrist, I’m reminded of her, and I smile.
CHAPTER 12
Dominic
THE VIRGIN’S DISCOUNT
17 YEARS OLD
“I’m warning you now, it’s going to hurt like a bitch,” Ray says, holding the tattoo gun like it’s a loaded pistol. “Are you a bitch, Dom?”
Ellie snorts, trying to stifle her giggle, but it spills out anyway. She’s perched on a stool a few feet away, flipping through a binder stuffed with Polaroids of Ray’s work. “Oh, he’s definitely a bitch,” she teases without looking up.
I roll my eyes, leaning back in the chair like I’m completely unbothered. “Just stick me, asshole.”
“Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Ray laughs to himself.
He loves to give me shit. It’s only my second tattoo, but he was even worse during the first one.
The needle touches my skin, and fuck, does it sting like hell, but I keep my face neutral. Out of the corner of my eye, Ellie’s watching, clearly waiting for me to flinch. No way am I flinching in front of my girl.
When she sees that I won’t be bursting into tears anytime soon, she returns her focus back to the Polaroids.
To distract myself from the pain, I stare unabashedly at her. Her long legs are on display in the red cheerleading uniform she wore today for Senior Day, one of the rare times she wears bright colors. It might be my last time seeing her in it, so I commit the picture to memory. I know she can feel my stare because her creamy skin starts to turn pink, a slight flush overtaking her face.
“You’re awfully quiet over there.” Her eyes slide to mine, her blush darkening. “Feeling inspired to get one yourself?”
She’s not the type to get a tattoo. She’ll do other reckless shit, but nothing permanent. I’m kind of the opposite, more of a rule follower, and this is my rebellious outlet.
Arching a brow, she casts me a flat look. “Not a chance. My body’s a church…or whatever the saying is.”
Ray snorts. “Temple. The saying is ‘my body is a temple.’”
We both turn to look at him, blinking in unison.
“What?” he says, pausing to look between us. “I grew up Mormon.”
Ellie and I exchange a glance before looking back at Ray. At his wild hair spilling past his shoulders, tattoos covering nearly every inch of visible skin, and a leather cut hanging on the wall behind him, proudly displaying the patch of his motorcycle club. Nothing about him screams Mormon.
He notices our expressions and bursts out laughing. “No longer practicing, of course.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” Ellie says under her breath, shaking her head as she flips the page.
