"You didn't tell me you were Jade and Cooper's Mateo," a woman says, her voice teasing.
"He is not my Mateo," Jade says, a little too harshly.
I turn to see a petite woman with cotton candy pink hair. She's wearing a pink sparkle tutu and a leather lace-up top. Somehow, she's Jade's complete opposite and her perfect compliment. She's Bubblicious, all pop, while Jade is Big Red, all bite.
I hold out my hand, and she shakes it. She's pint-sized. Her small hand fragile in my large one. I'm careful not to squeeze too hard, afraid of breaking her.
"Come on back, big guy," she says. "This is gonna be a fun one." She sticks her pierced tongue out at Jade, and I follow her past three other stations to one tucked into the back corner. Privacy. Small mercies.
"Can't say I've ever had a phone call like yours before," Emily says and gestures to the chair against the wall. "Have a seat."
I nod and lower myself into the chair.
She grabs a paper off the sideboard and holds it out.
I take it from her. To be honest, I'm not all that concerned with the art itself, it's more about where it's going for me. But figure I should at least review it. Make sure Em didn't misinterpret a snakefor a dick and hairy balls or worse, a fucking bug. That would be the icing on Jade's cake today.
It's not a bug, thank God.
No, in fact, she killed it.
"What do you think?" she asks.
I think, fuck PT and fuck pain meds. This is the healing I need.
"Holy shit," I say in disbelief. Fucking artists, man.
"Right?" she says, clapping her hands together, giddy like a little girl.
"It's perfect," I say.
"Cool. We may have to make some small adjustments once we get the stencil on."
I place the paper on my hand to gauge the fit.
"Bigger," she says with a nod, and I'm inclined to agree. "What about the tongue up to the knuckle like that?"
"Works for me," I say.
After several modifications, we get the right size and the stencil in place. Then she opens her marker, squeezing the cap between her teeth and presses the tip to my skin, dragging it over my arm.
"Thoughts?" she asks when she's done.
I face the mirror, rotating my arm this way and that. The body of the snake slithers up my arm, weaving around the chef's knife stabbing through a skull, with herbs growing from its eye sockets and cracks on my forearm. It crawls behind the eye on my bicep, my tribute to Abuela and her "evil ojo" and behind the clock with its broken face that fills my shoulder—the piece for Mom and Dad. All at once, the tattoo I need, the only one that's for me, has become the piece that brings it all together.
"It's perfect," I say, and hold up my earbuds for permission.
She nods, and I get settled, opening the doors to release the monsters crawling inside my head. It's the only way back to myself, and that's somewhere I desperately want to be. The name of Em's tattoo shop should be Monster Slayer because she tears them down with each line of ink.
I can still hear mine. My monster. The single step that ended my career.
Over his shoulder, the pitcher stares me down from the mound. I shift my weight onto my toes, increasing my lead. It's the eighth inning against Boston, and we're down by one. I'm the tying run, sitting real pretty on first base.
The crowd is on its feet; the noise deafening. It's a familiar sound—one I've been listening to since I first watched my dad play here thirty years ago. The flutter of my fingers outstretched at my sides echoes the pounding of the feet in the stands.
His gaze shifts to the batter, and he winds up, right as I start my creep toward second base. The ball cracks against the bat, careening over first base. I pause…watching, waiting. Go. Go. Go. As soon as I can see it cleared the right fielder's head, I'm gone, and rounding second base.
My right foot lands on the corner of the bag, my left lurching toward third.
